“Jimmy’s father?”
“I know … I know what you’re thinking.”
He didn’t think she did. But then again, it was probably written all over his face in big red letters.
“Do I think Ray killed him,” she said, blunt as a hammer. She didn’t give him a second to respond. No need.
“I think those two bastards roughed him up,” she said. “But Jake Maxwell? Frank Wright? Even those cowards wouldn’t beat a man so bad he couldn’t drive. You see what I’m saying? They all said he just got in his truck and drove off. If he was that bad off, he wouldn’t have gotten so far, right? He was miles from that place. So no, I don’t think Ray killed him. Even Ray’s not that stupid. But what I do think—what I know—is that he was in on it, and there’s more to this than I know. Tommy Long was a big man. From what I’ve heard he was no stranger to brawling. He got his licks in. Ray was bleeding pretty badly when he got home, so it was pretty obvious he’d been in another good one. That scar on his face? He didn’t get that shaving. And he didn’t expect the police to show up when they did.”
“Someone talked?”
“Are you kidding? It was the talk of the county. Everyone and his cousin threw in their two cents. It was suicide. It was murder. It was an accident. It was all just hearsay and gossip. Just to pass the time while the corn grew. But after a while, even the wind stops whispering. People move on. The sad thing was, no one cared enough about Tommy Long to find out what really happened.”
“But someone blew the whistle on Ray.”
“Just the biggest mouth of all,” she said, matter-of-factly. “That’s the thing about Ray. Can’t keep his mouth shut. Never could.” She shook her head with a subtle grin of satisfaction that Kain did not imagine. “He was drunk, of course. That’s the key to the lock on the Ray Bishop Well of Secrets. About six months after it all happened, he’s up at the bar, shooting off about how he took down this big Indian. I guess for once, someone was actually listening to his bullshit.”
“The whisper of the wind.”
Lynn nodded.
“So what happened?”
She sighed. “To this day I don’t know. The police asked Ray a few questions, but that was it. They were just going through the motions. I guess they had to fill in some kind of report. Ray told them it wasn’t him, just ask Jake and Frank. Well, that was good enough for the cops. One of them actually said the Indian got what he deserved. I was stunned. The three of them just stood there on the veranda, laughing. Then the cops left. They talked to the other two Stooges, and who would have guessed, they backed Ray up.”
“Why would they do that?”
“They know Ray.”
“They’re afraid of him.”
She nodded grimly.
“A part of me wants to believe this never happened,” she said. “I guess I just don’t want to believe it. But I can never be sure.”
“What do you mean?”
She hesitated. “I think … I think Tommy Long was in good enough shape to make it all the way home,” she said. “I think Ray followed him.”
“Go on.”
“Maybe the man stopped to sleep it off. Who knows. I think Ray surprised him. Beat him within an inch of his life. But he didn’t kill him. But I guess it comes out the same.”
He was about to ask if she’d ever said a word to the police, then gave himself a mental shake. Of course not.
“Lynn … couldn’t the cops tell the guy was all beat up? I mean, wasn’t it obvious?”
He might as well have told her she had some terminal illness. The muted color she still held vanished in an instant.
“… There was an explosion.” Her voice was hardly a voice at all.
It struck him. In the chaos of the aftermath, standing there in the hospital with that shard still lodged in his back and not knowing what to tell her, he had spoken briefly with Lynn on the telephone; he had insisted, quite vehemently, to State Trooper Berridge, that he make the call. She had been unexpectedly calm at first, taking his measured words in stride (he had made it very clear that everyone, everyone, was safe and sound), but then, suddenly, as if he had crawled into her mind and had dug up the devil of all devils, she had uttered some inhuman groan into the receiver, probably not really knowing that she had, and then she had laid it down in its cradle, cutting him off, and had most likely come as close to a breakdown as a person could. He had not had the courage to call her back, not right away, but when he had, it had been too late. She’d called a friend for a lift and was already on her way.
Lynn … Lynn … there was an explosion.
“He never stood a chance,” she said, and small tears began to grow in her eyes. “They could hardly tell it was human, let alone Tommy Long.”
“I’m all right,” she went on, before he could say a word. “But when you told me what happened … when I think what could have happened—”
“You okay?”
“I’m not crazy, am I? If Ray found out—if he even had an inkling about Lee even thinking about that boy—”
He took her hand and stroked it gently. “Hey … nothing’s going to happen.”
She searched his eyes for greater reassurance than his words could offer; he doubted them himself. It was one thing to stand up to Ray Bishop in a public place, but it was quite another to keep the man at a distance for good. She knew, as well as he, that no one could truly keep her family safe, that perhaps only the death of Ray Bishop could make it so. And even then, yes, even then, the man’s ugly legacy would still linger. The fear would still linger. In her dreams, and in her heart.
~ 26
The hostile clouds rolled in quickly as they headed back, and by the time they reached the footbridge, a leaden sheet had consumed the sky. A thunderclap rumbled in the distance, but not as far off as they might have hoped.
“We’re gonna get soaked,” Lynn said, suddenly hurrying, as the first few drops of rain spat down on them. It stopped as quickly as it had come, but a great fork of lightning lit up the horizon, just to remind them it was only going to get nasty, fast.
Kain crossed first, leading her by the hand over that makeshift bridge of moldering logs. He had been moving as quickly as his injury would allow, but now a spasm choked his efforts. He stopped on the other side and stiffened.
“You gonna make it, cowboy?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, eyeing the coming storm. You could see a dull, undulating haze in the distance, the rains hanging there like gray sheets on a clothesline. “We might have to wait it out in those woods.”
“They’ll eat us alive in there.”
More drops came. More. Harder. They felt like tiny sharp stones. They hurried across the meadow, and just as they reached the cusp of the forest a thunderboomer deafened them. It seemed to come from the dark woods, as if some demon had awakened from a long slumber, growling in hunger. The rain came harder still, and they were fortunate to find cover behind a wise old oak just wide enough for two. It was gloomy here, gray and colorless, and the trees held no permanent form; only brief flashes of lightning gave them any hint of what lay about them. The path itself had become a long black snake that seemed to slither this way and that with every burst of light.
“It’s creepy in here,” Lynn said, taking his arm.
He had to admit … it was. The silence was worse than the gloom. And when they had passed through before, it was almost as if—
Lynn groaned.
“What? What is it?”
He saw it when she pointed. A brilliant flash from above revealed more than either of them wanted to see: a half-eaten squirrel, gnawed from its tail to its splayed guts. Its eyes were bulging black marbles. The left had been clawed at, slit the way it was. Kain moved down out of cover from the rain, and nudged the remains into the underbrush with his boot before sliding back up beside her.
“Thank you.” Lynn swatted a bloated red sac of mosquito on her forearm. Dozens more swarmed all around them. “We can’t stay here long.”
She paused. “It’s not just the bugs. I don’t like it here.”
He sat patiently, trying to ignore the swarm, trying to ignore the rain. It came in buckets for a solid two minutes before he thought he might catch a break; the sky brightened a moment, only to darken and deepen.
Still, the rains eased, but not nearly enough. They came in that soft drizzle now, like silky voices falling all around him. And he did not like what they were saying.
“Kain?”
He stared at the snake-path. It was the only way to keep his mind from drifting too far. Too deep.
“Kain.”
He heard her; he did. The rain ebbed. Now there was nothing but the odd pitter and patter of drops on leaves.
“Sorry,” he said. The gloom had lifted slightly, and he was thankful for that. “Sorry.”
“Penny for your thoughts,” she said, a little anxious. She was still thrashing those relentless mosquitoes.
“I was thinking about Lee,” he told her, and while he hadn’t been in those last few minutes, he had been all afternoon. Ever since he pulled her from the cab.
“What about?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. We should get going.”
“What’s the matter?”
His somber expression betrayed him. When he had pulled the young girl out—when her shirt had caught on the door handle and he had been forced to rip her arm free—he had seen the horrific scarring on her arm. He was no expert, but it didn’t take a degree in human anatomy to know the girl had been caught in a tragic fire. No wonder she had fallen so terrified, so quickly; no wonder she wore long sleeves. And now that he thought about it, he couldn’t remember her wearing shorts, either.
“Can I ask you something? If you don’t want to answer, just tell me it’s none of my business.”
“… I guess so.”
“You said Lee has some kind of skin condition?”
Lynn nodded. She waved at a swarm.
“Is it something they can treat?”
She swatted a mosquito with a hard slap on her arm.
“I don’t mean to pry,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right,” she said sharply, clearly undone by his probing. She thrashed angrily at the swarming bugs and rose in a stammer. “Damn these things!”
The rain stopped. Thunder rumbled in the east, and the forest began to take shape again.
“Lynn, there’s blood—” It was all over her face where the bugs had feasted. But she wasn’t listening now.
“Can we get out of here? Please?”
She led him, but he had to stop her. “Lynn … it’s this way.”
She stopped short and turned round on the path. She smeared the blood on her cheeks with her forearm trying to rub it off. She moved past him.
“Lynn,” he said after her. “Lynn.”
She stopped again, and he stopped ten feet behind her.
“How much did you see?” she asked. “How much?”
“… Enough … enough.”
“There was a fire,” she said weakly. “Is that enough?”
He walked up behind her. “It’s enough.”
~
The way through the woods felt much longer going back. The murkiness grew as the clouds above the canopy deepened again, and that unnerving silence they had experienced before seemed to swallow them. They walked without words.
Light suddenly poured in up ahead. It was another fifty yards before forest fell to meadow.
Lynn, who in the shadows looked like some kind of strange, gangling forest creature as she flailed at the swarms about her, suddenly froze.
Kain stopped twenty paces behind her. “What—”
“Shhhh.”
“I don’t—”
“SHHHH!”
Kain listened. Far off … very far off … thunder.
“The storm,” he whispered.
“Not that … listen.”
There. Beneath the distant rumble. Something else. Something entirely different.
Entirely inhuman.
“What is that?” He had never heard anything like it. Except it did sound like—like—
NO.
His eyes darted left and right.
Nothing.
It came again. That strange, strange sound.
“Kain—”
“I hear it.”
Again. Abrasive, rasping and grotesque. And sickly; something excruciating from the rotting insides of whatever horror vomited that otherworldly sound.
“I want to get out of here,” Lynn said, her voice wavering. She started moving.
Kain barely got out her name; he couldn’t be certain he had actually cried out. Couldn’t be certain he wasn’t imagining the whole unimaginable thing.
Darkness—that’s what it was in these cheerless woods, all it could possibly be—swallowed Lynn Bishop’s head and seemingly most of her shoulders. It swept down from above like a beast, leaping from the trees like the nocturnal predator that it was. But it wasn’t darkness, it was what the drifter had feared it to be—what he had known it to be. It was Costello, oily and black and yellowed in the eyes, bony and hungering. Costello, who had suffered a terrifying Turn for the worse … Costello, who was simply insane.
The cat-thing clawed at the mane of blonde, hissing and screeching, fearing nothing but the hunger that gnawed at its decaying innards. Its prey, the lovely Lynn Bishop, the woman who had found it starving on this very trail so many years ago and had nursed it back to health, shrieked and shrieked and shrieked … and shrieked some more.
Kain shot forward and latched onto the thing. There was wetness, slick and thick, and he reeled at its touch; the Turn had done this, had turned soft, huggable fur into a matted mass of oiliness. It reeked like something dead, as if its insides were rot. His hands slipped off as easily as they would gripping a greased pole, and when he went for it again, he saw those yellowed, insane eyes. He nearly froze, but when Lynn shrieked the way she did then, he seized the cat—it was just Costello now, only Costello, Here kitty-kitty, nice kitty-kitty—and dug into that slick fur with everything he had. Claws lashed at his hand. The animal snapped at him with fangs bared; something slimy dribbled from them and felt hot as it touched his skin. He squeezed harder, and the thing wailed. It seemed to spit up, and then it vomited something bloody and thick and green along his arm.
Lynn had stopped shrieking, her piercing screams now horrible sobs. She had turned halfway round, arms thrashing about, and very nearly caught Kain square in the face with an elbow. He pulled and pulled at the thing stuck in her hair, yet it wouldn’t budge. It kept hissing and shrieking and clawing, all at once. And those insane eyes kept looking at him. Into him.
You did this, they said. You made me.
Brikker had made him a monster.
Now the monster was making monsters.
Kain wrestled with it as he ripped it from Lynn’s hair. The thing wailed, clawing at him, and just as it was about to fang into the webbing between his right thumb and forefinger, he grunted an inhuman groan and thrust the animal aside. It struck the trunk of a tree, and there was the unmistakable crack of breaking bone. It let out a horrible shriek. It struggled on limp legs, turning in crazed three-sixties as if chasing its tail, and if there had been any doubt of just what this thing was (ah, but of course there had been none, not really), the small white patch on its left hind leg had taken that doubt and had choked the life from it. He stepped toward the thing, defying it to come at him, but he could see that its will was no match for its fear. He had snapped its kitty ribs, broken its kitty spirit, and now it staggered, all oily and black, red and green goo dribbling from its jaws. It may have devoured a squirrel or two, maybe some birds, yet it looked positively starved; perhaps its twisted mind could no longer hunt like a stealthy cat, but rather like a rambling wild man in the street. And that would seem to explain the uncanny silence in the woods: any birds or small animals had long since fled from this most insane of predators. He fixed on it, wond
ering what it could possibly be thinking, if indeed it still could. Its pathetic eyes had grown impossibly deeper, looking wild, wild, wild.
“What happened to her?” Lynn said, her voice on the edge of breaking. “What happened to her?”
Eerily, the cat turned to its owner. It seemed to recognize, at some distant level, the humanness in that face, and cast a sickly, vile hiss that made Lynn reel in disgust and fear. It looked utterly a beast. As if it had never been a cat at all, but had been born a freak, an abomination God had never meant to be.
“Is it rabies? Is it rabies?”
The drifter did not respond to this hurried double question. Slowly he backed away, and found himself trembling as he stood beside Lynn Bishop. She tugged at his arm, had to tug it a second time before he turned to her. She looked to him for a word. Any word at all.
He had none to give.
When they looked again, Costello was gone.
~ 27
It had taken nearly an hour to calm Lynn down. She had fled the somber woods in tears and had not looked back, and when the trembling and the questions and the tears had stopped, she had taken the flatbed up to her parent’s farm. Kain had tried to explain; yes, of course, it had to be rabies, what else could it be. He had offered to find Costello, not really believing he could or if he should, and she had steadfastly said, no, No, NO. She admitted she still wasn’t certain it had been her beloved pet, but then the tears had come again as she started the engine. He had asked if she was all right to drive, and she told him she needed to be alone; needed to clear her head before she told Lee-Anne. He had watched her go, the flatbed shrinking to a trail of dust in the distance, and it was all he could do not to Turn about a hundred years. Not that he could. He had limits, limits that had grown less capable, and ever more damaging to him. But if he were able, if he were lucky … maybe, just maybe, in the new timeline, he would have been born without curse. And maybe Brikker would have died in the womb.
~
Not knowing what else to do, and with a break in the weather, he had decided to take up the painting. The storm had left most of the earlier work soaked (luckily, they had gotten the paint on early enough for it to dry first), but the east side was bone dry. There were three ladders in the barn, a small step, a twenty-foot, and a behemoth forty-footer he called Big Boy. It was backbreakingly heavy, but he had managed to get it up along the side of the outbuilding. When he had asked where she had gotten such a beast, Lynn had told him how her good husband had just come home with it one night (with the two Stooges in the back of the now-blown-up pickup, desperately holding onto the thing and hollering over it like the plundered treasure it was), how there had been a report in the papers the following week that the Spencer Fire Department had been burglarized, surprise, surprise. He remembered how sad she had sounded—and afraid, even after all these years—after telling him how she had picked up the phone and called, only to hang up when someone had actually answered down at the old Hook & Ladder.
Velvet Rain - A Dark Thriller Page 20
