Riders In The Sky Part 16

There's nothing more to say, and he walks away, hands in his pockets, listening to the water. The boat is still out there, its lights smaller as it heads toward its berth. An airliner flies over, high enough to be little more than a speeding star that leaves a rumbling behind it as it heads for the coast.

"Sheriff."

He stops. It's Ronnie.

"One more thing happens to my father, or the paper, I'm going to the state."

He doesn't turn. "No need, Ronnie."

"He was nearly killed. If it hadn't been for that Chisholm guy, he would have been killed."

Oakman does turn then. "Tell me, Ronnie-if all this stuff is going on, why doesn't he file a report? I can't do much if he doesn't file a report."

"Reverend Baylor did."

"But your father denied it. Specifically said it was all a misunderstanding." He walks away. "Get him to stand up, Ronnie. Get him to do more than blow hot air in those editorials of his, and I'll see what I can do."

He keeps walking, a sudden churn of acid in his gut making him wince. One more year, he thinks; one more year and I'm out of this job and off this island. He'd even spent half the day showing Verna and Salter those Arizona brochures.

"Jeez, Vale, why Arizona?"

He had pointed at all the photographs. "Look closely, Verna. You see any d.a.m.n water?"

Deputy Salter, face covered with enough freckles to make him look diseased, told about a cousin who had moved there and near died from the heat. "Dry heat, Sheriff. Not like we got here. Sucks the water right outta your body, leaves you looking like a mummy."

Oakman had directed a pointed look at his own hefty build and spread his arms wide. "Jesus, Dwight, you think I'm worried about losing a few pounds? No water, weight loss, sounds like hog heaven to me."

He doesn't hear Ronnie's footsteps until she's grabbed his arm and yanks him around.

"Well, tell you what, Sheriff," she says, making his t.i.tle sound like an obscene curse, "the next time Stump Teague or any of his brothers walks into my place of business, I'm going to shoot first and file a report later, you hear me?"

"Now, Ronnie, no call-"

"I'm going to kill him, Sheriff. I'm telling you right now I'm going to kill that little snake before he kills my father."

10.

The living room is spare. An old couch and an easy chair face an old television set, a table between them that holds an ash tray; a bra.s.s floor lamp in the corner, faded prints on the walls, faded carpet on the floor. Against the back wall a low bookcase, filled with magazines and books and three different Bibles, all of them well used.

Senior Raybourn has taken some time off; Ben didn't give him any trouble, told him to take as much time as he needed. Senior appreciated that because something's wrong with his son, something he can't figure out. It would be easier if the boy would talk, but Junior won't come out of his bedroom to explain, has been there since last night. He sits on his bed and rocks back and forth, humming softly, left hand at his shoulder, fingers weaving the air. As far as the old man can tell, his son hasn't been hurt, no bruises or scratches, but nothing Senior has done has made the boy speak, and now he paces the living room, gnawing lightly at his lower lip.

Please, Lord, he prays; please, Lord.

All Hector told him was that Junior had come back from a delivery, had said something remarkable about some thermometer in the luncheonette's kitchen, then wouldn't do any more work, only whisper-pleaded for his father.

The delivery was to the big man who lives in the house on Midway Road, off right and behind Senior's backyard.

Senior wants to be angry, but what's the point? He's old, he can't fight, and that man is a giant, could swat him down like a fly.

Please, Lord.

The last time he had seen Junior like this, it was years ago, when they had been walking along the beach and a whale breached out beyond the jetty. Scared the poor boy half to death, gave him fits and nightmares; he wouldn't eat for two days, wet his pants, wet his bed. The clinic doctor-d.a.m.n toad Alloway with his thick gla.s.ses and fat lips, eyes that looked like a fish about to die-he couldn't do nothing for the boy, started talking about sending him away, put him in a place where people knew about things like this. Senior had never talked so hard and fast in his life, finally convinced the doc that he could take care of his son better than any stranger. Alloway, reluctantly, finally agreed, and Senior had prayed and cleaned and held his son and it wasn't long before he was back to himself.

He wasn't so sure now, though, he could handle another time like that. He was old. His back wasn't so good anymore, his knuckles ached after working all day, and his eyes weren't so good either.

If anyone found out Junior was this way again, they'd take him away for sure.

They'd take him away, and Senior would die.

Please, Lord, please.

A footstep in the hallway stopped the pacing. He turned just as Junior reached the doorway, stood there looking around until he saw his father.

"Daddy?"

"What is it, son? Are you all right? What is it?"

"Scary."

Senior swallowed the urge to cry. "What is, boy? What's scary? What that man do to you, huh? That man do something to you, son?"

Junior shook his head quickly, shifted his weight from foot to foot, then crossed the room to the bookcase, hands on hips, scanning the shelves.

Senior closed his eyes briefly. "Junior."

Junior picked up a magazine and sat on the couch, flipped the pages front to back, looked up and smiled. "I like this," he said.

"I know, son. Pretty pictures."

Junior shook his head, His lips moved for several seconds before he said, "No, Daddy, pretty words."

"Junior..." Please, Lord, give me strength. "Junior. Son." He dropped into his chair, did his best to keep his old eyes from tearing up. Gripped his knees with his hands to keep the fingers from trembling. "Son, words aren't pretty, not like the pictures. You can't look at them like that, son."

"But they say pretty things, Daddy."

Oh, Lord.

"Junior... Junior, how do you know that? You can't hardly read."

And Junior said, "Yes, I can, Daddy. Sure, I can. Every word. You want to hear?"

11.

Norville Cutler stands by the register in the eastbound Last Stop, opening and closing the drawer. He can hear the sea trying to tear at the barriers between it and the building. Can feel the building shudder slightly when the waves are high.

One light overhead.

No lights outside.

Not a car or truck has pa.s.sed in at least an hour, in either direction.

The fish mounted on the walls seem larger, their eyes not so dead, not so black.

He should be home now, listening to Mandy taunting him from upstairs, her voice husky as she tells him what she's wearing, or what she's not wearing, what she's going to do to him once he gets into the bedroom. Or the hall. Or the top of the stairs. He should be home, but he doesn't need the distraction. He needs to think. He needs to think hard, because he's beginning to feel it's all on the edge, ready to fall one way or the other, and he doesn't like the feeling that it's going to fall the wrong way, come apart before he can do anything about it.

Nothing specific, not really.

Just a feeling, and after all these years, his feelings, his instincts have seldom led him wrong.

The farce with Hull and Chisholm was a sign of it, he was sure. That should have been a done deal, no problems, a simple matter of a few well-placed bruises as a taste of what might be in the old man's future. But his boys screwed it up, and now he has to worry what Hull is going to put in the next edition. He had no doubts-there would be another edition, no matter what he tried.

A shade less than six weeks to go; he needs a.s.surances nothing else will go wrong.

Trouble was, there was only him and Jasper, and Jasper was so d.a.m.n sure there was nothing wrong at all that there absolutely had to be something out there aiming to gum it all up.

Cutler doesn't consider himself a superst.i.tious man, yet he never deliberately tempts the Fates either. That would be stupid. It's like going to church once in a while. Cover your a.s.s. Just in case. You never know.

So when things go without a hitch for as long as this deal has, he can't help himself; he just has to worry. Not because there's bound to be a disaster, but because the folks involved tend to grow complacent, and that's when serious mistakes are made. Law of averages, he once told Jasper, it's the law of averages.

He isn't sure yet how big a mistake Teague's failure is, but he feels he has to do something, and do it soon. Just in case.

He closes the cash register drawer.

He opens it.

He decides to get hold of Teague and tell him to hold off on what they'd planned for Senior Raybourn. Give it another week, maybe two. That would be cutting it awfully close, but everything else should be in place by then, and if Senior doesn't sell... h.e.l.l, ain't no one around here gonna miss a fat old cook and his halfwit son.

The drawer slams shut.

He listens to the sea, and he smiles.

h.e.l.l, if the ocean hasn't gotten to him after all these years, why in G.o.d's name should he be worried about some old fart's newspaper that isn't even heavy enough these days to kill a d.a.m.n fly. He's got no proof, and Jasper keeps reminding him they can always shut him down with a good old lawsuit.

A laugh.

A shake of his head.

A puzzled frown when he hears something moving across the gravel parking lot in front. He moves away from the display case toward the window, wondering if he should get the gun in the register drawer, gets halfway across the room when the door opens, the wind slams inside and sets the light to shaking, and he sees someone standing on the threshold.

"Closed," he says. "Come back tomorrow."

"Don't think so."

It's an old man, kind of lean, wearing tired old jeans and scuffed old boots, an open vest with some kind of Indian designs on it, a low-crown western hat tied loosely under the chin by a beaded string, and his hair is in for G.o.d's sake braids that hang down his chest.

"Mr. Cutler?" The man smiles. A quick smile, here and gone. Not much else to see beneath the hat's brim.

"Who wants to know? I told you we're closed." He looks out the window, up and down the causeway. "Jesus, man, where's your car? You walk the h.e.l.l out here?"

That smile again.

Cutler wishes the guy would move closer; he can't see much of his face, just that flash of a smile. He clears his throat. "Look, if you're a salesman, I ain't buying."

"I ain't selling, friend," the man answers. "But I sure could use some of your help."

He takes a step in-the sharp ring of spurs-closes the door behind him, and there's nothing inside now but the sound of the sea, and the light above their heads almost too dim to cast a shadow. Shimmering a little, making the dead fish look as if they're trying to twist off the walls.

"Got a proposition for you, Mr. Cutler. Something I think just might ease your troubled mind."

Cutler wants to laugh, wants to throw this geezer out on his a.s.s, wants to get home to Mandy and whatever's she's planning for him tonight, because for no reason at all, right now the last place he wants to be is in this place, right here.

With the grizzled old man in the Indian vest.

"I don't get it," he says hoa.r.s.ely.

"Oh, you will, Mr. Cutler. Believe me, you will."

12.

Kitra Baylor had known full well what she was getting into when she'd married Lyman. Her uncle had been a preacher, her grandfather, a close cousin. She'd known their wives and had seen firsthand what a fish bowl they lived in. Yet it hadn't deterred her when she'd met that ordinary-looking guy with the thinning blond hair who burned to a crisp every summer before settling into a meager, hardly-worth-it tan, grew red-faced every fall when the Falcons blew another game, and whose moral outrage at every injustice had him pacing through the night, trying to figure out what could be done to make it right.

When they're alone in the rectory, she calls him the Lone Ranger, and she knows, despite his protests, that he's secretly pleased.

Tonight, in the kitchen, she stands back from the stove and draws a wrist over her forehead to clear it of perspiration. Another pie finished, one more to go. Tomorrow morning, after service, she'll take most of them to those parishioners who don't have a whole lot to be thankful for on the holiday; the remaining three are for her husband, who can eat a gallon of ice cream, or three pumpkin pies over the course of two days, and not gain a stupid ounce.