“That’s ludicrous.”

Riker only glanced out the window, as though he might have a casual interest in the weather. Malcolm Laurie was leaving Jane’s Cafe, stopping for a moment to exchange smiles with the men by the fountain, and then passing on. Charles was looming over the desk, waiting for a return volley.

“I’m not gonna argue with you, Charles.” Riker flicked through the sheriff’s Rolodex, then picked up the phone and dialed the number for the hotel across the square. “Hi, I wanna book a room for Charles Butler… Yeah, that one.” As if there might be two giants with large noses. “He’ll be by in a few minutes… Fine. Thanks.”

When he set the phone down he looked up at Charles. “No offense, Charles. I like your company, but I need to get some sleep. I don’t want anybody to see that car going over the bayou bridge, so leave it in front of Betty’s. Sign the register and go straight on through to the back door. Then go back to Augusta’s and sit on the brat till morning.” And now for the closing shot. “But don’t get any ideas about taking the gun away from her. She’ll hurt you just for trying.”

Well, that made him angry, but at least he was leaving, silently and quickly. The outer door slammed. Bless Charles’s misplaced loyalty to Mallory.

Riker looked back at the small gathering of men. Their heads turned in unison to watch the silver Mercedes drive down the street, turn the corner and roll to a stop on the opposite side of the square. When Charles had disappeared into the hotel, the men turned their attention back to the sheriff’s office. They were joined by two more men.

Riker checked the bullets in his gun and debated calling in the state troopers. What would he say? ‘There’s a crowd of smiling good ol’ boys gathering in the town square, and they scare the shit out of me.‘ And then the state cops would ask what he was drinking.

“Excuse me, neighbor.” A man his own age was standing in the office doorway. Flab hung over the belt of his jeans. His smile was wide; his eyes were dull and stupid. “My name’s Ray Laurie.” The man was walking toward him with one hand extended.

Under the cover of the desk, Riker shifted the gun to his left hand and offered Ray Laurie his right.

Ray pulled up a chair across the desk from Riker. A new visitor was standing in the doorway, and there was another man behind him. When Riker glanced back to the square, the sentries were moving toward the building. Underneath the desk, Riker was pointing a.38 automatic at Ray Laurie’s midsection.

More men filed into the office. Riker counted eight of them, and now the gun in his hand became meaningless. They stood all about the room, and one of them moved to the window next to the desk. Another man used this distraction to move to the wall behind the desk. He listened to the heavy feet climbing the stairs to the lockup, and then running down again.

This man appeared at the door. Catching his breath, he looked to Ray Laurie. “The place is empty. Maybe she heard right and they did turn him loose.”

Riker never heard Ray’s end of that conversation. He was struck from behind. When his eyes opened again, he was on the floor. He drifted in and out of consciousness as he floated through the back door of the sheriff’s office.

“I don’t buy it. Idiots can’t even write,” said the man who held his legs to the man who held his arms. If there was more to this discussion, Riker didn’t hear it.

Nap time.

The bats had flown from Trebec House in the sunset hour. Ira tracked them across all the sky he could see from the circle of trees around the cemetery. And then he turned back to the statue of Dr. Cass.

His mother had been wrong. This was the same old statue of Dr. Cass with Kathy in her arms, and she was standing right where she always did. But there were changes to deal with. There were wheel ruts and spills of gravel on the grass, and broken twigs on the low-hanging branches.

The birds were flying up from the trees, and the rush of wings created a breeze all around him.

“So you’re the witness,” said a voice behind him, only sound without real meaning. Alarmed, Ira turned to see a man striding down the gravel path between the tombs.

“So you’re the witness,” said Ira, not comprehending, only making the required response as he was backing up to the angel, pressing into the stone folds of her robe, looking there for sanctuary.

The man came closer, growing larger, his hands rising in closed fists. Ira slumped down to the grass. He drew in his arms and legs and tucked in his head like a turtle. The first blow was nothing to him, only an unwanted intimacy. Fistfalls rained harder, and soon the pain seeped in like the color red knifing into pure white paint, cutting a clean sharp edge into his brain.

He was being kicked now. All his fear had become a bright ball of fire, and now it was diminishing in its brightness, the light was going gray, going out. His face was wet. He had blood in his eyes.

He understood what was happening. Babe had yelled at him and swatted his head when he played a familiar handful of notes on the piano. And then Babe had broken his hands. But when the music had ended, the pain ended, too. And now he began to hum the notes that had played all the while Cass was dying.

This infuriated his assailant and the blows were heavier and faster, more vicious.

A strange intimacy, this.

And now Ira reached out to his attacker with the rest of the music. He had learned the entire song, and he crooned it now, his voice becoming horn and flute in an accompaniment to pain, a musical score for violence.

And when his song ended, and he lay quiet, not moving anymore, the violence stopped, just as Babe had stopped. Ira had learned his lesson well.

CHAPTER 25

Even with his eyes shut, Riker recognized the trappings of the Owltown bar where he had spent some time as a guest of the New Church, boozing with the faithful. He could feel the rough wood under his hands and his face. The night before last, he had listened to the same bad music on the jukebox. Now the song was slightly muffled, and he knew there was a door between his prone body and the outer room. The stale smells of beer and sweat were not muted at all. He kept his eyes closed while he counted the voices in the air – three men.

“Wake up, Sunshine.” This greeting was punctuated by the nudge of a boot in his rib cage.

Riker opened his eyes and focussed on the only window and a patch of dusky sky. He had been unconscious for at least five hours. This enforced rest was not such a bad trade for the small ache on the side of his head.

Two men sat at a small square table. Ray Laurie was standing over his body and cracking the seal on a bottle. “Mr. Riker needs a drink – a lot of drinks.” He filled a shot glass with whiskey from the bottle as he spoke to the man with the rifle. And now Riker noticed his own.38 automatic in the hand of the second man. “Now don’t let him nurse his shots. This shouldn’t take all night.”

Ray leaned down and handed the glass to Riker. “Just drink it.”

“Sure, why not?” Riker pulled himself up to a sitting position and drank from the glass. “Not bad. Not bad at all.” And he meant that.

He looked around at his companions and smiled. “You know, this was always my big dream, being forced to drink good whiskey at gunpoint.”

They all smiled back – no hard feelings here, no animosity whatever. He recognized the two men at the table. He had spent some time drinking with them on his last excursion to Owltown.

Ray Laurie was lining up the bottles on the table. “Just keep pouring till the job is done. ‘Night, Riker.”

When the door had closed on Ray, one of the remaining guards lifted the rifle barrel slightly. “Drink up, friend.”