Not Flesh Nor Feathers (Eden Moore 3)

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.

It wasn’t dark yet, anyway. People still came and went, here and there. One man folded up a dented metal tackle box and began counting small fish in a bucket. Another threw a rope down off the pier to a little boat. The muffled notes of a local radio station filtered up from within it, along with intermittent static from a CB receiver.

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.

He picked up his board from underneath his haunches, dropped it to the ground and stepped on it with one sure foot. With the other, he pushed himself off and forward, away from the landing and back towards the cascading fountain, back towards the remaining few people and the gleam of civilization.

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.