He kept his voice soft, but the girls flinched anyway: “I’ll bet you’ve asked yourself more times than you can count why this has had to happen to you.”
Those big dark eyes over the veil filled instantly with tears as Jude nodded.
“John’s asked himself the same thing, I know,” he told her. “So have I.” He looked at the floor again. “I wish I could—”
“Wait.”
It was Cora.
She stood under the entrance arch, hands behind her back. He frowned puzzlement—she seemed unaccountably nervous, didn’t settle down even when Reed scrambled over to join her. He, however, had a smile on his face.
He would have scolded them for interrupting, but he knew they had something important to say, and it was equally clear they’d been rehearsing it while he’d been gone.
So he gave them a one-sided smile and said, “Cora, I have never, ever known you to be without words.” A mock glare. “This had better be good.”
Cora brought her hands around to the front.
He sat up sharply, lips working but no sound.
In her hands were a pair of black western boots, as clean and polished as the day he’d first brought them home, over fifteen years ago.
She swallowed. “Reverend Chisholm ...” She swallowed again. “Reverend Chisholm, if you’re... oh, hell... if—”
“I’ll say it,” Reed told her softly.
“No!” An apologetic smile. “No.” She licked her lips and swallowed again. “If you’re going to... to tell us things we don’t want to hear ... if we’re ...”
He saw the tears and rose slowly to his full height, from the corner of his vision seeing the girls edge closer to their mother, seeing Lisse fumble for and take John’s hand and squeeze it tightly. He stepped over to Cora and took the boots from her, inhaled the scent of fresh polish and old leather, and smiled wondering if it was possible he could love two people more than these two, right now.
“It’s got to be right,” she said in a small voice, not Cora’s voice at all. “You know what I mean. It’s got to be right.”
He saw the two Coras in her face then, the ones he used to know—the one who was raised on abuse and disdain, cowering a little, terrified of being wrong ... and the one who tried not to give a damn about anything, especially herself.
He laid a finger on her cheek, brushed away a tear, put a hand on Reed’s shoulder, and squeezed it, once.
It was difficult to say the words they wanted to hear, more difficult because he never believed he’d ever hear himself say them again: “You two are right. I think ... I think I’d better go upstairs and change.”
Cora put a hand to her mouth and said, “Oh ...” and couldn’t say any more.
He smiled gently and winked at them, pushed between them, and said, “Cora, while I’m gone, why don’t you have a talk with Starshine there. Maybe you two can exchange the names of the butchers who attacked your hair.”
He didn’t look back as he climbed the stairs, but he heard Cora laughing, and Lisse sighing, and the girl named Starshine demanding to know what he was talking about, what’s the matter with her hair?
At the top of the stairs he turned automatically toward the bedroom, took a step, and stopped.
Do it right, he told himself; if you’re going to do it, you pig-headed oaf, then you’d damn well better do it right.
* * * *
6
Cribbs paced his office, alternating between fear and righteous anger. “What the hell do you mean, they aren’t gone yet?” he yelled at the speakerphone on his desk.
“I mean, they ain’t left yet,” Cutler said, his voice sounding well-hollow.
“You talk to them?”
“No, I ain’t talked to them. How can I talk to them? You want me to drive right over, let half the world know I know where they are and who they are?”
Cribbs waved his arms. “Goddamnit, Norville, you’re the damn owner of that place. All you want to do is see who’s squatting there, you idiot.”
“Idiot? Me? Who’s the one come up with these jokers in the first place?”
Cribbs took in a breath, puffed his cheeks, and let the air out slowly. He took a position at the window and looked down at Midway, the cars and the people. On the horizon he could see smears of clouds as that storm made its way closer.
“All right,” he said. “All right, Norville, no sense us going at each other’s throats here. The thing we need to know is, why haven’t they left?”
“You ask them. I’m not going anywhere near them.”
The mayor shook his head. “We got to know, Norville. Even I can’t stop Oakman from doing something dumb if he knows they’re still around.” He slammed a fist onto the desk. “Damn! Good Lord, why the hell can’t anything go like we want it to? Why the hell does this have to happen now, of all times.”
“You want me to answer that, Jasper?”
“Oh, shut up, Norville, that was a rhetorical question.” He shook his head again. “Tell you the truth, in a perfect world, I’d sic those bastards on Freck, the son of a bitch can’t even shoot a man in the back, for God’s sake.”
“Freck’s an idiot.”
“Now that I can agree on. And I own up, it’s my fault, I thought I could count on him. I—” He stopped, looked at the street again, and grinned. “Norville, you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“It’ll cost us extra.”
“Who cares? What’s another million here or there, what with what we’ve already got?”
“So who’s gonna talk to them. Not me. I’ve already talked to them once, on the phone, and I heard what they done. I ain’t going anywhere near them, and that’s something else you can take to the bank.”
“Don’t worry,” Cribbs said. “I got an idea, kill a couple of birds with a couple stones. Talk to you later.”
He broke the connection and couldn’t stop smiling, couldn’t stop chuckling.
Jesus, Jasper, he thought; why the hell aren’t you ruling the world yet?
* * * *
Ronnie Hull stood at the counter in the Camoret Weekly’s office and swore as she punched a number into her cell phone. It would be the fifth attempt, and she hoped this time she’d gotten it right. The buttons were so small she kept hitting the wrong ones, the last time getting some music store in Hilton Head, for God’s sake.
Daddy was going to hit the ceiling when he saw the next bill.
“Rick,” she said in relief when the connection was made, “it’s me, Ronnie.”
“Hey, Ron, what’s up? You coming up, keep me company?”
“Very funny. Look, I can’t talk long. Can you see all the streets from up there? With those binoculars?”
“Most of them, yeah. Trees get in the way, but yeah, most of them.” >
A distant sound of wind; she hoped he was all right up there.
“Would you please look for Daddy’s car if you can?”
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m not sure. He’s been pissy all day, and stormed out of here a little while ago, saying if no one’s going to help him with his story, then he’d get it himself.”
“Sorry, I don’t get it.”
“Rick, he doesn’t think those guys from last night have left the island. He thinks they’re still here, and he’s going to try to find them.’’
* * * *
Ben Pellier hung up the bar’s wall phone and rested his forehead against it, tapping the floor with one heel.
Alma bustled out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. “Ben, I can’t find the—what’s wrong?”
He closed his eyes, pressed a fist to the wall.
“That was Hector. It’s ... it’s Senior.”
“Oh, dear Lord, no.”
“About twenty minutes ago.”
“What about Junior?”
“Gonna be all right so far. Touch and go.”
He could hear her weeping, could hear Pegleg scratching at something at the bottom of his cage,
could hear the front door open and Billy Freck say, “Come on, Pellier, give it over, I ain’t got all day.”
* * * *
Verna wrinkled her nose, looked to her left at the sheriffs closed door. Trying to hold her breath without seeming to, she hit the intercom button.
“Sheriff?”
“I told you not to bother me.”
“It’s Neely, Sheriff. He’s here at my desk, and he says he knows where those men are, the ones who shot the Raybourns.”
* * * *
“He what?” Cribbs yelled.
Oakman winced and pulled the receiver away from his eai for a second. “He says he knows where those killers are staying. Thought you ought to know, you being the mayor and all.”
“He’s a drunk, throw him in a cell.”
“Can’t do that, sir.”
“What, you’re not making enough money already?”
“Deputy Dewitt’s already taken his statement.”
“She what? Are you crazy?”
“Just doing my job, sir.” ,
“Goddamnit, Vale, you’d better be packed, because if this goes bad, I swear I’ll run you out of town on a rail.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, nodding to Verna. “Yes, sir, I understand.”
He hung up, rubbed his ear, and with his left foot nudged the suitcase resting in the well of his desk. “Dub, I’m telling you again, if you’re wrong about this, I’m gonna look like ten kinds of a jackass, the mayor’s gonna want your scalp, and I’m gonna be standing right behind him, sharpening the damn knife.”
Neely pushed out of his chair, clapped his hands once. “Then let’s go, Sheriff. Saddle up, and let’s get them there bad guys.”
“In a minute, Dub, in a minute. For this kind of thing, I’m going to need reinforcements.”
* * * *
When the telephone rang, Stone exchanged a questioning glance with Lauder, then shrugged, and answered.
“Stone?”
“Indeed.”
“This is Cutler.”
“I know, sir, I know.”
“Good, then get your ass outta there. The sheriff’ll be on his way in a few minutes, and he’s bringing a posse.”
Stone thanked him, hung up, and said, “Well, Dutch, it seems our luck isn’t so good today. Pack up, we have five minutes.”
“Where’ll we go?”
“Seeing as how he’s paying the bills, I suggest we drop in on the mayor.”
* * * *
7
Casey stood in front of the storeroom closet.
The door was closed, and his hand on the knob, but he couldn’t yet bring himself to turn it.
His arm trembled; his throat was dry.
He glanced at the boots on the floor beside him and remembered an evening not so many years ago when he had walked up the main street of Maple Landing, moon casting his shadow ahead of him, boot heels hard on the ground, and he’d imagined himself the local hero, the gun-fighter who was out to protect the people of his town. He had laughed at the conceit then, knew it to be a vivid byproduct of his pride.
He wasn’t laughing now.
If you do this, Case, you may not be around when it’s over, you know.
They used to tease him, his friends, when he cursed now and then, and he never tired of reminding them that just because he was a priest didn’t mean he wasn’t a man. Not perfect, was how he put it; doing my best, but not perfect.
If you do this, the others may not be around, either.
He tightened his grip on the doorknob.
“Lord,” he whispered, “no offense, but if this is wrong, I’d sure appreciate a lightning bolt about now.”
He grinned.
He laughed.
He opened the door.
* * * *
He showered in the hottest water he could stand, scrubbed himself as hard as he could without drawing blood. When the water began to chill, he turned it off, climbed out of the tub, and stood in front of the mirror, and sighed. Only once.
The coloring had left his hair; it was white again, pure white.
* * * *
In the bedroom he put on the black jeans he hadn’t worn since he’d thrown in the towel; the black collarless shirt that suggested he’d put on a few pounds; black socks over which he pulled the boots, wondering why he’d ever given them up. Lots of folks had laughed at them, mockingly called him an urban preacher cowboy, but he’d never found a pair of shoes that had been halfway as comfortable. And even if he hadn’t become a priest, he would have worn black anyway, because he hated trying to figure out which color matched which. That, too, had been a great source of good-natured amusement among his friends.
Friends long gone.
Friends too long unavenged.
On the dresser he placed a small box lined with velvet, a gift from his momma. He opened it carefully, hesitated, fingers trembling, before he took out a simple gold cross on a simple gold chain, and hung it around his neck.
He opened a second box, a longer, wider one, velvet-lined, with narrow compartments, and again he hesitated. This was the last step. This was the final move. He could stop now, and nothing would change; he could stop now, still retreat. Dishonored perhaps, but still alive.
don’t take your guns to town, son
leave your guns at home
The boy in the song hadn’t left them, and he’d died.
A wry smile: you’re stalling, Case, get moving.
He reached into the box and pulled out a white starched collar, used one hand to put it around his neck, used the other to close it in back with an amber tab. Quickly. Without thinking.
Then he turned around to face the bed. On it lay a black suit jacket and of black denim jacket. Except when his duties took him to the hospital or a meeting out of town, they were virtually interchangeable as far as he was concerned.
“Move it,” he ordered quietly. “Move it, they’re waiting.”
He grabbed the denim, draped it over his arm, and hurried down the stairs, aware of how he sounded, too aware of the cold wings batting in his stomach, the faint buzzing in his head, the weakness in his legs.
“All right, ready or not,” he called before he reached the bottom, trying to sound light and casual, wincing when he realized he had instinctively used what Reed called “the voice,” the one that filled his church, the one that filled the valley that lay below his mother’s grave.
To his embarrassment they all stood when he walked into the front room, but of all the reactions he might have guessed he’d witness, he never would have guessed he’d see John Bannock, weeping.
He motioned the others to sit, stepped over to John, and grasped his shoulders.
“My ... son,” John said, biting his lips.
Casey shook his head. “No, John, he isn’t. You know that. He isn’t your son, and he never was your son. He’s one of them, John, and now they’re all riding.” He looked at the others. “And they know you’re with me.”
* * * *
5
1
H
e felt like the conductor of an orchestra that preferred its own rhythm. Standing in the kitchen, he waved his arms to direct food onto the table, sandwiches to be made, food to be microwaved, sandwiches on plates to be taken elsewhere, kids who didn’t want to go elsewhere, Lisse who had reverted to waitress mode and spent twenty minutes giggling with the girls as she showed them carrying tricks ... he sang nonsense songs that had the Levin girls giggling in spite of their still obvious distrust of him, old cowboy songs that John sometimes joined in on with mostly the wrong words, a few hand-clapping, foot-stomping, raise the roof and the hell with the neighbors Gospel pieces, and anything else he could think of so no one had time to ask questions.
The sun was nearly down when the house quieted, and he leaned against the sink, head down, looking for a decent breath.
“You’re quite good, you know.”
Moving only his eyes, he saw Beatrice standing in the doorway. “When you h
ave to keep a bunch of teenagers from killing each other on a camping trip, you catch on pretty fast.”
Riders in the Sky - [Millennium Quartet 04] Page 36