2.

1.

D.

eep autumn; Tuesday; late afternoon.

Norville Cutler considered himself a decent judge of a man, a fairly canny businessman, and someone who could measure the size of a customer's wallet and its willingness to be emptied even before that customer took off his sungla.s.ses so his vision could adjust to the deliberately dim lighting of either of the causeway shops. It was for the latter reason that most of the time he could be found in the Cutler's Last Stop on the westbound side. He didn't give a flying fart who left the d.a.m.n island; he only cared about those on the way to it. They were the ones with the most money to spend. He also kept at least two people on duty at all times-a woman pretty enough to convince any man in Bermuda shorts that a genuine Caribbean shark's tooth was just the thing to add to a key chain, and a man with just enough flare and exotic danger about him to convince most women in large hats and rhinestone sungla.s.ses that a genuine Puerto Rican coral necklace was the perfect thing to accentuate that marvelous tanned cleavage.

All of which had made him a comfortable living. But what had made his fortune before he'd reached fifty came after he had taught himself the finer points of real estate management-buying and selling, appraisal, and making sure that what he wanted was on the market when he was ready to buy it, and not a moment before.

Obstacles were only hurdles, not impenetrable walls.

"I don't believe it," he said. "One stinking old man, and you can't even handle that."

A man of average height, an easy living paunch, and a three-piece tailored suit with French cuffs and gleaming Italian shoes, he didn't for a minute believe in the Good ol' Southern Boy image. His idol was the shark that used to belong to the large bleached jaw mounted on the wall behind him. He also didn't believe in getting too close to his off-the-books employees, which was why he stood behind the display case, hands spread on the gla.s.s top.

"I don't understand."

Outside, a rising sea slammed against the causeway walls and barriers. A slow wind hummed around the building's corners. The sun just past its zenith; the long front window reflecting the interior in cold pale grey despite the brightness outside.

Stump and Cord Teague stood in the wide aisle, hangdog, and not a little afraid.

"He busted in," Stump told him flatly. "We was in the middle of the message when this guy busts in."

"Chisholm," Cutler said.

Cord, half a step behind his brother, nodded, his hands trying to find a place to hide.

Cutler stared at the rings and necklaces, bracelets and pins in the case under his hands. A part of him thought that no one knew Mandy Poplin made most of them; another part wondered why the Teagues had to become such a problem, especially since he was so close to the end. Three brothers, none as stupid or thick as they made out in public, parents long since gone, no wives or steady girlfriends, living in raised shacks on the edge of the marsh. They were his pet project, and he was, now, beginning to regret it.

"You tell him anything? Chisholm, I mean."

"No," Stump answered, insulted. He swiped angrily at his beard. "We was just startled, that's all."

"Big," Cord whispered. "Sumb.i.t.c.h is big."

Cutler knew exactly what he meant. It was one of the reasons he'd hired the man-someone that big lurking around, the tenants were less apt to cause him grief.

"Hull knows anyhow," Stump said with a sharp nod. "He didn't get hurt, like you said, but some of that computer stuff ain't working so good no more." When he grinned, his long teeth seemed startlingly white amid the black mustache and beard. "We didn't finish, but I know he gets it."

Cord wandered off, peering in the cases, grunting to himself, staring at the walls where stuffed marlin and shark, sea ba.s.s and barracuda were mounted on polished pine shields. "Tall," he said, his voice quiet, barely heard. "Was tall, that r.e.t.a.r.d."

Cutler ignored him. "Look," he said to Stump, "if he understands, that's fine. Real fine." He raised a finger. "But I don't want one more issue of that rag on this island, you hear me? If that d.a.m.n daughter of his, or any of her friends, try stopping you stopping the next truck ..." He sniffed, looked at the ceiling. Shook his head slowly. "He's been sniffing around Atlanta, Savannah, Mr. Teague. For an old man he sure gets around, sure knows a lot of people he shouldn't. It just isn't healthy." Abruptly he gripped the sides of the case and leaned forward, forcing Stump back a step. "You know the old saying, that Sixties thing? War is not healthy for children and other living things? Something like that?" His eyes narrowed. "This is war, Mr. Teague. We' ve won some, we've lost some. But if you know what's good for you, we won't lose any more."

He straightened.

He smiled.

A gust of wind slapped at the building, the ceiling lights flickering, just for a moment.

He took an envelope from his jacket pocket and laid it on the gla.s.s. "You're getting rich, Mr. Teague, you and your kin. Make sure you live long enough to spend it."

2.

It didn't take long for Whittaker Hull to clean up. Once the papers had been piled on his desk, a broom took care of the gla.s.s, and a spare monitor kept in a closet replaced the one Teague had smashed.

He couldn't stop shaking.

He stared at the pipe lying on Ronnie's desk and knew it had been meant for his leg, or his arm, but only after it had been used on the rest of the office's equipment. He reached out, and pulled his hand back. He couldn't touch it.

He couldn't stop shaking.

He sat, he stood, he opened the alley door carefully to be sure the Teagues had gone; he went into the front room and saw the dollar bill Chisholm had left on the counter.

The sheriff, he thought; I'll report this to Vale and let him handle it.

"Oh ... Christ," he whispered, half in disgust, half in defeat. He leaned heavily against the counter, one hand absently fussing with his tie. Sure, let good old Vale handle it. Each time the delivery truck had run into trouble, he had reported it, and each time, Oakman had a.s.sured him he would get right on it. Handle it personally.

Nothing had happened.

Hull didn't think Vale was in Cutler's pocket, but it didn't matter. The sheriffs growing lack of courage had, over the past couple of years, become legendary. No, infamous. Make peace at all costs had become the man's motto, and to h.e.l.l with the next election, he was on his way out anyway, why rock the boat, stir the pot, make waves.

He sighed loudly and lowered his head.

He couldn't stop shaking.

He couldn't banish the image of Chisholm standing in the doorway, appearing out of nowhere. For a second Hull was positive he had seen anger there, close to rage, and had actually, momentarily feared for the Teagues' lives. Chisholm could have crushed them without half thinking, but he hadn't.

That voice had done it for him.

He closed his eyes, in shame for his own weakness, for not putting up a fight no matter the consequence, and in remembering that voice.

"Dear Lord," he whispered.

He couldn't stop shaking.

3.

Being a minister in a community of such flux and flow in population was a challenge Lyman Baylor had accepted with enthusiasm. He hadn't cared that many of his colleagues, and most of his family, considered this tantamount to exile; he hadn't cared when his father had questioned his sanity, since the alternative had been a thriving congregation in New Orleans.

"But that," Lyman had argued, "is already established. All I'd have to do is go there and fit in to something that's already running. I wouldn't be much more than a mechanic, making sure everything gets oiled.

"But this ... this is going to be work. Hard work. And I don't mean the accounts and the politics and all the rest of that business. This is souls, Dad. I'm talking about souls."

Five years later, close enough to thirty to count the hairs on the back of its head, he was still excited. Still smiling each morning, still writing each sermon as if it were his first, still delighted each time he picked the hymns for the church's electronic carillon. He knew that half his congregation, mostly the staid and the elderly, hadn't yet stopped thinking of him as a mere child, just a caretaker preacher until a real one came along, but he didn't care. He had never missed a service, never missed a call on the sick and the shut-ins, never missed an opportunity to be seen in every quarter of the island.

"They'll think you're a pain in the b.u.t.t, Ly," Kitra had cautioned in the beginning. "They'll call you a Bible-thumper."

"You mean a religious man."

"No, you know full well what I mean. An extremist. That's not the same. And they'll avoid you, Ly. They'll think you're a nut and they'll make our lives miserable."

Not anymore.

On official duty, as he called it, he wore his light grey suit and maroon shirt, white cleric's collar; off-duty, he dressed in his civvies and spent time on the docks talking with the fishermen about tides and fish and baits and seasons; spent an evening or so a week in one of the town bars, the more respectable ones at first, talking and listening and playing a little pool or a few games of darts; took Kitra to the restaurants and got to know the owners, the waitresses, the waiters, the busboys; visited the few remaining steady members of the parish and got to know their lives.

Never pushing; Never apologizing when asked his profession. But always... always making sure the people he spoke with knew when services began on Sunday morning.

"You know," Ben Pellier had once said, "no offense, but you sure don't act like a preacher."

Lyman had paid his bill and said, "Well, actually, Ben, yes, I do."

And he was official today as he backed out of the rectory driveway, first on his way to Whittaker's office to drop off the church's ad, then over to Mayor Cribbs' office to demand a reason why Geraldine Essman's murderers had not yet been apprehended. It had not, of course, been reported as murder, but Lyman knew in his heart it wasn't anything else but.

Mrs. Essman had lived in a small bungalow on Draper Street, a block in from Midway Road. The place had been burgled the night before Halloween, the last straw in a long stretch of incidents the old lady had suffered since the beginning of the year. Word was, she had been mildly beaten and locked in a closet. Word was, the moment Deputy Salter had opened the closet door she demanded the name of the best real estate agent on the island.

Two weeks later, after prowlers had broken a kitchen window, a ma.s.sive heart attack put her in a grave behind Reverend Baylor's church.

Lyman had known her well.

Left untouched and undisturbed, she would have lived to be a hundred.

He smiled at the image of her, sitting as always in the front pew, watching him carefully, daring him to err either in Scripture quotation or interpretation. A tough old bird who deserved much better. As a matter of fact- And he cried out when something slammed into the side of the car.

He jammed the brakes on, switched off the ignition, and looked worriedly to his right, in time to see a bicycle wobble backward and fall against the curb. Oh, Lord, he thought, licked his lips, touched his heart briefly, and moved as fast as he could around the rear b.u.mper.

Oh, Lord, he thought again when he saw the big man sitting in the street.

"Mr. Chisholm," he said, kneeling beside him. "My goodness, Mr. Chisholm, are you all right? I didn't see ...I was ... I'm so sorry, I should have been more careful. Are you all right, sir? Are you injured?"

Chisholm closed his eyes tightly, snapped them open and stared at him, clearly dazed. A hand brushed across his forehead, then back through his hair.

Lyman, fighting to regain some use of his lungs, put a hand on the man's shoulder. "You wait right here, Mr. Chisholm. I'll phone-"

"No." Chisholm shrugged the hand off, and winced, inhaled sharply. "No, it's ... I'm okay." He managed a smile, then a waggle of his hand, a help-me-up gesture Lyman was slow to obey. But once on his feet, the big man brushed grit and dirt from his legs and smiled again. "My fault."

Lyman wanted very much to believe it, found it easier when he saw the two six-packs still in the bike's carrier basket. "I was thinking," he offered by way of weak apology.

Chisholm nodded. "Yeah, so was I." He took an unsteady step back, half closed one eye, and examined the car's back door, right hand absently ma.s.saging his left shoulder. "At least I didn't dent it."

Lyman couldn't help it-he looked as well, and felt a flush when he heard Chisholm laugh. "Yes. Well." He pointed at the bike. "Will it work, do you think?"

"I sure hope so. It's a long walk, otherwise." The big man took a step toward the curb, froze a moment when balance seemed to leave him, then leaned over and hauled the bike upright. A swift examination, and he nodded. "Looks fine." He straddled the seat and took a deep breath. "Listen, Reverend, I'm sorry. It really was my fault. I would have seen you if I hadn't been so preoccupied."

"That's all right," he said, relieved. He started for the car, hesitated, looked back, a pointed stare at the beer. "Listen, Mr. Chisholm, if you, uh ... I don't know, want to talk or something ... you ... well, you know where to find me."

Chisholm's sudden smile made him uncomfortable; there was no humor in it at all. "No thanks," the big man said gruffly, and pedaled away before Lyman could say anything else.

Curious man, he thought as he stood by the driver's door and watched Chisholm go. Kitra swore he was hiding from the police, and a few of his parishioners had suggested he was just a simple man, as in simple in the head. Lyman didn't believe either theory, but he was intriguing, no doubt about it. Perhaps an unscheduled visit... whatever the man was, it was clear he was troubled. A grimace, then, as he chided himself for not insisting Chisholm see a doctor immediately, if for no other reason than to further dampen his conscience.

He shook his head, was about to slide in behind the wheel, when suddenly he straightened and looked over the car's roof. Squinted. Looked back the way Chisholm had gone, and shook his head again.

Odd, he thought.

For a minute there he could have sworn he'd heard the clear sound of hoofbeats.

Nerves, he decided immediately; the aftershock of the accident, and a good dollop of guilt.

Nevertheless, as he backed the rest of the way into the street and turned the car toward the center of town, he checked the rearview mirror just as a strong gust of wind rocked the vehicle and lifted a cloud of dust and dead leaves from the street.

For a minute there he heard the hoofbeats again, and saw in the swirling cloud the hazy figure of a riderless dark horse walking slowly away.

He gripped the steering wheel tightly until the wind died and the dust settled, and there was nothing left in the road but Casey Chisholm on his bike.

Guilt, he decided as he drove off, shaking slightly; most definitely guilt.