Red Rain: Lightning Strikes: Red Rain Series #2 (14 page)

She didn’t bring up the subject again, not with John or anyone else. That last question was something she didn’t want to know the answer to. John said it like …
what other possible way would I know?
But another way existed, and while it made no sense whatsoever, something in that conversation made her think he might have seen it himself.

* * *

“
I
spoke
to John about it once,” Alicia said, hating each syllable that left her mouth.

“What did he say?” Scott asked.

“Dad, why are you doing this? I don’t want to talk about any of it.”

“You’re worried about John, aren’t you?”

“I was,” she said, “but we talked the other day and I think he’s okay. I think he’s under a lot of stress and it’s making him act weird. He’s not drinking, though.”

“Have you ever seen John drink?” Scott said, his voice quick—like a whip slapping across a bull’s back.

Alicia was stunned into a brief silence. She hadn’t heard her father speak like that before, not to her or anyone else. The normal kindness replaced with a seriousness that she didn’t understand … not from her father.

“What?” she said finally.

“Have you ever seen John drink? You said he wasn’t drinking, well I’m wondering if you’ve ever seen him? As a teenager? What about in his twenties?”

But she knew the answer.

The answer lay in those cold, sober eyes that she saw on that street years ago.

The story consisted of: John was an alcoholic, and the dark times sprang from when he picked up the bottle. Yet, somehow, he always did it in private. No one saw him actually falling down, unable to hold himself up or keep his balance. No one ever saw the hangovers or heard the slurred words. No, the symptoms of alcoholism were expressed somewhere else, always.

“Me either,” Scott said into her silence. “And yes, I’m worried, and now that you don’t want to tell me what you know about this doctor, it makes me worry more. I need to know, Alicia.”

“What are you trying to do? What does it matter? That was, like, almost twenty years ago, Dad. What could it possibly matter now?”

“It matters. Maybe I was wrong and there is something going on, and maybe it’s been going on for a long time. If so, I want to know, because I’ve ignored it my whole life. So, please, Alicia, tell me what you know about the doctor.”

Alicia told him.

* * *

“
J
ohn
, you’re a goddamn idiot,” the voice said.

“I told you not to answer,” Harry said.

John turned away from him, facing the restaurant’s window. The phone number had come up as private when John looked at it, standing in line for a sandwich, Harry told him to leave it be. Curiosity, though, grabbed hold of him tight, and he answered.

John stepped out of line.

“What are you talking about?” he said, trying to keep his voice low. He didn’t need to ask who was on the other side of the phone; John dreamed about this voice, only instead of calling him a goddamn idiot, it always said
you’re under arrest
.

“You killed your priest?” Tremock said. “Seriously, man, how fucked up are you?”

John didn’t glance around for Harry, but walked out of the sandwich shop and onto the sidewalk. He looked around and then walked to the side of the building, wanting to get out of the high traffic area.

“Father Charles?” he said.

“Charles Rapport, but don’t ask like it’s a question. You killed him, didn’t you?”

“He’s dead?” John said.

“You tell me. Where is he?”

“Look, I need you to shoot straight with me. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Is my priest okay?”

The detective laughed and John understood with finality that he would never convince this man. That if, in court, both blood and fingerprint evidence exonerated him, and convicted someone else, Tremock wouldn’t care. He knew that John did it and nothing could change his mind.

“You know he’s not okay, you sick fuck. I’m just curious, why him? It seems like everyone else was random. Those people in Europe. The people around you here. I mean, besides my partner. She wasn’t random. But everyone else, you didn’t know them, so why did you kill your priest?”

“You’re delusional,” John said, his voice no longer portraying confusion, but taking on the sound a lizard might take, if the lizard needed to explain to a cricket its lunch plans.

“Out of us two, I don’t think I’m the one with mental issues,” Tremock said. “I’m going to catch you. You know that right? I’m not worried about it. You want to know what keeps me up at night, though? I can’t decide if I’m going to kill you or bring you in.”

John heard the call end. He didn’t take the phone down from his ear, but stood there staring out at a full parking lot. Everyone going to lunch. Everyone moving through their lives, worrying about inconsequential problems, without any real idea what
true
issues were.

John knew now, though. Had he before? Standing there, holding a silent phone to his face, he didn’t think so. The other times, all of them, had simply been nuisances. No, real issues were when a detective called
your
phone and accused you of murdering
your
priest—not to mention, that was the third person in the last week he thought you killed.

John had a real issue now.

He looked around and didn’t see Harry. He took a few steps back toward the restaurant, peering inside, but Harry wasn’t there either.

“Of course not,” John whispered. “Why the fuck would he be around when the cops show up? They can’t see him anyway.”

He put his phone in his pocket, his appetite as missing as Harry.

He had meant to talk to his boss today about working from California. He had actually set up a meeting to do just that, but why would he now? What was California going to give him that Tremock couldn’t take away? A few calls and extradition would take place, moving John from one state to another with shackles on his wrists and ankles.

“Motherfucker,” he said, the only word that summed up his frustration, his unholy anger at everything around him. Because this was rock bottom, wasn’t it? What the people in all those meetings said brought them to sobriety—but what they missed, what they couldn’t understand, was that John couldn’t stop. Father Charles figured it out in the end, and when he tried to help in the only way he could, he
really
found out.

John went to his car, opened the door, and sat down. He didn’t put the key in the ignition, just sat in silence.

He didn’t see any other way out. Harry might not be here now, but would he stay away forever? Only a fool would think that given everything John had experienced. Maybe John
was
a fool, but not about this—Harry would return, and when he did, he brought what John couldn’t turn down.

John could kill himself.

Or he could leave.

But if he left, it couldn’t be for somewhere in the States. And he couldn’t return. Maybe he could bring Diane and the kids down there. Hopefully. But if he returned …no, things were too far gone for that.

John started the car and pulled out of the parking lot.

L
ori looked
at John with eyes full of tears. They blurred the rest of the scene, so that she could only focus on him.

Scott stood next to her and Alicia next to him.

What was supposed to be a bittersweet scene, was only excruciatingly bitter for her—brutal even, though she couldn’t let anyone else know it.

The tears had to appear like tears of sadness and happiness.

Not the radical fear running through her every cell.

“Not forgetting anything, right?” Scott said.

John laughed. “A little late now, if so, huh?”

“That’s right, because I’m not running back to the house to grab it,” Scott said. He turned to Lori. “Come on, honey, give the kid a break. It’s hard enough he’s leaving for another country without you sobbing.”

“I know,” Lori said, forcing a smile. “I know. I’m just going to miss you.” She reached forward, closing her eyes, and John stepped into her embrace. She put her face on the side of his head that Scott couldn’t see, and as she closed her eyes and pressed close, tears dropped to her cheeks.

“I’ll miss you too,” he said.

She didn’t pull away to see if he had tears, but she thought she heard a hitch in his voice, an emotion John didn’t usually show.

“Be careful,” she whispered.

Neither of them spoke about the underlying whys, indeed, if forced to say for sure whether he knew what she meant, she couldn't have said. She knew what
she
meant, though. Be careful with what you allow yourself to do over there. She couldn’t protect him, but he wouldn’t have anyone looking into him either. He would be a stranger without a history. And maybe, this affliction would pass when he left.

Maybe.

“Alright, alright. Come give your pops a hug,” Scott said.

Lori let go and wiped at her eyes, not making eye contact with anyone.

John went through the same process with his father and sister, hugging them both, though neither of them cried like Lori.

“You’ll call us when you get there?” Scott said.

“As soon as I get to my room.”

“But don’t talk too long; we can’t afford the charges,” Scott said with a smile.

John smiled but didn’t say anything.

“Go on now, before your mother has a breakdown,” Scott said and John smiled even wider.

“See you guys, soon.”

And then he turned around; carrying a book-bag over one shoulder, he walked away from his family.

Lori didn’t say anything on the way home. She managed to keep the tears at bay, even as she cooked dinner for three.

She sent him there to keep him away from Vondi’s prying eyes, but now who would watch out for him? Who would protect her baby boy?

* * *

J
ohn had flown
a few times before, but nothing so long. The flight seemed to stretch forever, as if instead of flying to another continent, he was making an interstellar jump.

It did finally end, though.

John exited the plane and stood in line at customs. He said nothing to anyone the entire time. He watched as others spoke and smiled and laughed. He didn’t do any of that. Watching everyone, he wondered if life had been training him for this? He didn’t need to speak to any of these people and felt completely comfortable in his silence. In his
aloneness
.

His mom cried when he left, but he hadn’t. Not when boarding and not during the nearly never-ending flight.

Be careful
, she said.

How much did she know? That question bugged him more than anything else. Neither ever truly spoke about what bothered them. Yet, she seemed to know—at least partly. Did she know the thoughts which grew inside him, those of killing a person?

Is that what she meant by
be careful
?

And if she did know, was she condoning it?

Of course she knows,
John thought.
Why else is she sending you over here to get away from Vondi?

And yet, John didn’t think anyone knew—not wholly. They couldn’t, because if they did, he would be eradicated. Either by death or quarantine. No one could love him if they understood the thoughts going through his head. Not even his mother.

So, no, she couldn’t understand the totality of it all.

She wouldn’t have sent him here, if so. She would have disowned him and turned him over to the authorities.

Be careful,
she said.

And what she meant was don’t turn into a monster.

John was in a new country, but as he made his way through customs—the officers checking bags and looking at passports—he wondered if any of it mattered? Because he had brought himself, after all.

* * *

A
few weeks passed
.

John spent the time in his dorm room. His parents paid extra to make sure he didn’t have to room with anyone, which was an argument between his mother and father that he wanted no part of. His father didn’t want the extra expense for a single room--his mother fought for it and won.

Mom had been right, though. He liked being alone.

He explored the city, using the trains much more so than he ever did in Dallas.
The tube,
they called it—which he found hilariously odd.

He had arrived wondering if anything would change, or if the thoughts driving him to something heinous would simply take over. He found that everything around him, the sheer
newness
of it all, kept any urges he had at bay. The sights, the sounds, even the people he overheard in restaurants—all of it felt so foreign to him that his mind held little interest in anything besides
discovering
.

Even when he started class, he didn’t feel the same boredom as in America. The kids, all of them, spoke with this beautiful accent that he couldn’t get enough of. The teachers were much stricter than those in America, and something about that amused John. Had he ever felt like this in his entire life? He didn’t think so; perhaps his mother had been right to send him here. Perhaps what he really needed was a drastic change of scenery to shock himself out of whatever trance he’d been falling into.

John sat down at the end of a table on his first day there, his lunch tray in hand. He hadn’t said a word to anyone the entire day, and didn’t feel like starting now. It was enough for him to watch.

“You’re the American?” someone said from behind his shoulder.

A someone that sounded like she might be very pretty.

John turned around, facing the table next to his, and saw himself looking at a blonde girl. She must have worn braces at some stage, because her teeth weren’t as ragged as other’s he saw in this country. She had blue eyes and was smiling, both friendly and sultry.

“Yeah, I am,” he said, hating the sound of his voice when he compared it to her accent.

“How long are you here for?” the girl said.

“Well, until they kick me out or I graduate.”

The girl laughed and turned all the way around so that her legs faced John. She wore jeans and a black shirt that revealed enough, but not too much.

“I’m Cindy,” she said.

He stuck his hand out. “John.”

“Nice to meet you, John. What’s your next class?”

“Ah, give me a minute.” John reached into his bag and pulled out his schedule. “History,” he said as he looked at the small print.

“You think they’ll talk about how ungrateful you Americans were when you went and started that war?”

John laughed, leaning back against the table. “I hope not,” he said. “I’ll probably be kicked out earlier than I thought.”

“Well, if you’re still here after history, maybe we can chat more,” Cindy said.

* * *

J
ohn lay in bed
, the television on opposite him. The place was small: a bed, a small desk with a chair, and a closet with a curtain in front of it. He had a small sink in one corner of the room, but that was pretty much it. He could either do homework, read, or watch TV.

He looked at the clock on his nightstand.

Twelve o’clock.

He yawned and pulled the blankets further up to his neck. He would need to turn the television off and get to sleep soon. The headmaster came by a few hours ago and told everyone lights out; John legitimately tried to sleep, but found he couldn’t. An energy ran through him, and he wasn’t sure if it was the first day school-jitters still carrying over, though he hadn’t felt nervous at all while in class.

John reached for the remote control and turned the television off, casting himself into darkness.

He lay there with his eyes open, that energy still crackling just beneath the surface despite his yawn. John had never done cocaine, but he felt like some of the characters in movies that he’d seen take it. Like he could jog ten miles right now.

“Hey, John.”

John leapt out of bed in a singular motion. He turned as he jumped, trying to face the direction the voice came in, which, thank God, was on the other side of the room and not next to the door.

“It’s me.”

John scrambled backwards, his back facing the door trying to see who spoke.

Who spoke? WHO SPOKE? YOU KNOW THAT FUCKING VOICE!

“John, you’re going to hurt yourself,” the voice said.

He reached for the light switch, desperately trying to see anything in this black void. He couldn’t tell exactly where the voice was, only the general direction, and he thought—just maybe—if he turned the light on he’d find that he imagined the whole thing. Because what he heard wasn’t possible.

He flicked the switch.

Harry stood on the other side of the room.

Not a vision of Harry, or some kind of hallucination; no, John stared at his dead friend. And there could be no doubt that Harry was dead, a ghost or ghoul haunting this room, somehow so far away from where he died.

“You’ve got to calm down,” Harry said. “You’re hyperventilating … you ever realize how funny that word is? Hyperventilating?”

John stared at his friend’s teeth, which had once been pearly white, were now chipped or gone completely. He saw his friend’s tongue moving inside his mouth, a black and swollen thing that looked more like a diseased slug than human flesh. One eye had burst, his cornea clouding the iris, so it looked like he stared endlessly at everything.

“Okay, I won’t joke, but don’t freak out on me here, bud.”

Much of the hair across his head had been removed, almost like an Indian scalped him. John looked at raw, white bone.

And his skin, Christ, his skin might have been the worst part of the whole thing. A blue tint that made John think about food poisoning and vomit. Puffy, as if Harry had some kind of thyroid disease, nothing like the thin, tall kid John had known.

“Hey, man. I accept you for who you are, can’t you accept me?” Harry said, smiling, his lips peeling back against black gums.

Darkness moved in toward John, taking over everything. He didn’t even realize when he collapsed to the floor.