Red Rain: Lightning Strikes: Red Rain Series #2

by David Beers

  “You can work from down here. Tell them you’re having some personal issues, and just put in some hours anywhere that has wi-fi.”

  John looked out the windshield, wondering if this was possible. Or was it just another brick falling off Harry’s crumbling building? That was the problem. John couldn’t ever tell, because when Harry spoke, what he said made sense. Yet the aftermath? Well, he sat alone in a motel parking lot talking to someone his imagination created.

  “John, if you can think of anything else that will work, I’m all ears.”

  “If I go back and kill them, then what? You think the death of two people attached to my case will go unnoticed, Harry? Or do you think it might put a bit more scrutiny on me?”

  “For someone with as many degrees as you have, you don’t possess any imagination.”

  “Then tell me, Steve Jobs, what do we do?”

  “The same thing we did when you were eighteen.”

  John turned all the way around in his chair and looked at Harry dead on. “You can’t be serious.”

  Harry smiled. “Oh, yeah. It’ll be fucking perfect.”

  * * *

  “You’re where?” Diane asked.

  “In Mexico.”

  “And just what are you doing there, John? Did you finally take your little vacation? Having a good time soaking up some rays?” Diane said. Her voice moved calmly across the kitchen, as if she was speaking to a small dog that couldn’t figure out how to get at a bone hidden under the table.

  A pause came over the line and then he said, “I don’t know what you want from me.”

  “Have I not been clear about that?”

  Diane, despite the calm in her voice—the almost antagonistic patronization—felt completely lost. It was two in the morning and she sat at her kitchen table, the lights off throughout the house, with her phone to her ear talking to a husband who decided he was going to reside in another country. None of it made any sense and Diane really didn’t know what to say. She only sat on the phone talking to John because she feared if she got off, she might never hear from him again.

  “Why won’t you tell me what’s happening?” she said into the silence, but nothing came back. “Did you kill anyone, John? Are you running because you did? God, just tell me if so. We can get through it. We’ll get a lawyer and we’ll figure it out, but don’t put me in the dark like this. I can’t handle it, John. I can’t fucking handle it.”

  Her voice cracked and emotion welled from her heart to her eyes.

  “Why won’t you just let me in? What’s happening?”

  Only cold silence spoke to her, both in the house and across the phone connection.

  “I didn’t kill anyone, Diane. That’s insane.”

  “THEN WHY DID YOU LEAVE?” she screamed into the phone, forgetting about the boys sleeping in their beds. She brought the next words under control quickly, spitting them out like bullets from a silenced pistol. “If you didn’t do anything wrong, then why the fuck did you leave the country, John? Tell me that. A vacation? When was the last vacation you took without us?”

  “I’m still working,” he said. “My boss approved it.”

  “Oh, that’s great, John. Really great. You can still get your job finished even if you’re neglecting being a father or husband. At least you can still contribute to the bottom line. Stop ignoring the question. Why did you leave? Just tell me that. Why?”

  “I can’t tell you, Diane.”

  She heard the first crack in his voice, a sound that made her think of a levee breaking.

  “You can. You can tell me anything. I’m your wife.”

  “I’ll be back soon,” he said.

  “That’s not good enough, John. If you don’t tell me what’s going on, then don’t come back ever. Just stay down there.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “I do,” she said. “If you won’t let me in, then I’m forcing you out.”

  “I love you,” John said. “I’ll call soon.”

  Diane hung up the phone and dropped it to the table, her hand shaking.

  Did he murder that person? Was that why he left? She hadn’t even asked about the lawyer because she couldn’t keep anything in her head for longer than five seconds.

  Oh, God, what do I do? Just what in the hell do I do?

  The police? She could go to them, but what if John did it? She didn’t care about the repercussions; Diane wasn’t reporting him until she had to choose between him or her kids. If forced to choose John or herself—she would side with John every single time.

  But maybe the police could help find him. He was probably having some kind of nervous breakdown, not murdering people. Probably? Hell, that’s what was happening.

  Alicia. She might know what to do.

  Diane looked at her shaking hand and wondered if she would even be able to find Alicia’s number in this state.

  * * *

  “He’s in Mexico, Alicia. He’s in fucking Mexico.”

  “Calm down, honey. Just calm down for a second; I can barely understand you.”

  “Oh, God …,” Diane sobbed into the phone.

  Alicia understood the gist of what she said, but the backstory—what the hell was happening—she didn’t understand at all.

  “Okay, take a few breaths, Diane.”

  Alicia waited, sitting up in her bed with the desk lamp on. Mark had rolled over on his side and was looking at her, both of them woken up in the middle of the night from Diane’s call.

  “What’s going on?”

  In a voice slightly more calm, Diane said, “John left. He’s in Mexico. He didn’t tell me, didn’t say goodbye to the boys. He just left. I don’t know what to do.”

  Alicia waited a second before speaking, trying to make sure her thoughts were in order, because the last thing Diane needed right now was Alicia saying something dumb. “Did he say why he left?”

  Diane laughed. “He said he needed a fucking vacation, Alicia.”

  She shook her head; she could feel Mark looking at her, wanting to know what was happening, but she didn’t have any answers for him. “What’s going on over there? What’s happened to him?”

  “Oh, Christ,” Diane said, still crying into the phone. “A cop came by here, Alicia. A week or so ago, and he said John was wanted for murder. Murder.”

  Murder.

  A calming, yet radically awful feeling bloomed in Alicia’s mind. It felt like a rotten flower, something made of spoiled meat rather than plant life, opening up inside her head. Instead of a beautiful floral smell, it gave off putrid vapors, covered in maggots that lunched on its decay.

  “The cop said John murdered someone?” Her voice sounded calm to her own ears, and she only asked the question to let Diane know she hadn’t hung up. Because in truth, whatever Diane said right now didn’t matter.

  That disgusting flower grew rapidly, expanding beyond the first few petals, and creating a huge trunk for a massive tree of rotten flesh.

  Because something about what she said, about murder, fit into a spot that Alicia didn’t know existed. Even now, unable to stop the feeling from growing inside her, she didn’t understand completely what it meant.

  But something was there, though. Something important.

  “Yes. John said he didn’t do it. He said he was going to get a lawyer, but I don’t even know if he got one.”

  “He’s in Mexico?” Alicia said.

  “Yes. Yes. He went there today.”

  “Oh my God,” Alicia whispered. “Have you talked to our dad?”

  “No, I just called you. I didn’t know who else to call. The kids don’t even know yet.”

  “Okay. Let me try to call him. I’m going to call my dad, too. I’ll get ready and come over, okay? I can call out of work tomorrow.” She was already stepping out of bed, seeing that Mark was sitting up and turning on his bedside lamp.

  “Are you sure? You don’t mind?” Diane said.

  “Of course not. Give me about a half hour.”
>
  She got off the phone and headed to her closet.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Mark said.

  “My brother. He went to Mexico, apparently.”

  “What?” Mark got out of bed.

  “Yeah, I don’t know what’s happening.” Alicia simultaneously dug through her hangers and flicked through her phone’s names until she found John. “Calling him.”

  She put the phone to her ear and listened as it rang.

  Once.

  And then went to voicemail.

  “Damn it,” she said, hanging up.

  “Nothing?”

  “His phone’s off.” She shoved a shirt over her head and then started reaching for pants, halfway looking at her phone to find her father’s number.

  And it rang.

  Once.

  And then went to voicemail.

  “This is insane,” she said loud enough so that Mark could hear.

  “Nothing either?”

  “The whole world has decided to stop talking.” She shoved her legs into a pair of sweats and then exited the closet. “I’m heading over there.”

  “You want me to come?”

  “No. Get some sleep. I’ll let you know what’s happening in the morning.”

  She walked over and kissed him. “I love you.”

  “Love you too,” he answered.

  * * *

  Scott woke up in a New York City hotel room. He hadn’t slept in New York before, and he briefly recognized that as he opened his eyes and looked out the window next to his bed. He’d spent a good deal of money on the room, giving him a view over Time Square. He knew this would be the one and only night he slept here, not just the room, but the city. Whatever he found out today would probably put such a horrible taste in his mouth that he’d never return.

  He had a few hours to kill but didn't really know how to spend them. He hadn’t thought of sightseeing when he booked the trip; he made the two most important reservations, one being the hotel, and then flew out of Dallas.

  His phone had been off since he boarded the plane and he didn’t plan on turning it back on. He would hear this out and then make whatever decisions needed to be made by himself. He didn’t want to hear Alicia’s worries or even John’s. Not yet. Lori left this up to him and so he would be the one to carry it.

  Scott toured through the early morning trying to see as much as he could. His mind wouldn’t let him, though, not really. His mind focused on what was coming next, and so the sights all fell to a secondary, perhaps even third-rate issue.

  And, finally, he found himself at the building that housed the man he came to see. A tall thing with a lot of offices, which surprised Scott, given the man’s age he wanted to meet. Scott followed the signs, up the elevator, and found the correct office. He told the lady up front who he was here to see and then sat down to wait.

  “Mr. Hilt?”

  Scott had been staring at the wall, completely oblivious to the world.

  He blinked and looked to the door that led to the individual offices. “Yes, Dr. Brighton?”

  “That’s right, come on back.”

  The man was old. Even older than Scott, but he stood straight and appeared to have a wiry strength underneath his tailored suit. He wore a tie but not the suit jacket and his face was clean shaven.

  Scott stood and walked across the office, where Dr. Brighton shook his hand. “Nice to meet you,” Scott said.

  “You too, I’m right this way.”

  They went through a brief hallway and then Scott found himself in the nicest office he’d ever seen.

  “Wow.”

  “Working until seventy-eight does have its perks, I suppose.”

  Scott didn’t turn around but just took in the size of the office and the immaculate scene around him. The window was wall to wall, showing New York City's skyline. Multiple couches sat around a marble desk as if this was a living room and not a psychiatrist's office charging five hundred dollars an hour.

  “Go on, sit anywhere you like.”

  Scott didn’t know exactly which couch to take, so he went to the one on his right and sat. The doctor walked around the marble table and took the one sitting diagonal, with the arms of the couches touching.

  “You really piqued my curiosity asking about Vondi. At my age, and with this work, it takes a lot to make me curious, so thank you for that. I hadn’t thought of him in ten years; I moved out this way right after his death.”

  Scott smiled, though he didn’t want to. “I wish I were here about something a little more pleasant.”

  “So you’re wanting to talk about Vondi? May I ask why?”

  Scott looked at the table in front of him, not fully sure what he wanted to say—or rather, how to say it.

  “My son used to see him a long time ago. My son and my wife … Jesus, this is going to sound absolutely ridiculous. My wife died a little over ten years ago, and she told me some disturbing things while she was in the hospital. I thought, back then, that … well, I guess that she was dying and didn’t know what she was talking about.”

  Scott looked to the doctor.

  “Some things have happened recently that make me wonder if I was wrong, though. I know this is a real long shot, but I wanted to ask if Dr. Vondi ever talked to you about my son.”

  The doctor leaned back on his couch, placing his hands on his knees. “What’s your son’s name?”

  “John Hilt.”

  Dr. Brighton didn’t move one way or the other, just kept that peculiar position.

  “Have you heard of doctor-patient privilege, Mr. Hilt?”

  He nodded. “Yes, I knew this was a long shot, but I just hoped … I want to know what’s wrong with my son.”

  The doctor stood up from the couch and went to the large window, giving Scott his back. He put his hands behind his back, clasping one with the other.

  “I’ve never seen anyone die like Vondi did. It was something out of a horror movie.”

  Scott nodded. “I heard.”

  “So, you’ve only just heard? A few days ago? You didn’t know when it happened?”

  “No,” Scott said. “No one spoke about it back then.”

  “Your son, John—he was seeing Vondi when it happened, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “All that happened a long time ago,” Dr. Brighton said. “I suppose at this point I have enough money that I don’t need my medical license if I’m called before the board. There are some ethical issues with me talking to you as well, but I don’t think Vondi would mind.” He paused for a long second, almost to the point that Scott wasn’t sure he’d continue. “I wanted to say something when it happened, but I didn’t, because I didn’t know all that much.”

  The doctor turned around.

  “I remember the name Hilt because it’s unique. He spoke about your son a few times. Did he ever leave the States?”

  Scott nodded.

  The doctor’s lips formed a thin line.

  “Vondi spoke about him before he left and then he spoke about him when he came back. He was worried about your son—what’s his name?”

  “John.”

  The doctor nodded. “What’s going on with him now?”

  Scott still looked at the doctor’s back, and was glad for it, because he didn’t know what in the hell to say. “I … This is just going to sound stupid.”

  “You came a long way, Mr. Hilt; I wouldn’t worry about sounding stupid in a shrink’s office.”

  “It’s nothing. That’s the point. He missed his mother’s death anniversary. His wife and his sister say he’s been acting differently. There’s not really anything to shake your finger at. Just what his mother said to me when she was dying.”

  Scott sighed.

  “John’s gone through a lot of dark spells.” He watched the doctor nodding, though he remained silent. “He came out years ago and told us he was an alcoholic, and that’s why he went through those spells. I think he’s heading into another one of those, except he
doesn’t sound like he’s drinking.”

  “Has he ever sounded like he’s drinking? Have you seen him drunk?” the doctor said, interrupting Scott in the briefest pause.

  “No.”

  “How long do these spells last, Mr. Hilt?”

  “A few months, usually.”

  Dr. Brighton turned around so they faced each other. “What did your wife say?”

  Scott hadn’t recognized how much he already gave this man, opening up more than he ever planned. And now he would tell him something he hadn’t told anyone, ever. He met the doctor’s gaze; Scott could tell the man understood the dilemma, how much to give up in his search for answers.

  “She said that I had to protect his wife and kids. That one day he’d hurt them.”

  Again that slow nod from Dr. Brighton.

  “Has he hurt them?”

  “No. Never.”

  “I don’t know what Vondi thought, exactly,” Dr. Brighton said. “That’s why I never said anything. He was scared of your son, though. That, and he felt some kind of duty to stop him.”

  “Stop him from what?” Scott said.

  “I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me; I’m not sure he even knew. He was searching, though—looking for something on your son that might support whatever he had in his mind. To be honest, I thought he was going a bit overboard until he wound up with a knife lodged in his neck.”

  * * *

  The notebook sang to him the same as sirens once sang to sailors.

  Scott knew that if he opened it, just as the sailors knew if they responded, that a lot of pain waited. Yet, the allure was growing too great. He knew it, and yet he sat in the plane not opening his carryon.

  Where the notebook resided.

  Vondi had been worried about John.

  Lori had been worried about John.

  Now, Alicia and Diane worried about John.

  The only person that hadn’t worried, apparently, was him—because Scott worried about nothing. Always laughing at those that did, ribbing both Lori and Alicia every chance you got. And now it feels like the world sits on your shoulders, doesn’t it? Because you ignored all of this for far too long.

  So open the goddamn notebook and find out what you’re so scared of.