Hard Rain

by Peter Abrahams

“No.”

  Jessie glanced at his face. He was watching the road. The question in her mind, a foolish question but one that had risen there abruptly, all on its own, was, Are you married? But what she said was, “You seem to have accepted my story.”

  “So far.”

  “But why?”

  “That’s a funny question. Why not?”

  “Lieutenant DeMarco didn’t.”

  “That’s one reason right there.”

  “Surely you don’t know him?”

  “No. I meant you didn’t have to tell me he didn’t believe you. So you’ve told me the truth, or you’re operating on a very high level of cleverness. Either way, I’m curious.”

  “Is that it, then: curiosity?”

  “What other reasons could there be?”

  “That’s what I’ve been thinking about.”

  Outside a cow raised its head over a fence rail and looked right through them as they went by. Next came a little boy in a plaid lumber jacket, surrounded by bushels of apples. MACS AND CORTLANDS—79 CENTS A BOUCHEL. His eyes looked right through them too.

  “And?” Zyzmchuk said.

  “And I wondered whether you worked for Senator Frame.”

  “Why?”

  “You said you saw me talking to his wife. And you’ve got a D.C. license plate. So I thought you might be here on account of him.”

  “I already told you I wasn’t.”

  “You told me you weren’t guarding him. You might be working for him in some other capacity. Or for her.”

  Zyzmchuk smiled. This one lingered on his face. “That adds up, all right, but not to the right answer. The senator and I have never met. I don’t know his wife, either.”

  “But you knew who she was, what she looks like.”

  Zyzmchuk turned to her, an amused gleam still in his eyes. “How long is the interrogation going to last?”

  “It’s not—”

  “Look,” Zyzmchuk said, “I’m a government investigator. You’ve figured that out already. Why not leave it there?”

  Jessie went silent. More cows passed by and an orchard, bare and deserted. “But what are you investigating?” she said when she couldn’t hold it back any longer.

  Zyzmchuk turned to her as he had before, but now the humorous glimmer had vanished from his eyes. “I’ll know when I find it.”

  “It doesn’t have anything to do with drugs, does it? You’re not a drug agent?”

  “I couldn’t afford their haircuts.”

  Jessie wanted to say, Why can’t you tell me? But it sounded like a nagging question, and she didn’t want to nag. Why not? She wanted the information, didn’t she? Yes, but she’d finally found someone who might be able to help her, and she didn’t want to antagonize him. And there was a second reason, too, or the beginnings of one, farther back in her mind, which she didn’t want to examine too closely, or too soon. Jessie remained silent the rest of the way, except for giving directions.

  They followed Route 8 to the third turning on the left. Zyzmchuk slowed down by the mailbox with the handpainted blue flowers curling around the faded peace sign and stopped the car. He checked the mailbox. There was nothing inside, Jessie saw, but why hadn’t she thought to do that, on one of her previous visits? There might have been mail in it, business mail. She might have made the Eggman Cookies connection a lot sooner. On the other hand, having made it, she was no further ahead.

  Zyzmchuk’s car rattled as it climbed the rutted dirt road to the top of the hill. The sun was setting—a red-gold ball low over the western rise. Its image burned in the windows of the white farmhouse on the far side of the meadow. And burned too, Jessie noticed, here and there on the shingle roof and through some of the white-trimmed dormers.

  She was still noticing all that when the car surged forward, so abruptly her head was knocked hard against the headrest; it began to throb immediately. She touched her bandages as the car hurtled down the hill and across the meadow and felt dampness. But she had no time to worry about it.

  Red-gold tongues lapped around the corners of the white house, licked up the walls, danced wildly in the downstairs windows, more sedately on the floor above.

  Spacious Skies was on fire.

  Something boomed at the back of the house. A black ball of smoke rose in the air, glittering with gold sparks. Zyzmchuk skidded around the house, stopped the car in a swirl of dust.

  A man was squatting in the barnyard. A big man with pale blond hair, almost white. He was pouring gasoline from a red can into king-sized Coke bottles. He looked up in surprise.

  “That’s Mr. Mickey,” Jessie said. Sudden fear rose in her like a storm tide, pitching her voice into a higher register.

  Zyzmchuk got out of the car. Mr. Mickey stood up, and Jessie saw how big he really was: half a foot taller than Zyzmchuk and almost as broad. He held a bottle full of gasoline loosely in his hand.

  Zyzmchuk took a step toward him. From the side, Jessie could see both how calm his face was and how rigid his back. Zyzmchuk asked Mr. Mickey a short question. Jessie knew it was a question from the tone, but that’s all she knew. He’d spoken another language.

  A language Mr. Mickey understood: his pale eyes widened; then, for an instant, his gaze shifted to the barn. Jessie saw pinstriped legs scissoring back into the shadows beyond the open door.

  Perhaps Mr. Mickey had expected Zyzmchuk would glance that way too. Zyzmchuk didn’t. Mr. Mickey threw the Coke bottle at him anyway. Zyzmchuk dipped his head to one side as the bottle flew past his temple, avoiding it with a minimum of fuss, like a boxer slipping a punch.

  Then he moved in on Mr. Mickey, his hands curled into half-fists, held at waist level. Mr. Mickey didn’t back away, didn’t advance. He stood still and remained that way until Zyzmchuk was almost close enough to reach out and grab him. The next moment Mr. Mickey was in midair, his right foot a blur spanning the space between the two men. Zyzmchuk dodged. He was very quick. Mr. Mickey’s foot shot past his chin, catching him on the left shoulder. The blow landed with the kind of thump a carpet beater makes and spun Zyzmchuk around.

  Jessie saw Zyzmchuk’s face go white, but he didn’t fall. Instead he spun in a complete circle and came out of the spin like a projectile from a sling. Mr. Mickey wasn’t quite ready. His other foot was on its way, but not so high this time, not so hard. Zyzmchuk curled over it. There was another thump, muffled, and then the two men were on the ground.

  Dust rose.

  Mr. Mickey cried out.

  Zyzmchuk rolled on top of him.

  Then a man in a pinstripe suit was standing over them. Jessie hadn’t even seen him come. He had the gasoline can in his hands. He raised it high and brought it down on Zyzmchuk’s head. Zyzmchuk toppled over and lay still on the ground.

  That’s when Jessie heard the siren sound, coming from the direction of Bennington. The man in the suit heard it too and looked up. Jessie had a good view of him—he was well-groomed, neatly barbered, wore horn-rimmed glasses. She’d seen him before, in front of Pat’s house in Venice. He was the real estate man who had asked if the house was for sale, who reminded her of a commentator on TV. She couldn’t tell whether he recognized her. Red-gold reflections shone on the lenses of his glasses, masking his eyes.

  Mr. Mickey got up, slowly. He heard the sirens too. They grew louder. He said something to the real estate man. The real estate man picked up the gas can again and stepped toward the spot where Zyzmchuk lay.

  No thoughts, no commands passed through Jessie’s consciousness when she saw that. One moment she was watching, the next she was behind the wheel of Zyzmchuk’s old car, turning the key.

  The Blazer shot across the barnyard, straight at the real estate man. Red-gold gleamed at Jessie as he saw her coming. He jumped sideways. The fender clipped the gas can from his hand. He fell. Jessie braked, turned at the far side of the yard and started back. The sirens were very loud. Mr. Mickey was dragging the real estate man to his feet. He glanced at Zyzmchuk, lying on the ground, glanced at t
he approaching car, then threw the real estate man over his shoulder and loped into the woods behind the barn.

  Zyzmchuk sat up. Jessie stopped the car and got out. She was going toward him when a loud crack came from the house, as though a giant bone had snapped in two. Enormous flames rose through the roof, unfurling like red-gold sails high into the evening sky. An invisible, scorching wave swept over the yard.

  The fire roared.

  Glass shattered.

  And someone screamed. Someone in the house.

  Jessie looked up. A face appeared in the window above the kitchen. An eyeless face.

  “Disco,” Jessie shouted, running under the window. The fire breathed its hot breath on her skin.

  Disco bent his head down in her direction. The movement was unrushed, mechanical, as though he were in a trance. Then he screamed again, right at her, a shriek that cut through the noise of the fire and the sirens and made Jessie’s heart leap in her chest.

  “Disco,” she shouted again. “You’ve got to jump. I’m right here. I’ll catch you.”

  Disco laughed a wild laugh. “That’s what Ratty said—‘Jump.’ Do you think I’m dumb enough to fall for the same trick twice?”

  “I’m not Ratty, and that was a long time ago. Jump.”

  “Who are you trying to kid? Ratty’s here. You’re working for him.”

  A hulking flame sprang up behind him like a red-gold assassin.

  “Disco, I’ll catch you. You’re going to die. Jump.”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  “Jump,” Jessie screamed over the fire, holding out her hands. “Jump.” She scarcely noticed the firemen running across the yard, unrolling their net, pushing past her.

  “Jump,” Jessie screamed.

  “Make me.”

  “Come on, buddy,” said a fireman, “jump. Right in the net. Nothin’ to it.”

  “He’s blind,” Jessie said.

  “No, I’m not. The joke’s on you. I can see for miles and miles.” Disco laughed his wild laugh. “I’m stoned out of my mind, you motherfuckers. This is all a dream.”

  He had time to begin one more laugh. Then a red-gold curtain wrapped itself around him, choking off the sound. Disco’s long hair went up like sparklers. And then he was gone.

  Another giant bone cracked. The tremor unleashed another scorching wave. It blew the wall out, blew Jessie across the yard. She rolled over in the dirt—the earth felt cold despite the fire—and picked herself up. Then someone was leading her into the shelter of the barn.

  The fire roared and roared again.

  “Where are the hoses?” Jessie shouted. “Where are the hoses?”

  “Too late for that, miss,” said a fireman, watching with his arms folded across his chest.

  Disco’s window was gone. Jessie couldn’t even find the place in the flames where it had been. The house had lost all structure and identity. It was just a heap of combustibles.

  Jessie stepped out of the barn, her eyes searching for Zyzmchuk. He came walking out of the woods. There, between the trees and fire, he looked for the first time small. Jessie went to him.

  “Too late,” was all he said.

  Behind him, from some clearing in the woods, an unmarked, unlit helicopter rose and veered into the purple sky.

  31

  On the way to the station house, Jessie said, “I got a good look at the one who hit you on the head. It was the real estate man.”

  Zyzmchuk said, “Describe him.”

  “Medium-sized. Pinstripe suit. Glasses. A little overweight.” She shrugged. “Ordinary-looking. He reminds me of one of those commentators on TV.”

  “Which one?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “Not Andy Rooney?”

  “No.”

  “Thank God,” said Zyzmchuk. “I’d hate like hell to have gotten the shit kicked out of me by Andy Rooney.”

  The fire chief and the police chief were brothers. The police chief was the firstborn. He’d hogged most of the dominant genes. The fire chief was younger and softer at the edges.

  “We wouldn’ta known about the ’Vette at all,” the police chief was saying, “if it hadn’ta been for a—what did she call herself again?”

  “A ornithologist,” the fire chief said, stressing every syllable.

  “Bird watcher, to you and me,” the police chief said. “Now, I ask you, what’s a bird watcher doing in the middle of the woods at two in the A.M?”

  “Studying owls,” Zyzmchuk said.

  The police chief gave Zyzmchuk a long look. The fire chief gave him a longer one. These weren’t the first long looks Zyzmchuk had attracted since he and Jessie had entered the police station. The first one had come when Zyzmchuk showed them a card in his wallet. The police chief had taken it into another room, talked for a few minutes on the phone and returned saying, “Okeydoke. I’m s’posed to help you in any way.”

  “Help him in any way?” the fire chief had said. “Is he FBI or something?”

  “Something,” the police chief had barked at him, venting annoyance where he could, in an old, familiar place. The fire chief had shrunk in his chair.

  The next long look had come from Jessie herself, when the police chief said, “Maybe you could give me some idea what this is all about.”

  And Zyzmchuk had simply replied, “It’s a missing child case. Her child.”

  The police chief had glanced at Jessie and then said, “Do you mean the kid was on the chopper?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t think so. Do you want us to trace it anyway?”

  “You can try,” Zyzmchuk had said, “but it was a Sikorsky S-76, with no markings and a seven-hundred-mile range. It won’t be easy.”

  “How does he know that?” the fire chief had asked. “It was dark.”

  The police chief had answered his brother with a glare. But Jessie thought it was a good question. That’s when she had given Zyzmchuk her long look.

  Now the police chief said, “Owls. That’s right. Owls. Anyway, this … bird watcher is camped out in the woods, not far from the state line—”

  “Where the old lumber track runs,” the fire chief interrupted.

  “I’m coming to that.” The police chief gave the fire chief a withering look. The fire chief stared at his boots.

  “Where the old lumber track runs,” the police chief continued. “Of course, no one uses it now. There’s a sign up prohibiting any motorized traffic.”

  “That’s to stop the dirt-bikers,” the fire chief said.

  “Shit, he doesn’t want to hear about the dirt-bikers,” snapped the police chief. “Pardon my French,” he added to Jessie.

  “Sorry,” the fire chief said.

  The police chief sighed. “So our bird watcher, camped out at two in the A.M., sees headlights shining through the trees and hears a car. It goes by, maybe a hundred yards from her. A little later she hears a person or persons, she’s not sure which, walking back the other way.” He paused. “Okay?”

  Zyzmchuk nodded.

  “Now, this bird watcher happens to be one of those—how would you say it?”

  “Greenpeace types?” offered the fire chief.

  “Close enough. So in the morning she calls the station to report a violation of the motorized vehicle prohibition. That was yesterday, but I couldn’t spare a man to go over there until today. I just thought it was kids drinking, if you follow me. Didn’t expect to actually find anything.”

  “Of course not,” Zyzmchuk said. “Can we have a look?”

  “Sure. In the morning.”

  “I meant now.”

  “Now? We can’t do anything now. It’s dark. In the morning, we’ll go in with the jeep and give it a shot.”

  “That’s fine,” Zyzmchuk said. “I don’t want to do any hauling tonight. Just look around.”

  The police chief gazed unhappily at his watch. “Well, if it’s—”

  “Thanks,” Zyzmchuk said. “We could pick up your di
ver on the way.”

  The fire chief’s jaw dropped and his brother’s eyebrows rose, as though in demonstration of some Newtonian law.

  “Davey?” said the police chief. “Davey’s not going to want to go in the drink at this time of night. And besides, who’s gonna pay his overtime?”

  “I’ll pay,” Zyzmchuk said.

  The chiefs exchanged a look. Some sort of communication was passing between them, Jessie saw, but very slowly.

  “Plus a bonus,” Zyzmchuk added.

  That speeded things up. The chiefs nodded. “Okeydoke,” said the elder.

  Frost coated the windshield of the police chief’s car. His brother scraped it off. “Going to be a cold winter,” he said to no one in particular.

  They drove through the quiet town, the police chief and Zyzmchuk in front, Jessie and the fire chief in back. There were no other cars on the road. The fire chief said, “Joanne picked out the turkey this aft.”

  His brother grunted. Jessie wondered what had happened to the turkey at Spacious Skies.

  After a while, the fire chief said, “They say rain for Thursday.” Later, gazing out the window, he added, “But I think snow.”

  The police chief snorted.

  Davey lived in a tiny shingle house on the edge of town. He was waiting in the driveway, beside a rusty pickup. “I’ll follow you,” he said. Davey’s eyes were wide in the night; he had a few wispy hairs on his chin and looked about seventeen.

  “Well, now, Davey,” the police chief said through his rolled-down window, “you know the way up to Little Pond, don’t you?”

  Davey blinked. “Sure. I was there this afternoon.”

  “Then maybe you could take our friends by yourself. They just want a look-see.”

  Davey’s eyes went from one to another. He’d gotten lost somewhere on the ellipse of the police chief’s thought.

  Zyzmchuk showed him the next move by saying, “Fine with me.”

  “Okay,” said Davey.

  The police chief turned to Zyzmchuk. “I’ll be saying good night then.”

  “Good night.”

  Zyzmchuk and Jessie got out of the car. The fire chief jumped out of the back and hurried into the front. The car was rolling before he could close the door.