“Kain—”
“Go around him—”
“What? We have to help him—”
Without warning, the boy lunged like a madman, raising the bat and thundering it onto the hood. The crack was deafening. The vehicle trembled.
“Kain!”
“GET OUT, DAMMIT!” Ryan shouted.
Again came the thunder. Again.
Kain met his eyes. It was like staring into a great darkness. The wall of static nearly drove him unconscious.
The left headlight exploded. Lynn screamed. The farmhouse barked.
“Roll it up! Lynn! The window!”
Already Kain had his up, but in her terror, Lynn could only fumble; he had to reach across her lap and do it for her. For all the good it might do. He straightened, a painful effort in itself, but he held it together. The fever was running wild in him.
“Come on, drifter! Move it!”
“Omigod! Kain!”
There, just beyond the boy, lay the battered mash of Abbott’s evil twin. Little more than pulp from a vicious beating, her matted fur was infested with flies, dead and not. Her skull was crushed. Her eyes were sockets. Dark blood pooled about her.
The hood thundered.
“You got three seconds,” Ryan said. “One—”
“Ryan! Stop it!”
“—two—”
“RYAN! NO!”
The boy rounded the driver’s side and whacked the wood across the windshield. The glass held, but a second strike cracked it. A third might break it entirely. A third would send Lynn screaming more than she already was.
Ryan made his way round the front and clobbered the grille.
“You killed them, Ghost. You killed them all.”
Lynn had gripped the wheel for dear life. She looked to Kain for a word, anything that might explain this insanity. She was met with grim silence. What could he possibly tell her.
“—killed them—”
The bat came down so fiercely the sound seemed to explode inside the cab. Ryan stood cold and staring.
“You’re a coward,” he said, his voice rising. “You’re a cheat and a liar. Liar! Why don’t you tell her? Huh? Tell her the fucking truth!”
With teary eyes, Lynn appealed to Kain once more. Fear and doubt devoured her.
“Remember those college kids in the convertible? John Wayne? Sarah-Jane? You remember her, don’tcha? Great cook! Did you leave her some stupid note? Didja?”
“What is he talking about?”
“You don’t like snakes,” Ryan said, rambling. “And they sure as hell don’t like you.”
He stammered, and then he struck the grille.
“Who gave you the right? Those kids on the bus were supposed to die! You think you can just play God?”
The house was still barking a fit. Ryan screamed at it to shut the hell up. It didn’t listen.
“He’s just a liar,” he croaked. “He can’t even win at pool without cheating.”
Tears welled in his eyes.
“Ma … he even lied about where he’s from.”
“Kain—”
But the drifter said nothing; only listened. Only wished Brikker had finished him.
“Pep—” The boy sniffled. “He killed Pep.”
“Pepper,” Lynn gasped. “What is he saying? What—”
Ryan kicked the big steel bumper. Thrashed it with all the force he could muster.
“Ask him about Battle Creek. Ask him about Gramps.”
Kain reeled. Static came crashing down like a hammer, from both of them. His body felt afire, just as it had back at the river—when he had lost control. He closed his eyes, and it was all he could do to stop himself from blacking out. Lynn called out his name, called it twice, possibly thrice, it was impossible to tell. He felt sick and weak. If time were to turn now, uncontrolled, unleashed—
“Get out here, you sick sonofabitch. GET OUT HERE.”
“Kain, no, you can’t—”
But somehow, almost unconsciously, he was already working the handle. The door propped ajar.
“Go for help,” was what came. “It’s the only way.”
But Lynn would have none of it. Her expression hardened, and she grabbed the shifter. She moved into gear, gave the vehicle some gas, and Ryan, as quick as a cat, smashed the other headlight. He rushed up to the windshield, and with three wild strokes crashed through it. Glass exploded, showering the occupants. The vehicle stalled. His mother was shrieking.
“Get your drifter ass out here,” Ryan said, his voice suddenly older … and sounding much more wise to the ways of the world.
In a panic, Kain brushed shards of glass off of Lynn. She was sobbing, shaking like a leaf. She seemed unharmed, no cuts or scratches; at least none he could make in the muted light. But of course, the real wounds wouldn’t heal any time soon. If ever.
“Now.”
Kain raised his hands, a nothing-up-my-sleeve kind of thing, and leaned into the door. He slipped out of the cab. Looked back at Lynn. Her eyes were shiny marbles.
Ryan followed his careful movements like a hawk stalking its prey.
“Ryan … it’s over. I’m leaving right now.”
The boy laughed. Laughed hysterically.
“Over? You think this is OVER?”
The teen shook his head listlessly, burying it in that disheartening way that had come to be all too familiar. That stilted gibberish came, ceaseless and repetitive, muted as it usually was, and until now, Kain had never been able to make it out. Not on the mound. Not ever. But here, in this most unlikely of situations, it had finally come to him.
Good for nothin’.
It was what the boy’s father had called him, no doubt drilled into him these many years. The kid was blaming himself. As if he could have stopped this madness somehow. As if the world would have unfolded differently—unfolded as it should have—had he struck Kain out.
As if he could have stopped it all.
Yes. This was surely the real root of the boy’s anger and guilt. It all came down to that fateful day in Lynn’s kitchen. If only the boy had held his grip on the dog … hadn’t coaxed the shepherd outside and into the path of Ben Caldwell … if only. And Ryan Bishop believed every word.
And yes, if there had been any doubt the boy held the Sense, there was none now. He remembered it all.
“Ryan … it’s not your fault.”
But this came, coldly: “I know about the others … I know about Brikker.”
The boy raised his head. The glowing lamp of the moon was just enough to illuminate him, just enough to color him. Ghastly.
“You think you can just keep running? From them?”
“Listen to me … put the bat down.”
“They’ll find you, Ghost. I’ll make sure of it.”
“Please,” Lynn cried. “Please do as he says.”
The hood exploded in thunder.
“Stop protecting him! God dammit!”
Slowly, Kain chanced a few steps, making his way to the front of the flatbed. He kept his hands raised. A threatening swing of the bat backed him off.
“You could have killed us,” Ryan said. “But not really, right? Not for good.”
He looked to his mother. Lynn was numb. He turned back to Kain.
“Did we die? Did we? Is any of this real?”
The boy turned to his mother. Let slip a small laugh that was frightening. “Don’t you remember? Don’t you remember the storm?”
Tears began to river down Lynn Bishop’s cheeks.
“Ryan … please,” Kain said. “Enough.”
Ryan drew back. He reached into the back of his jeans. He fumbled a moment, drawing something out, then flung the something at the drifter’s feet. The diary.
“You think I’m ‘troubled’? Is that what you think, Ghost?”
There was no time to respond. No time to retreat. Ryan rounded the front and came out swinging.
Lynn bolted from the cab crying her son’s name. But he was far too q
uick; too hell-bent. He brought the bat up and down in one swift arc, the thing moving so fast it swept a whiiip through the darkness. Kain tried to dodge, but the bat came hard into his shoulder and he cried out. He nearly lost his footing, the static grilling him, draining him; the fever pitched. His knees were buckling. Again the hickory came, this time wreaking agony on the side of his left arm, and again his cry broke the night. It was all he could do to put up his hands to block the next blow, but his feeble effort failed. Ryan swung so hard the bat broke through and skulled him. Kain uttered no sound, only staggered. The pain was raw and ruinous.
He dropped to his knees. Everything spun. The smiling moon turned a frown.
Lynn was on her son now, loosely piggybacked, clinging with one arm round his throat. The other flailed for the bat. He tried to throw her off, but she fought hard. She was crying, screaming his name, pleading for him to stop. Unbalanced, struggling to keep his footing, Ryan dropped the bat and doubled his efforts, forcing himself free with a horrible grunt. He whipped round and gave his mother a solid shove, and she tumbled to the ground. He was crazed, with eyes burning. Lynn withdrew, sobbing, still pleading.
“He owes us,” Ryan told her. He slipped round and found the bat. He looked insane in the slim moonlight.
“Please … please don’t—”
Barely conscious, Kain had fallen to his side. Lynn’s pleas were distant; he could not be certain he had really heard them. Blood flowed from a great gash in his forehead. The pain throbbed, but the blood itself felt oddly warm as it caressed his skin; some dribbled to his lips, and he could taste its coppery essence. His mind was swimming. Did he smell alcohol? He blinked heavily, but for all intents, he could not see. The world was muddy and dark. All he could sense was a looming figure standing over him.
Ryan raised the bat.
“Please,” Lynn Bishop begged, her voice breaking. Her son, hearing her for perhaps the first time, perhaps hearing his own small inner voice for the very first time in his life, wavered. On uncertain legs he quivered, lips fluid, eyes wide and full, searching for answers. He readied the club again, but again he faltered, and the bloodied bat slipped from his grasp. For a moment, the night stilled; the old farmhouse silenced itself as if time had stopped, as if whatever had made those barking sounds was simply nothing more than a dream that was real. And when that happened, when the ghosts of his past locked chains with those of his present, Ryan Bishop cupped his hands round his ears as if to block out the world, and slipped to his knees in tears.
~ 15
Rain.
The drifter stirred to its soft lull. The room was dim and gray and unfamiliar. Thin yellow curtains hung in the window. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Blurry. Headache. He went to turn on his side, and his arm throbbed.
A modestly framed black-and-white photograph stood on the humble night table, stilling a carefree moment of Ryan Bishop. He was years younger, hugging his sister. They were laughing. Lee hugged a doll. Her eyes were bright and happy. She was wearing short sleeves.
Lynn’s room? But how? How long had he been out?
He had been dreaming, heavily … of his mother.
He felt weak. Dizzy.
The rain drizzled.
~
Lynn was beside him when he woke.
“Time?” His weak voice cracked. She gave him some water. He could still hear the rain. Distant rolling thunder.
“Four-thirty.” She looked worn. Worn out.
He put a hand to his head. Felt the bandages.
“You’ll live,” she told him. She offered a hand to his cheek. “You need to rest. The fever.”
He tried to sit up, and she stopped him.
“Where do you think you’re going, mister?”
He settled back. His searching gaze asked.
Her expression dimmed. “He’s all right,” she said. “As far as that goes, I guess. He’s handling it. Right now, you should rest.”
“Don’t go,” he said, and touched her hand.
She nodded dimly. “Okay.”
“Did you—” He motioned to the bandages.
“You were bleeding pretty badly,” she said. “I wanted to call Doc Wheatley. I almost did. I made do. Kain, I …”
“Thank you,” he said, and she knew. If she had made the call, there would have been more raised brows than she could have handled. Moreover—and more importantly—she had protected him.
She held up a small hand mirror. “Like to see?”
He took it. The bandages covered the right side of his forehead. Some bloodstain there. All around it, his skin was the color of grapes.
She took the mirror and set it next to the photograph, then reached into her pocket and handed him some aspirin. He took them, then swallowed the entire glass of water.
“How’s the arm?”
“Hell. Head’s worse.”
He suddenly realized his shoulders were bare. His eyes fell to the covers, and he lifted them slowly for a peek. He fell back to her. Lynn blushed a little.
“You were a mess,” she said, shrugging. She looked at him reservedly. “It’s Friday.”
“Friday … two days?”
“You cried out a few times,” she said. And then: “You had dreams. Bad ones.”
He could only offer silence.
“Kain,” she said, and fumbled. She rose from his bedside and went to the small bureau there. She stood hesitant, clearly unsettled, and then opened the top drawer and drew out the diary. She handed it to him, and he set it down beside him.
“I didn’t read it,” she said. “He tried to tell me. But I told him I wanted to hear it from you.”
“Lee?”
“She knows a little. Not much. She’s confused.”
“And you?”
Lynn struggled. “Confused.” She paused. “Scared.”
He regarded the window. Rain slid down the glass like long tears.
“I’m sorry.” It came like the rain, as a whisper.
“Don’t be,” she said. Said it again.
There was a small knock at the door. A smaller voice.
Lynn looked to him. He nodded.
“Come in, honey.”
Lee cracked the door and peered in.
“It’s all right,” Kain said.
The girl entered. She was almost silent on bare feet, looking quite fragile. Her brother followed. She closed the door quietly and stood next to her mother. Ryan stood at the foot of the bed.
“Are you okay?”
“Right as rain,” Kain said. The girl managed a tiny grin that was all too tenuous.
The boy glanced at his mother fleetingly. His gaze fell, but then he raised his head slightly. He moved to the side of the bed. Put out a hand. Kain took it.
“Forgive me,” Ryan said. “Can you do that?”
Kain regarded them in turn, ending with Lynn. Their faces were as fragile as hope; they all returned the same wanting gaze. The same he had seen on the disbelieving faces of so many of Brikker’s men. All asking the same.
Would I know if things changed?
He spoke, weakly. “Can you forgive me?”
“Of course,” Lynn said, emphatically. “We all do.”
Ryan added: “I really am sorry. I just … I mean, I can’t—” He seemed lost in the moment, yet somehow hopeful, like a man wandering in the woods for days when he finally sees the campfire in the distance. He looked to his mother, who nodded, and then the boy turned to the door. “Guys.”
Big Al hobbled in first, cane in hand. Georgia followed. Ben Caldwell fell in behind them. They held a solemn, reflective air, and yet their eyes told Kain it was all right … everything was all right.
“Guess I’m late for work,” he said.
Big Al chuckled and shook his head. “Cripes.”
Kain regarded the young shortstop. The brim of his wrinkled Yankees cap hung over his eyes a bit.
“Ben’s a good egg,” Ryan said. “He won’t tell.”
Ben Caldwell looke
d as worn out as Lynn. He crossed his heart. “Hope to die, mister.”
“We’re all good eggs,” Georgia said warmly.
Ryan put out a hand again. Kain looked up quizzically.
“Deal’s a deal,” Ryan said. “I already called Coach.”
Kain smiled. Shook the boy’s hand.
“He really is a good teacher,” Lee-Anne said. Despite the bandages, the girl was grinning ear to ear.
“We better go,” Big Al said. “The old guy needs some rest. Come on, now.”
Only Lynn stayed, closing the door behind them. She took something from the bureau, hesitated, and then sat down next to Kain. There was a small grumble of thunder.
“Good people,” he whispered. “The best.”
She agreed with a nod. She slipped him the envelope.
“I wasn’t snooping,” she said. “It was on the table, and … well, I … I just looked. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
The letter—the note—was inside. The photograph, too.
Kain studied the faded print. It seemed unfamiliar suddenly, as if the memories tied to it were not his own. He slipped it back. Set the envelope down.
“No scars,” Lynn said.
“I don’t know what to say … I’m so sorry.”
She shook her head. “No … you don’t have to be.” She had small tears in her eyes. She wiped them away.
Kain took up the diary. He took her hand, so soft and so warm, so trembling, and placed the book within it.
She regarded it uncertainly; regarded him the same.
“Read it,” he told her. “Then we’ll talk.”
~ 16
It was another week before the first pitch was thrown. The arm had healed, the bandages had come off, the bruises had faded; the only real scar was the black memory of that horrible night. The Tribe had been told he was under the weather; Big Al had called every day (sometimes twice, the big lug) to check on his progress. He had slept most of the week away, his fever breaking just two days ago, that benumbing rain with it. And while the rest had been good for the body, it had been a long and laborious hell for the soul. Surprisingly, the boy had agreed on the calisthenics, had even thanked him for the conditioning tips, and the hour-long warm-up had stirred the old drifter muscles. He only hoped that somehow, working together, they could bridge the gulf that had separated them since that distant spring day, when Ryan had caught him staring from the stands after the incident with Jones. He had risen at dawn feeling most uncertain about their chances, and now, as he gripped the bat tight, wondered how it was such a wonderful slice of hickory had become such a bloodstained killing machine.
Velvet Rain - A Dark Thriller Page 31
