Velvet Rain - A Dark Thriller

by David C. Cassidy

  “Ma?”

  Lynn was looking at Kain with obvious concern. “Are you all right? You’re a little pale.”

  “Just a headache.” Not a lie. His head was pounding, and his blood was still boiling. He hadn’t Turned very far, but it felt as if he’d gone back a lifetime.

  “I have to say,” she said, “I feel a doozy coming on myself …”

  “Something wrong?” She had a puzzled look on her face. And more.

  “It’s the strangest thing. I was just thinking about Benny. Did you see the way he was walking?”

  “I think he said his leg fell asleep.”

  “My legs feel the same way. Not asleep, though. Achy.”

  “Ma.”

  Lynn looked up and did a double take. Lee’s fair skin was sunburned. The girl held up her hands and turned them to show the backs. The same reddish tan.

  “You too, Ma.”

  “What—?”

  Lynn Bishop took stock of her own hands and rose in a start. She seemed to stumble in her mind as she considered this latest piece of a growing puzzle; you could see the wheels turning behind her eyes, the confusion. There was a small mirror in the hall, and she checked herself in it. She uttered a nearly silent omigod, then returned to her seat. She held the look of a woman who has suddenly lost faith in all she holds dear.

  Her eyes met her guest’s and stayed there.

  “How long were you outside?” Kain said. “Watering the plants, I mean.”

  “Ten minutes. That’s all. My hands weren’t like this.”

  “Mine, either,” Lee-Anne said.

  “Are you allergic to anything? Maybe you came in contact with something.”

  Lynn shook her head firmly. “No. The worst I get is a stuffy nose in the spring. Besides … both of us?”

  Kain looked to the girl.

  “I wasn’t outside today,” she told him. “And we weren’t like this a few minutes ago.”

  His eyes were fine—they always were after a Turn, and for that he was always grateful—but he went through the motions of checking his hands. Like his face, they were deeply tanned from his travels, and so did not show the burn that he, too, had received. Sometimes he felt nauseous, but that was rare.

  “Maybe your science teacher could explain it,” he said innocently.

  Lee pointed to his boots. “What is that?”

  The drifter made good on a practiced effort to appear surprised. The powder didn’t always show after a Turn, but sometimes it did—sometimes like now—and the further back he dared turn God’s clock, the more of a tell it usually was. All he could do was feign a shrug. He ran a finger along his right boot where the stuff clung to it. He examined the sample a moment, then simply rubbed it off on his jeans as if it were ordinary dust. Brikker had run test after test on it, had found it unidentifiable; the man had proclaimed it not of this Earth.

  “It’s a mystery.”

  Lynn leaned in for a look. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it was talcum.” She served him a small grin. “I would have never guessed.”

  “It does look like that,” he said, keeping things light, “but I’m not sure you’d find any in my knapsack.”

  Lee said: “What do you think it is?”

  “I have no idea,” he said. “I don’t think it was on my boots before I set out. I’m pretty sure of that.”

  Lynn raised a brow.

  The static was growing; it dizzied. Coupled with the steel hammer pounding in his brain, it was a wonder he was as unruffled as he was. He felt drained, almost fragile; the Turn had done a real number on him this time.

  “Could I trouble you for some water?”

  Lynn got him a drink, and he drained the entire glass. She got him another, and he drained that.

  “It’s the heat,” she said. “Take it easy.”

  He nodded.

  “I don’t feel so good either,” Lee said, cupping a hand to her stomach. “I think I’m gonna go lie down before I throw up.”

  The girl did not look well. Despite her sudden sunburn, she held an underlying pallor. If only he had a dime for every time he saw someone vomit after a Turn. Brikker’s men would have made him filthy rich all by themselves, the puking bastards.

  Lee started upstairs, then turned. “We still on?”

  He looked to Lynn for approval.

  “As long as you’re up to it, young lady.”

  The girl nodded and went up.

  “Feeling better?” Lynn said.

  “A little.”

  She got him a third glass of water.

  “Not so fast this time, okay?”

  He took it slow. The burning inside had begun to ease, but his head still felt as if it had been split with an ax.

  Lynn shifted uncomfortably, stroking her arms and legs. She got up for some water moving quite stiffly.

  “Would you like some aspirin? I could use some.”

  “Please. Thanks.”

  She left him to go upstairs, returned shortly with four pills, and they both took a pair. They couldn’t hurt, but Kain figured they wouldn’t help. Only time would, and wasn’t that some lovely irony for you.

  Lynn eased back in her chair. She looked very run down suddenly. A small sigh escaped her.

  “You know something?” she said, and quickly retreated. “Never mind … it’s silly.”

  “What …”

  She straightened a bit.

  “What is it?”

  “Well … I’d swear Beaks did this before.”

  “The day I showed up.”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  “I thought you said he never gets his fur up.”

  “He doesn’t. But I was wrong.”

  He had to prod her to go on.

  “It was you,” she said. “He was growling at you. Right here in this kitchen.”

  “You mean before today.”

  “Yes. I can’t explain it, but it’s like … I don’t know … like déjà vu or something.”

  “Maybe it was another dog,” he said. “Ever have a different one?”

  “Well, sure … when I was young, but …”

  “There you go. Just mixing up two memories.”

  “I guess it’s possible,” she said, looking completely unconvinced.

  Static. Small fits of it. As if his brain wasn’t screaming enough already. Screaming what he already knew.

  Lynn Bishop had the Sense.

  She rubbed her temples. “I’m beat.”

  “You might want to lie down, too.”

  “I think I might. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Not at all. You should rest. And thanks for lunch.”

  She walked him to the door, and he thanked her again. He left her and headed down the steps. He stopped to listen and heard her take the stairs. He waited a moment longer to be sure she didn’t come back down.

  The tabby began to limp across the yard when it stopped cold. It turned sharply to the stranger, to the little ghost it had sensed, its eyes burning with bloodshot. The thing hissed, and then hobbled off as fast as its uncertain legs could take it.

  Kain moved up on the veranda, and as he did, a cawing crow startled him. He knelt down, and then he scattered the faint powder there with his hand. He blew on it gently until all of it slipped between the deck boards. No one would know it had been there—luckily, Ryan Bishop or Ben Caldwell hadn’t seen the thin outline it had made round his boots—at least he hoped they hadn’t—but it wouldn’t be long before someone noticed this.

  His heart sank. He got up and stood at the steps. The crow bolted from the oak, swept past him and started to soar. He watched it for a time, marveling at its broad dark wings against that deep Iowa sky … and wondered if he would ever be free.

  ~ 14

  Ryan Bishop turned in his seat and faced the road. The thick blanket of dust behind the pickup made it impossible to see his home now, and he’d had enough of the view anyway. The Ghost had been messing with his dog, and somehow,
the man had been messing with something else. He didn’t know what that something was, exactly, couldn’t pin a finger on it, but one thing was certain. He didn’t trust the drifter. And never would.

  The truck rambled along, the driver ever heavy with the foot. Ben had bought the truck last summer from his cousin, Freddie Price, a country singer who had married the older sister of a kid from Winterset named John Wayne. The kid called himself the Little Duke, that’s what Freddie had told Ben, anyway, and Ben always bragged to anyone who would listen about how he was related to the real Duke. It was bullshit, most stuff with Ben was, but it was like Ben always said, it ain’t the steak, it’s the sizzle. And besides, telling people he was cousin to the Ringo Kid was a great way to get girls to make out. At least, go out.

  “We gonna make it?” Ryan was eyeing the fuel gauge. From his angle, the needle had passed the E about a hundred miles back. They were supposed to be on 71, heading north to Spirit to do some fishing (the largemouth were biting this year, despite the drought and the low water levels), but leave it to Ben to have to make a pit stop for gas. Hell, it seemed he had to make a pit stop to piss every five miles. The guy had a bladder problem, that’s for sure, and there wasn’t an inning where he wasn’t draining the dragon on the sidelines. Coach Plummer said Ben had more water in him than all the lakes in Iowa.

  “Relax,” Ben said, adjusting the radio to another station. “It’s only a couple more miles.” He caught the last few seconds of “Susie Baby” by Bobby Vee and the Shadows, before Paul Anka carried on about a girl named Diana.

  “Shit,” he said. “Just missed it.”

  “I’m sick of that song.”

  “What—‘Diana’?”

  “‘Susie Baby.’”

  “Why?” Ben Caldwell, an admitted Bobby Vee fanatic, held the stunned look of, How could anyone not like this song? Ben liked to brag he had actually met the man in Minneapolis, which of course was bullshit, because Ben had never been outside the state. But what was truly annoying about Ben’s hard-on for Bobby Vee (the man’s music, anyway) was that Benny believed, cross-my-heart-hope-to-die believed, he was forever linked with the man’s success. Three years ago, just minutes before Buddy Holly’s plane went down in that field in Clear Lake, Ben’s sister had been partying at the Surf Ballroom. She’d made the stone’s throw down Highway 18 to see Holly and the Big Bopper, Ritchie Valens, too, and after the show, had told anyone who would listen she’d blown Buddy a good-luck kiss before he’d left the stage. Well, didn’t Ben think that was just the cat’s ass, his sister saved Buddy Holly. Thing was, Holly canceled his appearance in Moorhead the next night, and didn’t that give a break to a fifteen-year-old unknown named Bobby Vee. The ultimate Caldwell Connection.

  “I just am.” Ryan rubbed his eyes. They’d been stinging since they left. Before they left. Just after—

  Just after the Ghost did something.

  It was driving him crazy. The guy did do something, he was sure of it. It was almost as if the bastard had slipped a card from under his sleeve when he was looking the other way. He felt duped, by some very strange magic.

  But it was more than that. His mind was racing. It was like trying to build a puzzle in the dark. The pieces were out there somewhere, you could find some of them if you felt around, but you couldn’t find all of them. And even if you did, you couldn’t hope to put them together. Not in any order that made any sense, at least.

  “Keep rubbin’ ’em and they’re gonna pop out,” Ben said.

  Ryan ignored him. His legs were stiff as nails; worse still, his head throbbed. And when he had looked at the drifter, just when Ben had asked what was wrong with Beaks and their eyes met, he’d seen something dark. Doubt? Worry? Yes, but something more. The guy was hiding something.

  “You all right, Rye?”

  “Just drive.”

  “Hey. I got big news.”

  They trailed a lumbering station wagon. There were five German shepherds in the vehicle, two in the back seat, and three crowded into the cargo area. Benny drove a fist into the horn. He was doing seventy-five, coming up fast. He laid on the horn again.

  “Slow down, will ya?”

  “Jeeze, I hate these old fogies,” Ben said, and he floored it. He pulled out to pass, half-blinded by the dust from the station wagon. He didn’t see the truck coming the other way until it was nearly too late.

  “Ben!”

  Ben Caldwell gave a quick wink to his passenger. The truck shot forward and cut off the car ahead, just missing the oncoming pickup. The driver of the other truck had to veer onto the shoulder and nearly lost control. Ryan whirled round in his seat and saw the pickup ease back onto the road. The station wagon had slowed, and both vehicles were lost in the swirling dust that swept into them. Beaks lay on his side, rolling a bit, but the old dog was none the worse for wear. Ryan slipped back into his seat.

  “Nice goin’, Ben. I think my heart stopped.”

  “Come on, no biggie.”

  “That was Clara Brayfield, idiot. She’s gonna call your Ma. If she saw me, she’s gonna call mine, too.”

  “She’s half blind, for cryin’ out loud. She shouldn’t even be drivin’ at her age. She’s a menace, drivin’ so slow.”

  Ryan rolled his eyes. “That was Tom Nolan’s pickup.”

  “Don’t shit me, Rye.”

  “I think it was.”

  “Christ.”

  Tom Nolan was the Nolan in Caldwell & Nolan, a small trucking outfit co-owned by Benny’s father. Ryan looked at Ben but didn’t say a word. If it had been Tom Nolan, Ben could pretty well kiss his wheels goodbye, at least for a month. Back in April, Ben had nearly struck a baby carriage, had missed it by inches; according to Ben it was no biggie, but the fact was, his old man took the keys for two weeks.

  “Maybe it wasn’t Tom,” Ben said.

  “Yeah … maybe.”

  The driver had slowed to forty-five.

  “So what’s the big news?” Ryan asked.

  Ben’s face brightened, a twinkle in his eye. The truck picked up speed, just enough that Ryan noticed.

  “Well?” Ryan said. “Spill it.”

  “I did it.”

  It took Ryan a moment before he realized what his best friend was on about. “Now who’s shittin’ who?”

  “Told you I was gonna call her,” Ben said. “It’s not like she was gonna say no.”

  “You just asked her? Just like that?”

  Ben Caldwell grinned, the kind of grin only ex-virgins could muster. If there had been any doubt in Ryan’s mind, and there had been, just a little, it went up in smoke. Some things you just couldn’t bullshit.

  “Just like that,” Benny said, and he was practically beaming, the son of a gun. “I just went up and knocked on her door. What was left of it, anyway.”

  “I don’t believe it. No way. Next thing you’re gonna tell me is you took her to a fancy motel. The Ritz.”

  Ben punched him in the arm.

  “So where’d you do it, huh?” Ryan said. “Come on, Mr. Bigshot.”

  “Her place.”

  “You did it there? In that dump?”

  Marge Bonner, the Banshee of Clay County, called a twenty-foot trailer home, out near the river. The thing had been burned out two summers back by her fourth ex-husband (Jack Mitchell, if Ryan remembered right), but the woman still lived in it. Rats and all.

  Ben shrugged. “Seemed as good a place as any.”

  “Did it smell?”

  “What? Her?”

  “You dumbass. The trailer.”

  “Like shit. Burnt rat turds.”

  Ryan wasn’t sure what burnt rat turds smelled like, but he was pretty sure it was close to that slimy shit Beaks laid out in the backyard, after the old dog ate something he shouldn’t have. Something wicked.

  “You coulda done it in the truck,” he said. “That’s what I woulda done.”

  “Yeah, listen to Don Juan here.”

  “I’m just sayin’.”

  �
�It was good. Really good. Great.”

  “What’s she like? She’s got big tits.”

  “The hugest. They get bigger when she’s goin’ at it.”

  “Really?” Ryan had never heard of such a miracle, but he had to admit, you couldn’t just make up shit like that. Not even Bullshit Benny. After all, how would he know something like that?

  Ben nodded proudly. He cupped a hand round an imaginary breast, one that had to be the size of a large melon. The speedometer read fifty-five suddenly.

  “So what happened? Did she … you know.”

  Ever since Ben boasted he was going to nail her (Ryan recalled the moment vividly, it was last July 4 during the fireworks in Spencer, she had strolled past them wearing the tightest pair of cut-off jeans, and a T-shirt three times too small for her eye-popping bosom), there had been a long-standing wager between them over one particular point—the you know—and from the widening grin on Ben’s face, Ryan knew he had lost the dollar.

  “Shit, Ben … really?”

  “She’s a banshee, all right.” Ben grinned. “Bet they heard her all the way to Spirit.”

  Ryan chuckled. “Minnesota, maybe.”

  Both of them laughed.

  “She’s like some kinda animal,” Ben said. “She likes it from behind. Like a dog.”

  “What?”

  “I think she’d like Beaks.”

  “Shut up. You’re makin’ me sick.”

  “I’m just tellin’ you, is all. She likes it.”

  “That why your legs are so sore?”

  “Damn straight,” Benny said. “Damn straight. She couldn’t get enough of my sizzle … or my steak.”

  Ryan rolled his eyes. “Your cap’s all bent to shit.”

  Ben smiled knowingly. “She’s a wild one.”

  Ryan had to ask. “So she was your first.”

  “Heck no,” Benny told him, almost too defensively.

  Bullshit. But it didn’t matter. Ben had bragging rights now. The only virgin in this vehicle was riding shotgun. Even Beaks was up on him, having sowed his oats with Clara Brayfield’s shepherd about seven years ago.

  Ben grimaced. “I gotta piss.”