Riders In The Sky Part 7

5.

1.

A.

lmost autumn; close to midnight.

A cold wind blows off Lake Erie, hushing through stunted gra.s.s that fights to live a little longer; an arrowhead of geese calls under the stars, soon followed by a flock of ducks whose calls aren't quite so lonely; a streak of pale smoke from a wood stove, a curling plume from a fireplace, a stubborn mist that floats at the base of a dead tree, resisting the wind, shredding anyway.

An L-shaped motel on a small country road not far from a small town that crawls up a small hill; twelve units in all, slowly filling with hunters asleep long ago after filling the bar; one open door, one light in a room large enough for two beds, a chest of drawers, a table and chair, no more; backed to the door is a large dusty car, its trunk open, the bulb burned out six months ago and never replaced; the interior roof light is on because the pa.s.senger door is open, and exhaust puffs from the tailpipe in time to the soft grumbling engine.

And on the car radio, barely loud enough to hear, a man sings of cattle whose brands are still burning and whose eyes are made of fire.

2.

A tall man the dark contrives to make much thinner than he is slams the trunk lid shut and winces at the sound. A silent apology to no one in particular, and he slides in behind the wheel, rubbing his hands together, adjusting the dashboard vents to catch as much warmth as he can.

The room light turns off, the door closes, and a moment later a woman takes her place beside him and watches their breath begin to fog the windshield.

"Are you sure, John?" she asks, Louisiana clear and smooth in her voice.

"I don't know. Maybe it's just the pizza. I ate too d.a.m.n much."

They watch the road beyond the parking lot, but nothing pa.s.ses, nothing moves.

"I have to tell you something," she says, still looking straight ahead.

"Okay."

"I think... I think I'm more scared now than I was before."

He doesn't answer; he can't.

They watch the road, listen to the geese.

"John."

"Lisse, I couldn't tell you any more than I already have."

"It's been almost two years."

"Ah." He reaches out, takes her hand, squeezes it, lets it go. "You want to know why now, right?"

"I want to know why anytime."

"I couldn't answer that one either."

He reaches out, turns on the headlamps, turns the parking lot grey. Waits for her to tell him to turn them back off, unpack the car, let's get inside where it's warmer, where we can go to sleep and forget about driving in the middle of the night to a place we've never seen except in a dream.

His dream.

If she asks, he will do it.

And he knows she won't.

She won't because they've seen too much together, been through too much, watched too many people die in more ways than one; she won't because she's seen the carrion crows with the bright blue eyes; she won't because she's seen what a nightmare can do when it doesn't wait for sleep.

She won't because she's listened to the tapes John had made while writing his book. Interview tapes of murderers waiting to die. Tapes of murderers who killed dozens, friends and family and strangers, for no other reason than just because they were in the mood.

One of them was John's father-in-law.

"Well." John rubs his eyes, rubs his shoulders, pretends to slap himself awake. "Into the breach, I guess."

"Whatever you say, Prez."

He snarls.

She laughs. His height, the way his unruly hair strikes his brow, those deep-set eyes and slightly high rasping voice ... once, in college theater, he had been given the part of a young Abe Lincoln, and the resemblance had been so uncanny he had been tagged "Prez" until he graduated. He probably wouldn't have minded, but she's seen how people look at him oddly once in a while, trying to place the face, thinking they know him, or somebody like him.

Untrue.

As far as she knew there is n.o.body in the world like John Bannock.

Who else, she wonders, has a son who causes famine?

He puts his hands on the steering wheel, thinks again about not going, and shakes his head. Not because he has no choice. Not because he's as frightened as Lisse. Not because he believes he's finally gone insane.

He has a choice, but it doesn't matter.

There's only one place to go, and once he finds it he knows that he'll find explanations. That's all he wants. Peace, and explanations.

Finally he leans over awkwardly and kisses her cheek, settles himself and releases the brake. The car drifts onto the highway, drifts almost silently in its lane until at last he feeds it gas, and the motel is left behind.

Lisse turns off the radio; there's nothing there now but murmuring static. "Will he be there do you think?"

"He better be."

"Will he know you? You only met him... what, twice?"

"Something like that." He grins. "Terribly auspicious. It was on death row, in Rahway Prison, in the lovely and hospitable Garden State of New Jersey."

"Now there's a recommendation."

What he doesn't remind her of is the phone call, the one at the hotel in New Orleans where he had met her, when Casey Chisholm called him and said, "G.o.d help you, John. G.o.d help you, you're marked."

And disappeared.

Until last night, in the dream, and John saw him again and couldn't explain why, but he knew they had to leave.

Miles later she yawns and groans and whispers, "I love you."

He glances at her in mock horror. "Uh-oh, that means trouble."

She punches his arm, "No, that wisecrack answer means you got to tell me the truth."

"Who said?"

"An old bayou tradition. You don't say *I love you' back, you got to give me an answer and it's got to be the truth."

"I've never lied to you, Lisse."

"Good."

"So what's the question?"

No sound but the engine, and the old tires on the road.

"Are we going to die?"

6.

1.

A.

lmost autumn; between midnight and dawn.

Two different cars on two different roads-one moving slowly, the other taking its time. One travels in moonlight that's lifeless, cold, and damp, the other through a rainstorm that produces no wind; one crosses a prairie speckled with early snow, the other climbs a wooded hill while the valley below burns end to end.

They travel at an hour that has no real name. Some call it Sat.u.r.day morning, the rest call it Friday night.

It didn't matter.

It's the dead time.

2.

The prairie doesn't seem quite so wide in the dark, its expanse not so forbidding.

A good thing, too, because the driver is b.l.o.o.d.y sick and d.a.m.n tired of looking at a horizon that's always too d.a.m.n far away. Her fingers are stiff from gripping the steering wheel, her b.u.t.t is numb from sitting so long, her brain is on automatic because she dares not think too hard about too much. She and her companions have been on the road for just over a year, spending almost all their money, taking jobs to make more to spend more, finally returning to the city they had fled. Just in case. Just in case she was wrong.

She hadn't been.

In fact, she knew she hadn't been, but for months all that thinking and dreaming and wondering and grieving for the loss of her husband had almost convinced her that she had made a huge mistake. That she, and those with her, were truly destined to remain in Las Vegas, let the rest of the world take care of itself.

Wrong.

Dead wrong.

The dreams, when they began, were at first only unnerving. Then frightening. Then terrifying. Then ... revealing and oddly comforting.

On the road again, she sings silently to herself; I can't wait to get back on the road again.

A bitter snort of a laugh. A fearful glance around to see if she's disturbed the others. A self-pitying sigh because no one asks her what's the matter, are you okay, Beatrice, is everything okay?