Riders In The Sky Part 32

"Here," he answers.

Kitra, in a light topcoat that matches her red scarf, comes up beside him, takes his hand. A scan of the empty pews, and she chuckles, hugs his arm, sweeps her free hand across the nave. "You remember?"

He does.

The wedding had been a disaster. Not content with being scornful of his mission, neither had his family been silent about his choice of mates. Too beautiful, they said; turn too many heads, they said, and you know that means temptation; too stubborn, they warned, too sure of herself; her mind doesn't think the way yours does, son, and she'll have you in grief before the honeymoon is over.

They said.

As a result, his side of the aisle had been spa.r.s.ely attended, while hers was hardly attended at all. Her family, although they liked him well enough, couldn't see the winner of an important beauty pageant spending the rest of her life tending to the needs of a cleric and his charges. And a Methodist, for G.o.d's sake, her despairing father had said; couldn't he at least, her mother said, couldn't he at least be one of those rich Episcopalians?

The outdoor reception had been rained on.

The honeymoon reservations in Bermuda had been lost, and it took two of their six days before they were able to regain their room without threat of having to move somewhere else.

And he had gotten so sunburned on the beach that he couldn't lie on his back for almost a week.

He squeezes her hand. "They're right, dear. It can't last. I'm sorry."

"I know." She kisses his cheek. "What a pity."

"So where are you off to?"

"I'm going to drop in on Mr. Chisholm. I can't believe he sent everyone away like that. How will he manage?"

Lyman looked at her, frowning. "You haven't heard?"

"Heard what?"

"He has company."

She steps back, a hand to the flat of her chest, and he wonders why she's gone ever so slightly pale.

"Company? Who?"

"I don't know, not exactly. Whittaker told me that Ronnie told him that...." He laughs. "Sounds like a game of telephone, doesn't it?"

Kitra's smile is so clearly forced he can't help but wonder again.

"Anyway, I think there are four of them. Two couples. Rick Jordan met them on the causeway and brought them in. And that," he says with spread hands, "is all I know, dear. Torture won't get you anywhere."

There is a moment, a heartbeat long, when the silence is too loud. Then she takes his elbow and says, "Well, then, I guess you'll just have to take me to dinner, Ly. I'm all dressed up with no place to go."

"You," he tells her fondly, "are strange."

A swift kiss, which makes him look guiltily toward the altar, and they walk side by side to the door.

"I think I'll talk about friendship on Sunday."

"Yes?"

"Sure. This time of year, so many feel so despondent, so alone, as if they don't have any friends, and they always forget the best friend they ever had."

Kitra hugs his waist. "You're amazing, Lyman."

"Not really."

But he's pleased. Very pleased that the color is back in her cheeks.

"I'll meet you at the car," he tells her on the stoop. "I just have to lock up."

Just as she reaches the bottom step and he has taken the key from his pocket, they hear a slow, rhythmic, soft screeching. With no idea what in heaven's name it is, he rushes back inside, stops at the head of the aisle, and grabs for the back of the nearest pew.

The cross has begun to swing over the altar, its bra.s.s chains sc.r.a.ping against the eyehooks that hold them to the beams overhead. Although practically new, they sound centuries rusted, and Lyman can't help but think of an old ship on the ocean.

From the doorway Kitra says, "Lyman, tell me it's the wind, all right? Just tell me it's the wind."

2.

Ben Pellier has finally finished wiping down the tables, laying out the half-dozen sets of darts near the board, and with Alma, making sure all the salt and pepper shakers are filled, the sugar packets are on the tables, and the individual silverware settings are all rolled up in their wine-colored cloth napkins. Senior is sweeping the floor, humming quietly to himself.

Opening in three hours, and he's ready for business, early for a change.

From the kitchen door, Alma says, "See if he's hungry, dear."

Ben nods and dusts his hands on his ap.r.o.n as he approaches the bar. As he scratches under his patch, he says, "Hey, you old fart, you ready to eat?"

Pegleg stares at him, then bobs his head several times. "Ready to eat," the parrot answers. "Ready to eat."

Alma laughs. "He's always ready to eat, that one."

Senior sweeps the last of the dirt out the front door, takes a swipe or two at the steps, and leans the broom against the wall as he pulls a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. There's a light wind blowing in from the ocean, and his lighter fights him until he finds just the right angle of cupped hand and bent back.

"Those things'll kill you, man," Ben calls as the wind slips inside, stirs the fresh sawdust Senior has spread over the bare wood.

"Too old to worry about it," Senior tells him with a broad grin.

"And that makes the place look bad, you standing out there like that," Ben adds.

"Why? Because I'm black?"

"No, because you're old and funny-looking, you'll scare all the women away."

They laugh, shake their heads, and Senior returns to his smoke while Ben mimes for him to shut the door, then turns to see that Pegleg is okay. The old bird hates the wind, hates the breeze, will go nuts if anybody blows in his face. A story has gone around that it's because the bird doesn't like being reminded of his younger days aboard a ship that sailed the Pacific.

The truth was, Ben bought the stupid bird near fresh from its egg, but the story makes for a better story, and he's never contradicted it. He has no idea why Peg doesn't like the wind, and he really doesn't care. If it bothers his old friend, then it bothers him. "

"Alma," he calls, "hurry it up, will you?"

Peg stares at him from his cage.

Ben laughs. "Oh, don't look at me like that, huh? It ain't my fault she's slow."

Peg spreads his wings as if stretching, then pecks once at the cage. He lifts his head as if testing the wind, says, "Ready to eat, Ben. Ready to die."

3.

Billy Freck sits at his desk in the sheriff's office, legs propped on the edge, toothpick hanging out of the corner of his mouth. He's back near the window so he can see the parking lot behind the building, as well as straight across the room to the entrance. Verna is at her desk, straightening up before she goes home, once in a while answering the radio, giving instructions.

There are strings of red and silver stuff he never knows the name of looped around the walls, cutouts of snowmen and reindeer on the window, and a small Christmas tree at the end of the visitors bench.

As if, he thinks, that's gonna make anyone cheer up.

Oakman has already left so he doesn't miss dinner at Betsy's.

"How's it look out there, Verna?"

"Quiet."

"Too early for any excitement, I guess."

"I guess."

He takes the toothpick out, examines it, puts it back. "Heard the ex-con's got some of his gang up there on Midway."

Verna doesn't answer. She sweeps her blotter clean with the edge of her hand, adjusts her gla.s.ses, takes her purse from the bottom drawer.

"You think they'll rob the bank or something?"

"Or something."

"You don't care, do you?"

"Billy," she says without turning around, "right now, all I care about is getting out of here and not coming back until first thing in the morning."

He grunts.

She stands and stretches, keeping her back to him.

"You do your Christmas shopping yet?"

She nods.

"You buy me anything?" he asks around a grin.

She lifts a hand slowly over her shoulder and gives him a languid wave before stepping around her desk, checking it one last time, and pushing through the barrier gate. She points to the radio on her way to the exit. "Keep an ear out, will you, until Salter comes in?"

She doesn't wait for an answer.

Billy salutes her back. "Yes, ma'am, I surely will. You can count on me. Absolutely, you tight-a.s.s b.i.t.c.h."

He swings his legs to the floor and saunters over to her desk, drops into her chair and begins to search through the drawers. He's never found anything there yet, but there's always a first time. Besides, it makes noise. The office is too quiet, and he doesn't like the quiet. No one in the cells below, he's the only living thing left in the building, and the more noise he can make without making a racket, the better he feels.

The radio snaps and hisses quietly, as if it were muttering to itself.

When, not surprisingly, there's nothing for him to find, he concentrates instead on the meeting he's got set with Mariana later tonight. Her old lady's got some d.a.m.n dinner party or other, so Mariana can't get out until that's over. Then he's going to meet her down at the harbor, and with luck make a few waves of his own.

He's no fool. He knows she's only using him when she's got nothing better going on, but he has no intention of being the one to end it. Whatever "it" is. At least not until he gets his final payment from Cutler. Once that's tucked away in the bank, he's going to walk into Oakman's office, throw the cheesy tin badge into his fat old face, tell him a thing or two or three, and get the h.e.l.l off this island.

He's not sure yet where he's going, but with the money he's saved over the past couple, three years, there won't be many places he won't be able to afford.

He rolls the chair back, has one leg ready to rest on Verna's desk, when the radio's speaker light winks on red and he hears someone whispering.

"s.h.i.t," he says, grabs the mike, and thumbs it on. "Salter, d.a.m.nit, speak up, I can't understand you."

He listens.

"Dwight, that you? Whack your mike on the dash, it ain't coming through so good."

The whispering grows a little louder, but he still can't understand it.

"Sheriff, that you? Can't understand you, Sheriff, this speaker's gone all to h.e.l.l." He raps the top of the speaker with his knuckles. "Sheriff? Salter?" Now he whacks the speaker with his palm, hits it again, and tosses the mike on the desk in disgust. "G.o.dd.a.m.n cheap s.h.i.t."

He listens a while longer, head tilted to one side, listening hard now because he thinks there's more than one voice he's hearing. Maybe not, but he sure knows what it sounds like-all those sons of b.i.t.c.hes in high school who used to talk about him behind his back, stuck-up sn.o.bs who think you ain't a whole person if you don't have a whole family. Whispering about him in the cafeteria, in the halls, talking about his momma, how she run away one night and never came back; talking about his sister, how she'd climb under the sheet with any man or kid who asked her; talking about him because he only had three shirts and two pairs of jeans and all of them were made of old cotton.

Talking about him, how he'll end up in the gutter, just like the rest of the Frecks, just like the whole d.a.m.n family.

"d.a.m.n," and he shakes his head, wondering where the h.e.l.l all that came from. He glances over the radio's face until he finds the speaker switch and, not caring if Oakman b.i.t.c.hes or not, flicks it off.

Maybe what he'll do is, he'll call down to Rick, the guy is an a.s.shole, but he's d.a.m.n good with things like radios and stuff. Maybe he can come on up, take a look, see what's wrong. To do that, though, he needs a telephone book, and after failing to find where Verna kept hers, he grunts to his feet and, stretching his arms over his head, looks around the room. He knows there has to be one here somewhere.

When he finds it he laughs. Wouldn't you know, it's right out there in the open, on top of Dwight's desk. He grabs it up, lets the cover fall open, and turns when he hears the radio whispering at him again.