Not Flesh Nor Feathers
Page 11“Thanks, I will.”
“It’s your free time, and it’s your sanity. Put whatever you want on the line. God knows you won’t listen to me.”
“Damn straight.”
I thought the conversation was winding down to a close, but he cut me off before I could hang up. “Just one thing—will you think about it? Between now and when I see you? Just think about coming down here for a little while. It wouldn’t be so bad. Nice weather. Sun. Sand. Surf.”
“Nosey priests,” I added. But when it sounded like he was going to keep pushing, I gave him what he wanted. “Okay. I’ll think about it, and we’ll talk about it when you get here. Would that make you happy?”
“Yes. That’s all I’m asking for. Then, when I get up there, I can badger you further.”
“Great. I’ll look forward to it.”
“Liar,” he said, but I could hear him smiling.
6
The Landing
Christ went down to the water’s edge, or this is how they tell it.
He went alone, though he would’ve preferred to bring someone with him—Christ and Eden’s mutual friend Benny, perhaps, but Benny was in North Carolina chasing ghosts with Dana Marshall for the big cable TV show.
No one else would do it. No one else had the balls or was crazy enough, so he went by himself after dark. In his hand he fumbled with a worn-down skateboard wheel that had belonged to a guy named Pat before Pat went missing, or got Taken.
Christ worried at the wheel like it was a talisman that would carry him past the landing unscathed.
On the other side of the river a few white lights speckled the bank where the new apartments were almost ready to be lived in.
Christ glared at the sharp, glimmering lamps. In another week—or two, or three—they would be innocuous streetlamps beside cement walkways. Across the rippling expanse of the Tennessee River, they were waiting.
They were calling him.
When in doubt, Christ usually resorted to violence. It was easy to lash out and hard to find the right words, sometimes. Words failed him more often than not. They were inadequate, and they went unbelieved.
He knew all about the boy who cried wolf, of course.
He knew good and well why no one believed him, and he didn’t mind. He wouldn’t have respected them if they had. Normally he wouldn’t have cared if they lived there or not.
But Lisa, Naomi, and Eden—all three had reserved apartments in the new space beside the river, and it bothered him. Eden, at least, should have believed him. She should have given him a chance to tell her what he knew . . . but even as he nursed a sharp, itching grudge over the way she’d rebuffed him, he was aware that he should know better.
Of the three women he’d approached to warn, Eden was the only one who knew anything about the other side; and she thought that the story he offered was more madness than anything.
But it wasn’t a lie.
Just this once he wished he could convince her, but he knew it wouldn’t happen. He couldn’t sell her on the danger, because the harder he pushed, the more stubbornly she’d dig in. He didn’t know her as well as he thought he did, but he understood her kind.
All right then. He’d make her see things his way.
Before the darkness sprawled out too thick across the water and spilled up over the banks. Before all the people retreated to their homes and locked their doors and pulled down their shades. He’d take a stand.
In his oversized pants pockets, besides the skateboard wheel, there was an eight ounce can of lighter fluid and a Zippo.
On the board he sailed smoothly past the last of the aquarium workers and one sleepy cop who only shrugged with one eyebrow when Christ flipped him the bird.
He navigated the sidewalks and alternately kicked and glided his way up the bank, past the fountains, and up to street and bridge level. The big blue Walnut Street pedestrian bridge was well lit even though it was still dusk. It used to send two lanes of cars back and forth, but due to advanced age and municipal revitalization, it now served mostly hand-holding couples, joggers, and people with baby strollers.
A black iron sign prohibited dogs, skateboards, and a host of other things that were making their leisurely way over the water regardless. Christ joined their trickling flow. His skateboard clacked and echoed over the wooden planks as he went.
No one bothered him. He considered it a good sign. A blessing, even—and like the Blues Brothers before him, he was on a mission from God.
The trip across the river was more than half a mile, but it took barely five minutes on Christ’s rattling board. He skidded onto the sidewalk on the other side, and zipped past a couple of Frasier Avenue shopkeepers locking up. The restaurants were still open. It was late for supper, though, and there were hardly any customers. The wine bar across the street looked warm, but empty.
No cars came rumbling over the Market Street bridge, so Christ didn’t wait for the signal. He picked up his board to walk the rest of the distance to the construction site. Otherwise, the tell-tale clatter of his wheels would give him away. It was a sound every cop knew, and none of them welcomed.
In the near-dark the river was bright, its waves rippling reflections from the cityscape and casting back the glow in ribbons.
The apartments were shells, empty and beautiful with nothing inside and without their finishing touches. Christ stopped at the edge of the complex. He propped his board up in a doorway where it wasn’t likely to be spotted or disturbed.
His sneakers were held together with duct tape, and they were quiet against the crisp white sidewalks. He tied his hair back with a dirty bandana and stood stock-still, listening. Over the bank, the river lapped gently against the rocks. The hearty hum of southern insects buzzed here and there, rising in volume as the sun set farther and the sky went darker.
He put a hand down into his pocket and shook the tin bottle of lighter fluid. It was maybe two-thirds full . . . enough to start something, but not enough to keep it fed for very long. He’d have to find something wiflling to catch and burn.
A trash bin full of newspapers and rags looked promising. He thought about rolling the bin down to the building closest to the water, but changed his mind. It’d be better to find an open one first.
One by one he tried the doors, and was disappointed. The windows were easy, but breaking them was a fast way to get unwanted attention. He kept them in mind as a last resort, and scanned the grounds for an easier target. Quickly, though. Darker and darker it grew, and the streetlamps were too few and far between to be of much assistance.
At some point, the night would have to level off, wouldn’t it? There must be some plateau with dawn on the other side. But dawn was a long ways off and he planned to be long gone by then.
Hurry. Do it and go.
At the end of the row closest to the river, one strip of homes was not yet finished. The front door was locked, but that was irrelevant since one wall was comprised of exposed beams and plastic wrap.
In the trash bin with the papers, Christ found a Coke bottle. He struck it against the sidewalk until it broke, then used one of the sharp edges to draw a jagged slit in the plastic, big enough for him to pass through. Inside it was dark like everything else, filled with drywall dust and piles of junk he couldn’t make out clearly. Some of it was bound to be flammable.
He pulled the lighter fluid out of his pocket, and with its tiny nozzle he squirted the contents on the walls, on the dry-wall, on the plastic wrapping that’d been piled up in the corners. Then he went back to the trash bin and grabbed an armload. He had to squeeze through the slit sideways. On the second trip he tore it a little more, and on the third he stretched it wide enough that he could step through it with ease.
There wasn’t much point in a fifth trip. Everything that would light had been retrieved, and there wouldn’t be enough fluid to treat more than that, anyway.
Sparingly, Christ sprinkled the newspapers, sandwich wrappers, and other trash until there was nothing left in the can, then threw the can in on top of the pile. He pulled out his lighter. He couldn’t remember who he’d stolen it from, so it wasn’t likely to be traced back to him.
He struck the wheel with his thumb and the tall, steady flame nearly blinded him. He looked away and let his eyes adjust, retreating to the improvised doorway he’d made with the soda bottle.
He stepped outside, glanced around to make sure he wasn’t being watched, checked that his skateboard was still where he’d stashed it . . . and threw the lighter inside, onto the nearest pile of trash.
The trash caught quickly. A crackling whoosh, a flare of light, and a burst of heat announced that the arson was underway.
Christ ran.
With one swift swoop he grabbed the skateboard and swung it around to the nearest window on the fly. The back wheels cracked through, and the sound of tinkling glass joined the hisses and pops of the fire. Christ skipped the next window along his escape route, but hit two more with that same fast swing, knocking brand new panes clear of their frames.
“That’s for Pat,” he grumbled, changing course and doubling back to a second row of buildings. He might as well hit as many windows as possible on the way out. He swung the board again and brought it through a big kitchen window. “That one’s for Catfood Dude.”
Next building down. His skateboard went through a bay window that faced the river. It wouldn’t be enough, not to stop them. He’d need an army of kids to do enough damage for that. Even two or three people could have started more trouble than a few broken windows. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">