In the Mood - [Millennium Quartet 02]

by Charles L. Grant

  When, at last, he looks right at her, she smiles and goes to him. “Hey, cowboy.”

  “Mom?”

  “What is it?”

  “We can’t go.”

  She doesn’t understand. “You mean, go to town, or leave town?”

  “No dinner,” he says, shaking his head, disappointed. “No movie.”

  “But we’re all ready.” She looks back at the porch. “Look at Mr. Lowe, he’s so excited. You know,” she adds, lowering her voice, “he doesn’t have much back home. Only Grampa. This is a big deal for him.”

  “No.”

  “But why?”

  He looks up at her somberly, one eye in a squint. “Daddy knows.”

  Her confusion deepens. “Joey, I don’t get it. What does Daddy know? You mean, that we’re here, where we are?”

  “No.” He turns away from her, looking at the limousine, looking at the road. Shaking his head slowly.

  “Joey?”

  * * * *

  Lanyon Trask felt small. Helpless. Infinitely weak. Faced with the biggest decision of his life, and he had failed. Mrs. Cawley would be ashamed of him. The Paytrice brothers certainly were already. But despite his best efforts to explain, they did not really grasp the significance of this day, of this moment, of what he knew was right and could not bring himself to do.

  “Sebastian,” he said wearily, the timbre drained from his voice, “let’s go.”

  The engine started.

  Alonse did not blink.

  “Where, sir?” Sebastian asked.

  “Down the road,” he said. “Just get away from this house, these people.”

  That boy, he thought; get me away from that boy.

  * * * *

  Joey raises his left hand over his head and wiggles his fingers. She hears voices and footsteps as the others leave the porch. Ari sounds as confused as she feels, but she says nothing until they’re all beside her. Then Joey turns and shakes his head again.

  “I’m sorry,” he says.

  “What?” Ari says. “What’s he talking about? What are you sorry for, little one? You’re not feeling well?” He frowns at Patty. “You’re his mother, what’s the matter?”

  “Hush, Ari,” Tony says.

  “Oh. I see. Another family thing, is that it? Well, fine.” Angrily he chops the air with one hand, heads back for the porch. “When you’re done with your family thing, let me know, you think you can do that? Let me know.”

  “Pop,” Dory says, “that wasn’t very nice. He’s your best friend.”

  “Yes,” says Tony sadly. “Yes, you’re right, he is.”

  * * * *

  John walked away from the others, not stopping until he was beneath the pines. He inhaled the scent of them, brushed a hand across a trunk to feel the rough bark, picked up a tiny cone and rolled it between his palms.

  He was out of his mind, of course.

  Facing the truth about his split with Patty, about the lies he’d told himself and others for so many years, had sent him off the deep end. Around the bend. Over the edge.

  Because if it was true, and his madness said it was, he also had a feeling he knew what Casey Chisholm meant, and what, perhaps, Casey had done.

  Lisse came up behind him; he knew it was her, he could smell her, he could sense her.

  “Gillespie, right?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “No? How can it not be?” She moved to stand in front of him. “How? He’s a cold-blooded murderer. He raped his own daughter and strangled her to death, for crying out loud. It’s gotta be.”

  “I’ve talked to some who’ve murdered more. You’ve heard them, Lisse. They’re different.”

  “Okay.” She fingered her cheek gingerly, touching each of the tiny cuts. “Then who? Or do I say ‘what’?”

  “Who is good,” he answered, staring over her head at the road.

  “This is crazy.”

  “I know.”

  She gave him a lopsided grin. “Your ex?”

  “No.”

  “No games, John,” she told him. “No more games. I’m scared. I’m very scared, and I don’t want any more games.” Clearly she wanted to hold him, and clearly she was too afraid. “You can’t play games with the end of the world.”

  “But that’s the thing,” he said, still looking at the road. “I don’t think it’s the end, either. Not yet. Not if I can— not yet.”

  Her face darkened. “Then damnit, will you tell me? Will you please ... oh Jesus.” She stepped away from him. “Oh Jesus, John, you can’t mean Joey.”

  This time he did look at her, and at the boy’s name he felt something inside rip open.

  “Oh, John,” she said, “you can’t mean it.”

  A deep breath, a hand to his eyes.

  “Levee Pete, remember? When we were fighting, he said something about ‘him’ promising to let the kid ride with him. His eyes, Lisse. Remember the pirate’s eyes?”

  “But John . . . he’s your son.”

  “Yes,” he said hoarsely. “Yes, and no.”

  “You’re doing it again,” she said, her voice low and dangerous. “You’re treating me like that again.”

  The hand dropped from his eyes.

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I mean Joey. But no, he’s not my son.”

  * * * *

  Patty slaps a hand to her mouth, smothering a cry as Joey suddenly grimaces in pain and staggers sideways a few steps.

  “See?” Ari calls from the porch. “I told you he wasn’t well. Why the hell don’t you do something?”

  Patty moves toward the little cowboy, and stops abruptly when he raises his head.

  “Oh,” Dory whispers.

  All this time, all these years, traveling all over the country, meeting all kinds of people, watching Joey take their hands and smiling and laughing with those lips and those stunning blue eyes, she has never seen him lose his temper. Never saw him truly angry.

  Until now.

  “No more time,” he tells them.

  And she has never seen him afraid.

  Until now.

  “Grampa?”

  “What is it, son?”

  Joey points. “Dance with Uncle Ari.”

  “What?”

  “Grampa.”

  Tony touches his trouser pocket, and Joey smiles and nods as the old man leaves.

  Patty swallows hard. “Joey? Honey?”

  “No more time,” he says again. “I have to see the horses.”

  “Now?” Dory says incredulously.

  “Now,” he says sternly. “You’ll have to help me. Wait here. I’ll be back.”

  He starts for the road, stops and looks over his shoulder.

  Blue eyes.

  Floating.

  “Now,” he says to his aunt and his mother, as Uncle Ari screams, just once, “it’s time to find my dad.”

  And the breeze begins to stir.

  * * * *

  4

  R

  od mutters to himself, searching desperately for the silver lining, but he knows that he is in seriously big trouble.

  He hadn’t remembered that Vonda Baer was such a hefty woman; not as big as the bitch Stephanie, but big enough. Even with the gun aimed at her temple, she struggled as he dragged her to the back of the store. At that point, all he had been able to see through the front window was a bunch of uniforms ducking and darting across the street. But Vonda kept struggling and pleading for her life, and he hadn’t been able to stand it and clipped her with the barrel just to shut her up so he could have a moment’s peace and do a little thinking.

  A storeroom in back, filled with open and unopened cartons of books, a small desk with a computer and telephone, a small filing cabinet with a framed color picture of Arn and his brat. A back door he had opened, cautiously, sighing when he had seen the alley outside. Just wide enough for delivery trucks, and one-way left to right. Across the alley, not eight feet away was a grimy brick wall at least five stories high, without a single
window. Slightly to the left was a metal fire door, and he had taken a big chance, had run across and tried it.

  He hadn’t been surprised to find it locked.

  Back in the bookstore he reloaded his gun.

  Now he begins to see things more clearly. A couple of states want to fry him by now, but it looks like Illinois has drawn the right card. No way is he going to get out of here alive. He supposes the alley is already blocked, that Baer is right now deploying what men he has. Maybe even called in the county or state.

  Sure enough, when he opens the storeroom door a crack, he can see patrol cars along the curb on the far side of Madison, lights spinning, cops in uniform and cops in suits, every damn one of them with a shotgun or rifle.

  On the floor behind him Vonda moans.

  In a book he once read, a guy in a position pretty much like this has this something, this icy calm, settle over him, which allows him to figure the angles and the odds and ultimately the means to his escape.

  Rod feels only rage. A rage so deep it makes his legs quiver and dries his throat and his lungs hard to work. It feels good, though, it feels fine. He tugs at his cap’s bill. He rolls his shoulders. When Vonda moans again, he figures he has only one chance in hell.

  * * * *

  Which is what Arn figures as well.

  He has been, and knows he has been, insanely calm since Gillespie ducked into the store. He hasn’t even felt the hastily bound wound on his upper left arm. What he has done is make sure there is no possible way the man can leave that place except by the front door. Two men in each of the shops on either side, cruisers nose-in at the alley entrances, even someone behind the fire door in the building behind.

  Two vehicles blocking each intersection, the nearest civilians on the street are two blocks away behind sawhorse barriers.

  When the call went out, every off-duty cop in Vallor showed up at the station.

  “He’s gonna come out,” he says, looking at no one, staring over the hood of the cruiser that gives him at least the illusion of cover.

  “Chief—”

  “No, Rafe, he’s gonna come out.”

  “Hands up?”

  “Not likely. He has Vonda in there.”

  Rafe snaps his gum. “A hostage situation.”

  “Him? Hell no. There’s no negotiations with that man. Nope. He’s gonna use her as a shield and try to make it to his transportation, wherever it is.”

  Down the row of police cars, a man with a bullhorn urges Gillespie to surrender. He’s surrounded. He has no chance. No one will shoot, no one will hurt him as long as he doesn’t try anything stupid.

  That’s supposed to be Arn’s job, but he had recognized immediately he wouldn’t be able to do it without saying something to set the killer off.

  In the classes he took they called it personal involvement.

  Damn right, he thinks; goddamn right.

  When Rafe hands him a small pair of binoculars, he concentrates on the doorway. Praying. Knowing full well she was supposed to work today, but hoping for a miracle that maybe her partner had decided to work instead, that she is home instead, having a wonderful fight with their daughter.

  When he sees movement at the back—the storeroom door opening slowly—he sighs, and hands the binoculars back, passes his knuckles over his eyes. Then he leans back a little and checks on the kneeling, aiming policemen. “You men ready?” he says, just loud enough for them to hear. “It’s coming, men, it’s coming.”

  Then he stands before Rafe can stop him.

  “Chief, don’t.”

  “I got on the vest, what more do you want?”

  “He can shoot you in the head.”

  “Maybe.”

  But he didn’t think it was all that terrible a risk.

  After a few seconds, Gillespie comes out of the storeroom, holding Vonda with one arm for a shield, the gun at her head or neck or heart. If he tries for a shot, he won’t be aiming all that well. And in several of the windows on several of the stories of the buildings this side of Madison is a sharpshooter licking his lips.

  He can see them making their way up the middle aisle, his Vonda just as he thought, the gun pressed against her temple.

  “Chief,” Rafe begs.

  Arn gives him a wink that doesn’t mean a damn thing and steps around the front of the car. He raises his arms over his head, making sure Gillespie can see his .38. Then he slowly puts the weapon on the hood and steps into the street.

  “Well, Jesus,” Rafe whispers, “at least don’t forget the signal.”

  Arn makes no sign he’s heard, because he’s concentrating too hard as the door finally opens and Rod Gillespie and his wife move out into the shadowy recess, shuffling their feet, swaying a little.

  “Arn!” she cries when she sees him.

  “Hang in there, Vonda,” he calls. “Just don’t move. You stop moving now, do as I say.”

  He sees it when he walks to the center line—smears of blood across her brow and down one side of her face. Spatters of it on her blouse and pale skirt.

  Up and down the street, the sound of chambers being loaded, hammers drawn back. Like gunshots themselves, they echo off stone and blacktop.

  “Here’s the deal, Mr. Chief,” Rod says, his voice raised a little, not bothering to hide the sneer.

  “I already know the deal,” Arn tells him. “It’s the only one you have.”

  Gillespie laughs, and nods. “So?”

  Arn holds up a hand—just give me a second here—and tries to think of the absolute right thing to say, the words that won’t get his Vonda killed.

  As he does he realizes something very strange—there is no sound on Madison Street.

  No breeze, no cars, no sirens, no horns; no one shifting, no one whispering, no one clearing a throat; no radio talk or static, no whir of cameras, no doors or windows pushed open, pulled closed.

  Nothing.

  No sound at all.

  * * * *

  and...

  * * * *

  No sound at all on the porch of the dark-brick house around the Jackson Street bend.

  George has long since stopped calling for help. His throat is sore, and his eyes sting from too much weeping.

  He lies on his stomach midway between the door and the steps, where he fell when the thunder came, and the wind. And whatever it was that had slammed into his back as he tried to make it inside. He thinks now, lying there, cheek against the floor, looking out at the road, it must have been something metal. A piece of the gutter maybe, or maybe one of the flower pot stands.

  Whatever it was, it hit him low, dropped him, and knocked him out for a while. He doesn’t know for how long, but he does know that he can’t move. He can’t wiggle his toes. He can’t bend his knees. He can only move his right arm.

  He doesn’t think there’s any blood, but he wouldn’t know it even if there was; he doesn’t think his back is actually broken, but there’s no way to tell, and no one to help him. He prays that he’s only stunned, like the time the hammock that used to be here pulled away from its hooks and dropped him, landing him square on his coccyx so hard he couldn’t breathe for more than a full minute, couldn’t move for nearly ten, and when he could move, he had to crawl to get inside. It was an hour before the pain stopped screaming in his tailbone, several more before he was able to get up off the couch.

  He does know, for sure, that his left arm is broken.

  That’s what made him yell and cry—when he tried to move it.

  “So,” he says, thinking it’s all right to talk aloud to himself, because if he doesn’t he’ll lose his mind. “So, how iong do you reckon it will take the cavalry to get here, Mr. Trout?”

  His voice, strained as it is, is a comfort.

  He can hear nothing else.

  “I am not amused.”

  No one answers.

  “God, I am thirsty!”

  No one answers.

  “All right, all right, I can take it. I am, if nothing else, ab
le to take a little dry spell now and then.”

  He shifts his head, wincing at the feel of his beard rubbing over the floor. It may have saved his jaw, but it’s going to look like hell when he gets back up.