Riders In The Sky Part 6

If he did, she actually would have to go to the marsh, and do some pretending-to-work until he went away. She felt badly enough, lying to her father; she definitely didn't need Billy Freck finding out what she was really up to.

Freck settled himself behind his cruiser's steering wheel, not bothering to watch the b.i.t.c.h take the next corner practically on two wheels, not even pausing for the blinking red traffic light hanging over the street. He didn't care. Tonight wasn't to be, that's the way it goes, win some, lose some.

It wasn't as if he was exactly starving for affection.

He set his hat carefully on the pa.s.senger seat, pulled down the sun visor, flicked on the vanity light, and checked his hair, making sure there weren't those stupid indentations along the sides of his head. A wink at himself, the visor back up, and he made a careful U-turn and headed south at a near crawl.

It being the middle of the week, there weren't an awful lot of people out, taking air. Mostly tourists looking for bargains at the shops that still kept late hours, and a few kids no doubt trying to pa.s.s their fake IDs at every bar on the Road. He smiled and nodded, or gave a short wave, to those he knew, kept Mrs. Gumber's too-dumb-to-live dachshund from climbing a tree after a cat, watched a couple of black-mask gulls squabbling over a hamburger bun and wondered why they weren't nesting down at the marina, took a tour of some of the side streets, checked in with Dwight Salter, who was working dispatch tonight, and finally, just after eight, pulled into the graveled parking lot at the side of the Edward Teach Bar and Grill, parked in the one spot the outside lighting barely reached, turned off the engine, grabbed his hat, and slid out of the car.

Hitched up his belt.

Polished the toes of his black shoes on the back of his trouser legs.

Then he hauled open the heavy oak door and stepped inside, holding his breath against the smoke, the smell of liquor, waiting for his eyes to adjust.

Along the front and down the right wall were a dozen high-back booths, a dozen round tables stretching to the back in the floors.p.a.ce on his right; the bar was on his left. The walls were paneled in rough dark cedar and cluttered with crossed sabres, netting, and prints of famous pirate ships. A low, raw-beamed ceiling, a pair of pool tables in back, dart boards on the back wall, sawdust on the bare-plank floor. Behind the bar, a huge skull-and-crossbones flag, and the thing he hated most-a six-foot gold cage that housed Pegleg, a grumpy, mangy parrot that dared people to feed him so he could bite their fingers off.

One of these days, he promised himself, he was going to blow that friggin' bird's head off.

A slow look around-not much to see, just a few drinkers, a few diners, no one at the games in back-a friendly nod to Ben Pellier, the owner and bartender, and when he was sure the general sobriety was high enough to preclude trouble for now, he moved to the bar, where Pellier met him. They exchanged polite greetings as the bigger man reached under the bar to pull out a paper bag slightly stained at the bottom.

"Best fries in town," Freck said, making sure the bag didn't touch his uniform.

"Glad you think so, Deputy."

Freck grinned, gave him a mock salute, and left. Took a welcome deep breath of the night's cool air, returned to his patrol car, and before he slipped in, opened the bag and reached in, rooting among the greasy fries until his fingers touched the thick envelope at the bottom.

Well, Ben, he thought, it looks like you get to live, you stupid b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

He closed the bag and got in.

A woman sat in the pa.s.senger seat.

"Hey," he said, tossing his hat and the bag into the back seat, checking the area to be sure no unwelcome eyes were watching.

"Take me in, Deputy, I've been a bad girl."

After wiping his hand on a rag, he started the engine and backed quickly out of the lot. "Not as bad as you're gonna be, honey."

"Don't bet on it," she said, and when he finally looked over, he realized she wasn't wearing a st.i.tch.

Ben Pellier scratched vigorously through his thick black beard, adjusted the black patch over his right eye, counted to thirty just to be sure Freck wouldn't be returning, then ran a palm over the freckled hairless pate he washed and burnished every night before coming on duty, and said, "Mari Cribbs."

The four men at the bar gaped, then whooped with laughter. Money changed hands. High-fives were offered and accepted. One of them headed for the men's room, staggering because he was laughing so hard. Two more settled their bill, wiped their eyes, and left. Still laughing.

The last one counted his bill's change as if it were all he had in the world, then carefully tucked it away in his jeans pocket. "How did you know?" he asked, sliding off his stool.

Ben grinned and reminded him that less than an hour ago, there had been three women in the Teach, each of them alone. "They drink, two of them leave, Mariana said she's afraid her daddy's on the prowl tonight, can she use the back way." He spread his hands-easy deduction. "I happen to know, though, that Daddy is on the mainland sucking up to the governor. And this is about the time Freck comes in every night. She was probably tucked in by the Dumpster."

"You're amazing."

"No, Rick, I am just a humble proprietor of a humble tavern who happens to have an eye for his customers."

The parrot squawked.

Rick Jordan laughed again and waved over his shoulder as he headed for the exit, a faint limp in his right leg.

Ben watched him go, sorry to see the young man leave so early. He liked Rick. A hard-working kid who just couldn't seem to catch a break. Unlike that arrogant, son-of-a-b.i.t.c.hing deputy, who was panting so hard for the sheriffs job Ben was surprised Oakman didn't have to change his uniform twice a day, just to get rid of all that drool.

On the other hand, life ain't fair, especially these days.

At least he was shut of Cutler for another month. a.s.suming Freck didn't do something stupid with that money.

After filling an order for one of his waitresses, he walked to the low end of the bar and stared at Pegleg. One black eye stared back at him.

"What?" he said softly, sticking a scarred finger through the bars to stroke the bird's back. "What's the matter, Peg, you ain't said a word all day."

All week, for that matter, he thought as he turned away. The vet claimed nothing was wrong, the old bird was just fine, but Ben knew better. Pegleg was one of the main reasons folks came in here, but no one had been able to get a rise out of him for days. Not even Billy Freck, who didn't need to say a d.a.m.n word, just walk in.

Working on automatic, Ben washed gla.s.ses, checked the draft kegs, checked the levels of the liquor, wandered into the kitchen where he joked a while with his cook, Senior Raybourn, until Alma, his blessed wife, chased him out with a flap of her ap.r.o.n.

The thing was, he didn't want to stay behind the bar tonight.

The thing was, if he did, he'd sooner or later have to look at that bird.

Who would be sitting on his top perch. Still as an old statue.

Staring at the door.

Squawking softly to itself.

3.

"Gone," said Senior Raybourn, standing at the back door, watching the patrol car peel out of the lot, spitting gravel. He wiped his hands on his ap.r.o.n.

"Good." At the griddle Alma Pellier flipped a hamburger patty over and pressed it down, squeezing out the grease. "Can't stand the man."

Raybourn agreed but kept it to himself. It didn't always pay for the help to voice an opinion around here. Especially an old coot like himself. Especially an old black coot. It wasn't that he didn't trust Alma or Ben; he did, without question. It was habit, that's all; strong one, like breathing. Get to talking out of turn, you might do it in front of the customers, and the wrong person might hear. Like Mr. Deputy Kiss My Feet Freck. The Pelliers understood, and they knew him well enough to know what he was thinking anyway.

Alma, her hair so pale some thought it was white, turned away from the stove and wiped a cloth over her face, sighed loudly, and headed for the front. "Keep an eye, Senior, okay? I want to talk to Ben."

Senior nodded, took his place at the stove, glancing over the order sheets, making sure everything was on track. No microwaves here. Ben insisted the food be cooked right, not warmed over, one of the reasons Senior liked working here. Some had called his skills magic, and that pleased him. Wasn't magic, of course, just a lot of years' practice. The real magic had been in Luella's hands, but she was long gone now, trading recipes with angels; it was just him and his boy, Junior. He just plugged away best he could, and if folks liked what he done, praise the Lord, that was just fine with him.

Check the griddle, check the oven, check the stove. Stubby fingers, short arms, a stomach that signaled he tested his cooking a little too often, a thin horseshoe of white hair around a perspiration-bright bald pate. A face scarred under the eyes and across the broad nose, signs of a time half a century ago when a Birmingham gang wielding razors had caught him alone in an alley.

He and Luella had found the island by mistake. She'd called it G.o.d's plan, and he hadn't argued, and hadn't left since. Now she was gone, only Junior to remind him she ever existed, and now he was afraid he'd lose the only real home he'd ever known.

"Senior?" Alma at his side, tugging his elbow, concerned. "Senior, the burger's charring. You okay?"

"Yes, ma'am, sorry," he said, shaking himself back.

No, ma'am, he thought; I ain't right at all.

4.

There are three ways to get to Camoret Island when the weather is decent and the sea doesn't mind: There is no airstrip, but seaplanes often land on the bay at South Hook-businessmen whose companies have the wherewithal and the ego, a handful of weekly tour excursions, and once in a while a private aircraft; by the sea itself, in chartered ships and fishing boats and those touring the Inland Waterway; and by the three-stage Camoret Causeway.

The causeway's first stage leads from the mainland to Hawkins Island-barren, mostly rock and scrub, a half-mile wide west to east. The second stage crosses the water to St. James-barren, mostly rock, a long, low pink-painted Quonset hut on either side of the road, both of them named Cutler's Last Stop in script neon on the roof. If it can be made out of sh.e.l.ls and the bleached bones of washed-ash.o.r.e fish, Cutler sells it, and they serve as foul weather way stations for those who don't want to take the last leg in rough seas.

One lane in either direction, each half again as wide as an ordinary highway lane. The first two legs rise in easy humps over the water to let all but the highest seas pa.s.s beneath it; the third leg is nearly flat, nearly a mile long, with sixty feet of rock and cement for shoulders, each shoulder's oceanside edge bordered by fencing made of outward curving, thick iron pipes theoretically able to break up damaging waves before they swamp the road and wash it clear.

On a grey day, a foggy or rainy day, if you sat at the western end, the traffic looked for all the world as if it were climbing out of the sea, speckled with water, straining for solid land.

"Do you know how long it's been?" Ronnie Hull said, sitting cross-legged in the bed of her pickup, a blanket around her shoulders, a wool cap pulled down snugly over her hair. So far, a steady breeze had kept insects from her face and hands, but she doubted that grace would last much longer.

Beside her in the roadside clearing, Rick Jordan sat on the lowered tailgate of his own truck, a much more dented, scratched, and beaten version of hers. "Haven't a clue."

"A month," she told him, then forced herself to cough to clear an obstruction in her throat. "At least a month."

They faced west, parked just out of reach of the two goose-neck streetlamps fixed on either side of the causeway's end. The clear sky allowed them to see the low arc of mainland Georgia's glow at the horizon, as if it were burning. Between here and there, however, there was only the night, and the longer they watched it, the more it shifted and rippled, a black satin curtain that rose out of the sea.

Invisible waves slapped against the rocks and fallen trunks that lined the sh.o.r.e. Trees that lined the road whispered to themselves; something splashed in the marsh behind them; something flew overhead.

Night noises.

"Impossible," he said.

She glanced over, could barely see him. Working his boat had darkened his skin, sun glare and wind and the life that he led had added a few lines. Not yet thirty, four years younger than she, and he looked ten years older. Seemed that way, too, sometimes.

"You can see for yourself." She waved a clipboard at the causeway. "Almost a month, and once the sun goes down no one comes over."

He grunted.

Her eyes narrowed. "You think I'm wrong?"

"I think I don't see what difference it made." He shifted. "Who cares? So what?" He shifted again, and the track creaked, softly. "Ronnie, it's a scary drive in the dark. I don't do it myself when I can avoid it."

"You don't get it, do you?"

"Guess I don't."

"Rick, pay attention-when the sun goes down, the island's cut off."

He said nothing for a long time, then: "Actually, you're wrong, you know."

"I'm not."

"What about the newspaper?"

She glared at him and looked away. "Okay. So the paper gets delivered. But nothing else, Rick. No one else."

When he didn't respond right away, she pulled the blanket closer around her shoulders and stared at the causeway. Four times in the past five months, the delivery truck made it this far before, according to the various drivers, a bunch of drunks whooping and yollering stopped it and grabbed most of the bundles. No one was hurt, and one of the drivers even thought it was kind of funny.

She didn't.

No delivery meant no sales, and no sales ...

Finally, after the last incident, she had made it a point to bring herself and her rifle here each delivery night. If the Teagues tried it again, they were going to be in for a seriously unpleasant surprise.

And Rick, the poor sweet dope, had volunteered to keep her company.

"Spooky, though," he whispered.

"What?"

He nodded toward the causeway.

Yes, she thought, it is.

But it's not so spooky that somebody, some time, wouldn't make the trip.

Night noises: In a patrol car parked behind a dune on the beach, squeals and giggles and a long m.u.f.fled groan; In the kitchen above the newspaper office, the soft ticking of an oven clock and the buzz of a cooking-done alarm; In the sheriffs department office, the mutter of static on the dispatch radio, and cards slapping on a desk, a complicated game of solitaire that's been running for weeks; At the marina, boats rock and creak at their moorings; On the beach, the steady paced crunch of boots in the sand; Over the island the distant rumble of an airliner heading for Atlanta; In the Edward Teach, an old parrot in a gold cage, staring at the door and squawking softly to itself.