Symphony - [Millennium Quartet 01]

by Charles L. Grant

  His tongue touched his lips. Soup and scraps, that’s what he was used to. “Yeah.”

  They swayed into the long arc of the exit ramp, slowing, but not by much. No one followed them; there was no one ahead.

  “You married, Stan?”

  “Nope. You?”

  “No way, amigo. I am a free woman.”

  He watched the road brighten as the tall fights came nearer, not wanting to watch her. She made him nervous. But he could smell her, a mix of some kind of flower and some kind of soap. It was faint, but it was there. She also smelled warm.

  She tilted her head to bump his shoulder. “You always wear that coat?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t have anything else.” His left hand glided down his chest. “It does all right, though. I don’t look so much like a bum, you know? I keep it clean. People don’t talk to you if you look like you just climbed out of the sewer.”

  She nodded, rocking her chin on her arm.

  The car stopped.

  They were near a crossroads, stop signs and another highway. A blind spot for the tall lights. They were stopped in the dark.

  Stan waited for Susan to say something. He hoped she would say it was time to raid the kitchen. Or maybe, almost but not quite better, time to sleep in a real bed in a real room. He yawned without warning, too late to cover his mouth, coughed to try to cover it, and choked a bit instead.

  “You okay?” Lupé asked.

  “Yeah.” He choked again. “Yeah.”

  Semis cranked and backfired down the highway, heading for the interstate entrance. A handful of cars crawling back and forth. The mist hanging from the lights, from the telephone poles, from the wires.

  His eyelids sagged, and he shook himself to keep awake.

  “Stan.”

  It was Susan.

  A nervous glance to Lupé before he looked over, wishing he could see her more clearly, thinking maybe this was the time to change his mind. Nobody had told him anything about anything, but he wasn’t fool enough to believe that what was coming was anything good. Still, he had been asleep and no one had killed him, robbed him, anything like that. So maybe he would just—

  “Stan.”

  He cleared his throat to prove he was listening.

  She stared out the windshield, hands on the steering wheel, ten and two, engine humming.

  “I’m going to drive into that gas station past the corner over there.” She paused; he didn’t speak. “When we get there, Lupé is going over to the Burger King.” Another pause; he didn’t speak. “This is where you make your choice.”

  He tried to look like he understood what she meant, but there was no clue in her voice and no clue from Lupé, who only nodded and slipped away, back into the dark.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, feeling himself grow tense as if in fear of a whipping. “I don’t get it.”

  He didn’t see it, but he felt the smile.

  “As I told you before, if you don’t want to stay, you can leave. Here. There are plenty of places to eat, places to sleep. You could hitch another ride, although I don’t know how long it will take this late at night.” Her hands shifted. “This early in the morning, I guess I should say.”

  His feet tightened around the pack.

  A hand touched his leg, patted it once.

  “So if you want to go, that’s fine. No hard feelings. That much I promised.”

  He didn’t know what to say. Instinct usually took over about now, guys or women giving him rides, sending signals or not, hard times and good times teaching him all the way. But now, with this woman, in this palace of a car, he was lost.

  For the first time since the first time, he was utterly lost.

  “What...” He rubbed his cheek, shifted his rump. “I mean, what happens if I stick around?”

  Funny thing. He was lost but he wasn’t scared. Not like he was before, not knowing who was in the back, not knowing what this lady was up to, not knowing where he was going. Curious was what he was, and he was pleased to know it. Curious was okay. He learned things then, poking around, reading stuff, seeing stuff. Sometimes it got him trouble, him and his mad, but most of the time it got him somewhere he hadn’t ever been before.

  “I mean, you’re a nice lady and all, okay? But no offense, I hardly never got something for nothing, you know what I mean?”

  She nodded, nothing more.

  She wasn’t going to tell him.

  And she wasn’t going to wait until dawn for him to make up his stupid mind.

  If only he knew who was in the backseat with Lupé.

  Susan’s hands stopped caressing the wheel. “Stan, I have to go. And you have to decide.”

  No threats; a simple choice.

  He felt dumb then, really dumb. Too many parts of him pulling too many different ways. He was no good at this, never was, never would be. All he wanted was the road, singing a song, meeting the people, seeing the sights. He was no damn good at this, and it made him feel dumb.

  It made him angry.

  It made him take a deep breath and stare at her, hard, not caring about the heat he felt inside his head.

  She waited.

  The heat grew, blurring his vision, turning it colors, making him wonder where the hell this bitch got off, teasing him this way, forcing him into a corner, who the hell did she think she was, some kind of goddamn queen or something?

  “Stan,” she said mildly.

  Who the goddamn hell did she think she was?

  Then she looked at him, through the mad, through the heat; she looked at him, and he knew.

  * * * *

  3

  Lupé stood just inside the Burger King entrance, thinking this was a real strange place to stop. Hardly anyone here, it being long past midnight. Two guys behind the counter, another in the kitchen that she could see. White tourist family at a fake-wood table over by the window, two adults, two bored and exhausted teens picking at their food. Two black women arguing at another, hissing at each other, not wanting to yell; tight jeans and tight T-shirts, too tight for their sizes, one with dreadlocks, the other damn near bald.

  She smiled to herself and strolled back to the restroom, ignoring the glare of the oldest counterman. She went inside, nose wrinkling at the disinfectant, and stood by the single sink, staring in the mirror, taking her time, thinking she wasn’t looking half bad, even after all this time on the road. Not half bad at all.

  She didn’t concern herself with the time; she knew what would happen. It did.

  Not two minutes later, one of the arguing women came in, stomping, huffing, cursing to herself, slapping a hand at her dreadlocks, beads clacking at the ends.

  The second one followed.

  “Larone, you dumb bitch, what the hell you doing?” she snapped.

  Lupé turned around just as Larone ducked into the stall and pointedly locked the door.

  The second one pounded on the frail wood. “Bitch! Get the fuck out here!”

  Lupé moved up behind her.

  The woman snarled, “What the hell you want?” over her shoulder.

  Lupé smiled, and showed her the knife.

  “Fuck off, Bee,” Larone said from the stall. “I got nothing to say to you.”

  Bee stared at the knife, at Lupé’s sweet smile.

  “Bee?”

  “I ain’t got no money,” Bee said in a hoarse whisper, eyes wide, no place to go as the knife drifted slowly in front of her chin.

  “Bee, damnit, who you talking to?”

  “Just me,” Lupé called softly.

  The knife moved, smooth and quiet.

  Bee sagged to her knees, one hand at her throat, the other covering her eyes.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  “End of the world, honey, end of the world.”

  The stall door slammed open; Larone had a knife too.

  “What the fuck you—’’ She saw her friend topple forward, forehead smacking on the floor, saw the blood, one hand drumming the floor without a sound.


  Larone screamed, but no one heard it.

  The explosion buried it in shattered glass and roaring gas and the screams outside from the white tourist family blown out of their seats, piece by piece.

  Lupé opened the restroom door and walked out, heading for the front entrance, batting an irritated hand against the smoke hot as steam that billowed through the room. The night had turned to fire, and one of the countermen grabbed her arm, face dripping blood.

  “What the hell happened? Jesus, what the hell happened?’’

  She pushed the hand away and walked on, just as Larone screamed out of the ladies’ room, T-shirt soaked and dark.

  The counterman had a gun.

  Larone only had the knife.

  Lupé heard the shot as she stepped through the glassless door; she didn’t pause, didn’t look back.

  She walked down to the highway, wincing at the heat nearly burning her back from the fires that stretched from the gas station to the moon. By the time she reached the car, two top-floor windows of the Days Inn blew out, followed by instant smoke and flame; by the time she slid into the backseat, a second gas station blew up, and a man with a rifle stood near the entrance, shooting without aiming at anything that moved.

  She sat behind Susan and closed her eyes, leaned back, listened as Stan fell into the front, gasping, laughing a little, singing a song she didn’t know.

  The passenger door opened, a shadow slipped in, and the car pulled away from the shoulder, shuddering at an explosion, trembling when a piece of flaming metal bounced off the hood, another off the roof.

  She opened one eye and saw Stan in the firelight, hugging himself; she knew how he felt.

  In Arkansas she had thought she was going to die, simple as that. But all that had happened was that she had burned her arm a little when a kid all afire fell against her before she could dodge him.

  She had thought she was going to die, but all she had done was laugh.

  “Wow,” Stan said, shaking his head, shaking like a leaf in a high wind. “Wow.”

  They glided onto the interstate, into the mist not quite a fog.

  Behind them the sky exploded.

  * * * *

  4

  What we’re going to do is, Susan told them, eyes straight ahead, voice spider silk and calm, we’re going on to Carlisle. There are some nice motels there, so we’ll get a couple of rooms. You’re tired of riding, I’m sure. So am I. You need your rest. So do I. You need something decent to eat. It’ll be just about dawn when we get there, and you’ll probably want to sleep all day. That’s okay. I’ll take care of it, don’t worry about money or being disturbed. If you’ve been hurt, we’ll get you fixed up, but it looks like you’re all right. So sleep, and when you wake up, get yourselves cleaned up. When you’re ready, come to my room. I’ll take you to supper. I’m not sure we’ll be moving on right away. I have to think about it. I’ll let you know. Whatever we do, I’ll have to get you all some new clothes. It’ll be hot where we’re going. Hot and dry. Stan, you’ll have to pack up that coat. Lupé, you’ll need something besides that flannel shirt or you’ll drop a dozen sizes before you take two steps. Little one, don’t worry, you’re just fine the way you are.

  I’m going to turn on the radio.

  Listen to the music.

  Close your eyes.

  We’re almost there.

  * * * *

  2

  1

  C

  asey moved through the woods, following Star Creek’s deathbed toward the river below.

  He was not in a good mood.

  The bell’s tolling nearly had him out the door at a run until common sense restrained him. They would be gone, whoever it had been, and he would only make himself look like a damn fool, charging up the hill for the second time this Week. It was what they wanted, and he wasn’t about to give them the satisfaction, or himself a relapse. But he hadn’t forgotten, especially after spending half the morning crawling around the belfry, looking for some kind of clue until a splinter had rammed into the heel of his left hand; it had taken all his strength not to let loose right there in the church.

  By the time he returned home, the temperature was back in the nineties, the humidity smothering, and a cold shower hadn’t done the least bit of good. Neither for his comfort nor his temper.

  He decided he needed the woods, no people and no problems, and with a baseball cap crammed on his head, he went out to check the creek.

  It was worse than he had thought.

  Only tiny pools a few inches across were left here and there, mostly there, connected to each other by threads of weak brackish water clotted with dead leaves and weeds. The rest was baked and cracked, puffing to dust when he touched it with a toe or a heel.

  The partially eaten body of a raccoon, the remains of a snake, several baby birds covered with ants.

  At the meadow, he stood in the doubtful shade of a canted pine and followed the creek’s meander until it was swallowed by brown grass that looked like brown nails. One hundred yards ahead the forest began again, and it didn’t look any cooler there than it was standing here.

  Still, he figured that to be in New York now, or any Eastern city, would be even worse. The networks and local news, even CNN, spoke of murder and suicide rates soaring to new records from Portland down to Washington, riots that broke out over a hat or a soda or a token being snatched, and brownouts that had turned buildings old and new into ovens. Leaders spoke of keeping the peace, urging patience and restraint until the weather broke. Casey had finally turned it off; he couldn’t stand the desperation in their eyes.

  To his left he could see the road, and wondered if he had the energy to walk up to Ed’s, take a horse, let him and the beast wander for the rest of the day.

  A drop of sweat slithered into his eyes, stinging as he rubbed at it.

  Nope, not today.

  So he figured now was as good a time as any to pay a visit to Micah. If nothing else, the old man would have a goodly stock of cold beer.

  He moved along the treeline toward the road, wincing as the grass snapped beneath his boots. He wore a thin pale shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and was tempted to take it off. But that way lay quick sunburn, an annual bit of torture he definitely didn’t need now.

  Besides, he was probably sweating out the last of his walking stupid pneumonia. In which case he ought to be Superman by dinner.

  At the road he paused, looking down a five-foot embankment that seemed like fifty. Jump or slide, nobody’s looking.

  He grinned—don’t be an idiot.

  A breeze kicked dust across the blacktop and ice across the back of his neck.

  He turned his head slowly.

  At the north end of the meadow a young buck stood just inside the trees. Shadows behind it suggested a family, doe and fawns. He watched it test the air, lower its head and turn its antlers.

  The breeze kicked again.

  Ice again.

  The buck was gone.

  He waited a few minutes before slipping down the embankment, arms out for balance, running a couple of steps along the blacktop before he corralled his momentum. In a way, he was pleased to see the deer. It meant something was still alive back there, although he didn’t want to think for how long.

  When he came around the bend, Micah was on his nail keg, a cigarette in one hand, beer can in the other. Casey, forced into another run by the steep slope, panted by the time he reached the graveled parking area. He climbed over the thick rope and dropped onto one of the pilings poking chair-high from the dock.

  Micah reached into a cooler beside him and tossed him a can. He opened it, held it to his brow, and sighed before he drank. A sip at a time. Then he nodded toward the empty slips.

  “Full house today?”

  Micah spat into the river. “Do I look rich? They’re still in the boathouse, except for two. Damn fools wanted to go up to Port Jervis.”

  Casey looked to his right, the Delaware sweeping around a far ben
d. “Against the current?”

  “Told you they were damn fools. Had about a dozen cameras, said they were looking for wildlife.” He snorted, drank. “If they stick to the shallows, they might see a minnow.”

  “Who took them?”

  “Reed, who else?” The old man drank, crushed the can, opened another, drank again. “And that girl.”