In the Mood - [Millennium Quartet 02]
Page 15
She looked back at the trees.
Checkerboard, she thought then; the street’s set up like a checkerboard. No house faces another, and there’s at least a hundred yards between them. House square; tree or piece of field square.
So which, she wondered, was red, and which was black.
* * * *
4
Arn stared at the fax Rafe handed him, fully aware the man was at attention. He was always at attention. Even when he was walking. Even when he chewed that godawful smelling, godawful blueberry-flavored gum.
“I don’t believe it,” he said hoarsely.
“I called, just to be sure, Chief,” the younger man said.
“You tell anyone else yet?”
“No one’s seen it but me.”
“Thank God for small favors.”
Rafe snapped his gum.
Arn glared, but the man only stared back blankly, not realizing how annoying the habit was. Then he reached into a bottom drawer and pulled out an old pint bottle of Wild Turkey.
“Chief.” Schmidt was horrified. “You quit. You promised.”
Arn tapped the fax with a stiff finger. “And this says I got a right to start again.”
* * * *
5
George yanked off his jacket and did the unthinkable: He grabbed it in one fist without caring about wrinkles and let it dangle at his side. Then he unbuttoned his waistcoat. Loosened his tie. Wished to hell he had foregone the damn suspenders. It was the middle of October, for God’s sake; he wasn’t supposed to be this damn hot.
Just ahead, the fields ended on both sides of the road. On the left the woodland was thin, many of the trees lightning-struck, half-fallen, and bare. The land was lower there than the roadbed, and after a good rain, the whole area turned into a standing marsh. On the right were his beloved pines, guardians of his privacy, many of them planted himself and force-fed to get within at least poking distance of full height before he grew too old to enjoy them.
The house, set back from the yard, was there only if you knew where to look.
I will go in the kitchen, he decided, and get a drink, something to eat, then sit on the porch and wait for the sunset. I will not answer the phone, I will not think about work, I will not worry about that over which I have no control.
Like, he added with a disgusted look, those crows.
A flock of them, at least twenty that he could count, picked their way across the field on the right. This section had been left fallow, and there was, surprisingly, grass and weeds still growing. The only color, save for the pines, that he could see.
He hated them.
Instead of heading for the highways and interstates to pick at roadkill like normal disgusting carrion eaters should, they stuck around here. Loud. Argumentative. As if this was their territory and he the intruder.
Too often, when a few made it a point to hunt through his backyard—just to annoy him, he was sure—he would stomp onto the back stoop, waving whatever had come to hand. All they did was hop a little, look at him, and not take wing until he actually stepped onto the grass. Then they sat in the branches and mocked him.
For no reason he could think of they weren’t afraid of him at all.
He watched them strutting along the rows, pecking, upright and arrogant, bent over and menacing. Muttering to themselves. Glancing toward him once in a while.
Can they see me? he wondered. How good was their vision?
He waved the jacket.
They didn’t budge.
“Bastards,” he muttered, and walked on.
On impulse he reached down and snatched up a stone with his left hand, and threw it awkwardly.
It didn’t go very far, but it went far enough.
The flock rose into the air, plumes of dust rising with them, and flew straight at him.
* * * *
6
“Chief.”
“I put it away, okay? It’s gone. Forget it.”
“So maybe I should, you know, take it.”
“Rafe, you are, I swear, worse than my wife sometimes.”
“But—”
“Rafe, knock it off. It’s a test. I keep it there for a test. Just to keep me honest.”
“Okay. Sure.”
“And we have more important things to worry about than my drinking on the job. That’s history. This is the present.”
“So what are we going to do?”
“You get hold of the others, get them in here right away. If they’re on the road, call them in. This isn’t going out over the radio, and I’m not going to wait for shift change. And while you’re doing that, I’m ... oh hell, I’m going to have to make a couple of calls.”
Arn folded his hands on his desk and rested his forehead on them. “Tell me something, Rafe. Why me? Why now?’’
Rafe laughed. “It’s the end of the world, Chief.”
“Not funny, Rafe. Not funny.”
* * * *
7
Straight at him.
Slowly.
He could see each wing, up and down.
He could see their eyes, dead and watching.
He could hear them calling, harsh and raucous.
He could see their beaks.
* * * *
Sharon nearly fell off the steps in her haste to get up, frowning as she searched the sky for the source of all the commotion.
It sounded like every crow in the state was being attacked. They screamed, they called each other, and she knew that whatever had disturbed or attacked them was in serious trouble. She had seen what crows and jays could do to a nosy dog or cat, but this sounded a lot worse.
She trotted down the walk to the street, left hand on her hip, shading her eyes and squinting, swiveling her head slowly to pinpoint the direction.
Her eyes widened.
The Fish Man; they were over by the Fish Man.
* * * *
“Damn,” Les said. “What now?”
Fran was at the kitchen window, head slightly forward, fingers on the sill. “Birds,” she said.
He stood behind her. From the open side window he could see past the trees and outbuildings to the paddock. A half dozen dark shapes swooped over the horses’ heads, and they had scattered, most of them already out of sight behind the barn.
“What the hell’s the matter with them?” he said.
Fran shrugged.
And gasped.
One, a bay, swung its head sharply and struck one of the diving birds. Stunned, it hit the ground and tried to stand.
“Les...”
The bay stepped on it.
It didn’t rear, or kick, or charge it.
The bay walked over to the struggling bird and stepped on it.
And looked straight at the house.
* * * *
Sharon ran back to the porch and grabbed the broom.
* * * *
Arn slapped helplessly through the thick sheaf of papers in the open folder on his desk, groaning when he couldn’t find what he wanted.
“Rafe!” he bellowed. “Rafe, get in here!”
Detective Zayle came to the door instead. “He’s on the horn, Chief. What’s up?”
“I can’t find the damned number!”
“What number?” Zayle wandered in a little fearfully, one hand instinctively moving to be sure his tie was straight. Then he glanced at the folder and said, “Oh.”
Arn ordered himself to be calm. “You heard.”
Zayle nodded.
“I can’t find the...” He blinked when the detective lifted the telephone book from a small table near the window and held it up. “Oh. Yeah.” He grabbed it and flipped open the Yellow Pages.
Froze.
“Entelong Insurance,” Zayle said timidly. “On Madison, near Twentieth.”
“I know, I know,” Arn snapped. “I was just thinking.”
Zayle nodded and backed out of the room.
Arn found the company’s number, hesitated, whispered, “Why me
?” and punched for an outside line before he lost his nerve.
* * * *
George couldn’t run. He hadn’t run in years, and the best he could do was an ungainly lumbering trot.
The crows circled him, and for a hysterical moment he felt like a lone covered wagon under attack. He had had the sense to hold his jacket over his head, one hand keeping the collar up so he could see, while the other batted at the birds when they came too close.
Peck his eyes out.
Eat his tongue.
Long sharp beaks penetrating his ears.
That’s what kept him running, even though he could barely breathe, even though he felt as if someone were stabbing tiny needles into his side, even though his vision had begun to darken at the edges.
They cawed at him.
They beat at the jacket with their wings, much more powerful than he ever believed they would be.
He stumbled, went down on one knee, and rose again, this time thinking this was of course a dream and he had put himself into The Birds, and as he rather pathetically fled for his own life, downtown was under attack by rampaging gulls while robins and jays massed at the schools and waited patiently, silently, for the last bell.
When he came abreast of his fence, he angled toward it and used it to pull himself along one-handed. Walking now. Shambling. Gulping for air, licking his lips, tasting salt and grit.
His arm grew tired and dropped to his side, letting the white jacket fall over his head like a cowl.
He grabbed the fence with both hands and pulled. Yanked. One foot at a time.
While they circled and screamed and something stabbed him behind the knee and something stabbed him on the ankle and something beat at his head and all he could see was the withered ground and his shoes no longer white and the fenceposts as he passed them and the flick of a dark body he slammed away with the back of his hand.
He reached the open gate and fell to his hands and knees.
I will crawl, he commanded; I will crawl, goddamnit.
He couldn’t.
He just... couldn’t.
* * * *
Arn stared at the plaster ceiling and prayed for strength.
* * * *
Sharon sprinted around the bend and cried out when she saw the Fish Man on the ground, rocking back and forth while a cloud of crows dove and swooped over him. Broom high, she charged, screaming, and several of them left the flock and flew toward her.
Slowly.
Not a sound.
Not a sound.
* * * *
“Les?”
“Honey, if you think I’m going out there, you’re out of your mind.”
* * * *
Panting made him dizzy, and he felt himself ready to topple.
No, he commanded; goddamnit, no.
When he heard the scream, he thought it was one of the birds; when he heard it again, he shifted his unsteady weight and lifted a corner of the jacket, just as Sharon Gillespie, at a dead run and swinging a long broom like a club, swatted two crows out of the air.
“Mr. Trout!” she called, and swung at another one. “Mr. Trout!”
Not on my knees, he thought; please, God, not on my knees.
He grabbed the nearest gatepost and hauled himself to his feet, swaying, using his other hand to swing the jacket as if he were merely shooing away flies or a couple of pesky bees.
Swinging as hard as he could, as often as he could, until a hand gripped his shoulder.
“It’s okay, Mr. Trout,” she said. “It’s okay, they’re gone.”
He couldn’t speak. His lips moved, his tongue moved, but he couldn’t speak. His eyes stung, his chest hurt, and there was a buzzing in his ears.
“Come on,” she urged softly.
She pulled at him gently until he moved; she guided him as best she could while she watched the sky until they were on the porch; she led him to his favorite chair, an old cane rocker, and helped him sit.
She did not let go of the broom for a second.
“My God,” he said, eyes closed, ready to weep. “My God.”
“I’m going to get you something to drink.” She hesitated. “Is that all right?”
He nodded weakly, not giving a damn if the entire town traipsed through his house. “Ice,” he managed as he heard the screen door slam shut. “Ice,” he whispered. “Ice.”
* * * *
“Annette,” Arn said. “How are you? This is Chief Baer.”
“Arn! Well, I’ll be. How are you doing?” She laughed. You finally thinking about increasing that life to a flat million?”
He couldn’t smile. “Annette,” he said, “I have news.”
“Oh God,” she said, “has something happened to Sharon? Phil? Are they all right? Was there an accident? Was—”
“No, Annette,” he said. “Far as I know, Sharon is in school. And I’ve heard nothing about Phil.”
“Then what...?”
He couldn’t do it.
He couldn’t bring himself to do it.
Then he heard what might have been a moan deep in her throat. “Tell me,” she said flatly.
“It’s Rod,” he said.
“Tell me he’s dead, Arn.” She laughed bitterly. “Make my day and tell me the bastard’s dead.”
* * * *
It took a few seconds to find the glasses, a few seconds more to realize his huge refrigerator had an ice maker in the door. She filled two tumblers and rushed them back to the porch, handed him one, and said, “If it’s all right, Mr. Trout, I’m going to find a cloth or something and wet it. You need to—”
“There,” he interrupted, pointing. “Look there.”
The crows had started to fly past the house, one by one, at eye level. Unless, she thought, it was the same bird.
“I don’t get it.”
She wasn’t scared now, not like she’d been before. Or maybe she was, but she was still too pumped to realize it.
“Watch,” he said numbly. “Watch.”
* * * *
Arn felt gas and bile churn in his stomach.
“Tell me, Am.”
“I. ..” He swallowed, and wished someone out there could read his mind and bring him a glass of water. “I’ve gotten word from Denver.”
He remembered the pint.
Without an ounce of shame, he yanked open the drawer and grabbed the bottle. There wasn’t much left inside, but it was enough.
“Am, damnit, you telling me they let him go?”
He drank, coughed as discreetly as he could, and tossed the empty bottle into the wastebasket.
Her voice began to rise, rage and panic. “How the hell could they let him go? Why didn’t they warn me? I’m supposed to be told when there’s a parole hearing, Arn, and nobody told me a—”
“He wasn’t paroled, Annette,” he said.
‘‘—a damn thing about it. I... I... my lawyer. Arn, I have to call my lawyer. I have to call Sharon. I—”
“Annette!”
“What?”
“He wasn’t paroled, Annette. He escaped.”
* * * *
8
George kept his finger up. “Watch.”
The girl did, shaking her head that she didn’t understand.
“Watch.”
“Mr. Trout, I don’t—”
“Look at him, girl, damnit, look at him!”
She went to the railing despite his warning grunt and leaned out as far as she could when the crow passed again.
She dropped the tumbler into the flower bed below.
George closed his eyes.
“Blue,” she said. “Mr. Trout, its eyes are blue.”
* * * *
Part 3
* * * *
1