Velvet Rain - A Dark Thriller (19 page)

“No.”

“Then who?”

“The Booze Fairy.”

Lynn threw up her arms. “I’ve had enough … I can’t take any more of this, Ryan.”

“So why don’t you kick
me
out, too?”

Lynn started to reply, but then she wavered; she bit down on her lip. She took a half step back, as if she had shrunk. The hurt in her eyes said it all.

“Ma—”

She held up a defiant hand. “Don’t bother.”

“
Ma …
”

“
No …
I don’t want to see you right now.”

The young man looked at Kain, and Kain looked him square in the eye. There was something lurking there, beyond the distrust and the anger. Something stewing, something brewing. Did he have the Sense? Right now, there was a good deal of static flying about. It seemed to be coming from both of them, station overlapping station, a muddled mix of noise. He hadn’t noticed signals from Ryan before, but then again, he hadn’t been listening for them, either. He’d been so wrapped up in
ignoring
the signs—perhaps unconsciously he was hoping they would have simply gone away—instead of tuning in to them.

Did the girl know? From her he detected nothing. Nature might have given her her mother’s looks, but apparently genetics were no guarantee that the Sense was passed on. Still, his broken brain could have missed it.

There was more. Ryan’s friend—the shortstop—had been emitting that deceptive static as well. He had felt it earlier when the boy had shown up; had felt it weeks ago at the ballpark. The kid was sending out all kinds of noise, as if a hundred things occupied his mind at once. Despite Ben Caldwell coming off as a good old country boy, it seemed he was an unusually bright individual, probably good with numbers or music. Intelligence didn’t always equate with the Sense, of course, but it was often a pretty good alarm.

So now there were three to worry about—at least three, who knew what others there were in sleepy Clay County—but in the here and now, in Lynn Bishop’s kitchen, there was this ugly situation to worry about. And it was getting uglier with every word.

It was Kain who spoke next.

“I’ll leave if you want, Ryan,” he said, raising a calming hand to Lynn when she turned. “I don’t make it a habit of coming between people. Especially good people.”

“It isn’t his decision,” Lynn told him. “And you’re not coming between anyone. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“
Hasn’t
he?”

“I won’t stand for this, Ryan. Not at all.”

“Why don’t you
ask
him? About Beaks! About my eyes!”

“Just
go
—”

“Where’d you come from, Ghost? Tell me!”

“Ryan Bishop, if you don’t—”

“Ask him where he’s from. Ask him about those marks!”

“That’s
enough!
”

Ryan shook his head in disbelief. “He won’t tell you anything. He doesn’t want you to know. You don’t,
do
you?”

Kain felt as if he’d fallen off a cliff into a dark dream; he kept falling and falling. It had been so long since he’d been so helpless. Brikker had caged him like a criminal, and yes, after what he’d done—it mattered nothing he had been coerced through torture and drugs—he supposed he
was
a criminal. And standing here before this young man, yes, he
was
guilty for his actions. Yes, he was. Ben Caldwell might have pointed the gun, but it had been Kain Richards who had pulled the trigger. If he’d just kept north, if he’d listened to logic in lieu of heart, none of this would have happened. And the truth was, he knew better.

“I want you upstairs, Ryan. And don’t even think about coming out until I say so.”

“
You’re sending me to my ROOM?
”

The boy stewed, clearly unprepared for his mother’s defense of a total stranger. It was hard to imagine just what it was running through his head, but most certainly there was a jumble of half-baked ideas and half-recalled memories of a world before the Turn. Or worse,
of
the Turn. It was rare, Kain knew, but sometimes people remembered how it was when they melted into nothingness.

“And don’t think this is over, young man. I’ll deal with you later. You understand?”

Ryan was about to start again, but knew enough not to. He nodded he understood, unconvincingly, and then turned about, stopping at the foot of the stairs. He wavered in his mild stupor, but managed to turn and cast an icy glance over his shoulder at the Little Ghost. A small grin escaped him, smug and mocking, and then he looked back at his mother with all the seriousness in the world. There was trouble brewing there, but much more; restrained excitement and cocksureness. As if he held the greatest secret never told.

“He did something, Ma,” he said. “He doesn’t want us to know, but he did.”

The boy took the stairs and they watched him go. Lynn stood distant and solemn, and at that moment, wondering just how he could possibly answer to her, Kain Richards knew that the time was nearing … that the road was his only escape.

~ 19

“
Hey, cowboy!
”

Kain slipped on the ladder. His arm flailed, the roller streaking the upper face of the barn. Blue paint spilled from his metal tray as he flung up an arm to steady himself, and Lynn had to step back from harm’s way as the slick goop came raining down around her.

“Cripes, you scared me.”

“Sorry,” she said, half laughing. “
‘Cripes’?
”

He gave her a mild shrug.

“You’ve been hanging around my father way too long. Next thing you know, you’ll be hiding beer on my deck.”

“Just don’t look under the swing,” he joked. He took a good look at his work. He had picked up the paint and other supplies last night (courtesy Big Al’s flatbed), and despite his efforts since sunup, a solid two hours, it looked as though he’d barely started.

“I was hoping to have the front done by the time you got up,” he said apologetically. “It’s my first barn.”

“You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

“My small way of saying thank you.”

“
Small?
Hardly. I’ve been putting this off for
so
long. I guess I was hoping it would just fall down. But thank
you.
Thank you so much.”

He motioned with the roller. “So what do you think?”

“I love it.” She turned to the farmhouse and lingered on its faded, peeling skin. “Oh yes,” she said brightly. “Definitely blue.”

“I was hoping you’d see it that way,” he said. “I bought twelve gallons of this stuff. The old guy who sold it to me said no refunds. He was pretty gruff about that.”

“Had to be Gabe Milton.”

“No left hand?”

“That’s Gabe,” she said. “Crusty old bugger. But nice enough to give Ryan a part-time job last summer. I sent him a Christmas card.”

“So you really like it?”

She nodded approvingly, but she looked like she had something on her mind. A million things. He didn’t ask, and instead dipped the roller and rolled on more of the Sherwin-Williams.

“I’m sorry about what happened,” she said quietly.

“About what?”

“Last week … you know … the way Ryan treated you.”

“Water under the bridge.”

“You left pretty quick. Can’t say I blame you.”

He nodded dimly, then went back to his painting.

“Can I ask you something?” she said.

“Sure.”

“… Why’d he call you ‘Ghost’?”

Here we go,
he thought.

“
Wanagi cikala … kin,
” he replied, sounding it out slowly, still unsure of the correct pronunciation. “That’s me. The Little Ghost.”

“Let me guess,” she said. “Jimmy Long.”

“Only Sioux in the Tribe.”

“‘
Tribe’?
”

“
My
little pet name for the boys.” He shrugged.

“‘The Little Ghost’?”

“Jimmy, he’s—well, I guess you know he’s on the ball team. I just stumbled on a game one day and started watching. Still do. I guess I came out of nowhere—at least from Jimmy’s point of view, anyway. The name seemed to fit. And stuck.”

“It’s cute.”

It was the first time in a week he’d been lucky enough to see that smile. He rolled on what was left of the paint on his roller and started to climb down. On the ground, he set down the tray and held up a can. Its blue-streaked logo read “Cover The Earth.”

“One dead soldier.”

“I think you’ll need more troops,” she said. He had managed to cover barely half the sprawling area above the wide doors.

“Looks that way. This old wood just sucks it up.”

He led her inside the barn. He opened the second can of the dozen he had purchased and stirred up the mix. Lynn, dressed in tattered jeans and a faded yellow short-sleeved shirt, took up a wide brush he had set on the long workbench there.

“What’s
that
look for, mister? You didn’t think I was going to let you do this all by yourself, did you?”

A small grin clung to him. Her blonde mane was tied back, just as it was when he had first set eyes on her in the diner. Standing there in her rough casuals, paintbrush in hand in lieu of coffee pot, she was all business, young and vibrant and ready to go. Sexy as hell.

“All this,” he said, motioning his hand like a used-car salesman toward a real gem. “And she paints, too.”

Lynn blushed. “Come on, cowboy. We’ve got work to do.”

~

They had nearly finished the front in two hours.
Darn thing’s a whole lot bigger when you’re painting it,
Lynn had lamented, Kain agreeing, exchanging glances and small talk between strokes of roller and brush. He worked the top half, and more than once he had looked down when she wasn’t looking. She was gorgeous, paint-speckled cheeks and all, and he had to remind himself that what he was thinking—what he was wanting—just couldn’t be.
They
couldn’t be. He felt like a kid with a crush, for Chrissake; he didn’t want to guess if she felt the same.

Ben Caldwell’s truck rambled up the drive, a little fast, but not as fast as usual. Ben slowed beside them, honked
Hello
and acknowledgement of a job well done, then met Ryan up at the house. Standing akimbo at the steps, Ryan lingered, clearly not impressed by the goings-on; his eyes were peeled on the drifter.
You’re still here,
he seemed to be thinking, but more:
I’m gonna find out your secret, Ghost. If it’s the last thing I do.

Kain was thankful Lynn didn’t see. She was putting the final touches on one of the doors, and the pickup sped off before she could get a reply from her son about where he was off to. She straightened from her hunched position, arcing her aching back with a groan.

“I need a break,” she said, staring up with one hand raised to block the sun. “Be careful, would you?”

Kain had overextended himself, reaching. “Just this last … little …
spot
—”

He slipped; slipped and fell, the paint and the roller flying one way, his body the other. He tried to snare the ladder and missed, the thing sliding away from him and toppling like a felled tree. He came crashing to the ground, just missing Lynn, Lynn who had stood quite frozen, arms thrown over head with brush in hand, in prayer the ladder would miss her. Luckily it missed both of them, but the paint tray flipped, splattering blue goop all over them. They looked like a couple of small children who had gotten into the finger paint.

“
My God! Are you all right?
”

Kain turned on his side. A sharp ache stung him, and he rolled over on his back. He was winded, but as far as he could tell there were no broken bones. He nodded to her.

She knelt beside him. She gave him a moment, and he sat up. He winced hard, the pain throbbing, but then he started to laugh. She looked at him as if he were crazy, but she joined him in the laughter all the same.

“Your father,” he said, barely getting it out. “He said I—
oww
—he
said
I’d probably break my neck.”

“Are you sure you’re okay? You—” She gave him the strangest look. “What …”

He was staring. The mess of paint along her cheeks could not spoil her. On anyone else, the dab on the tip of her nose would have been comical. But not her.

“Aren’t
we
a pair,” he said. “A couple of clowns.”

Gently, smiling as she did, she dabbed splatters of paint from his cheeks. Her touch was warm, almost teasing, but then she drew back, if only a little. She tilted her head subtly as she checked his face for more paint, but as she did her eyes seemed to falter. He tried to meet them, but they ran past him, like a car whizzing by a hitchhiker who looked like trouble. She rose then, saying nothing, and suddenly she seemed very distant, like a lost dream.

“I could use a drink,” he said, rising with her, and she agreed, almost too quickly. She helped him up, helped dust him off (Lynn berated him calmly and asked again if he was sure he was all right, all at once), and when she emerged from the house five minutes later with a tray of lemonade for two, he was relaxing on the swing, still thinking about how he shouldn’t be thinking about Lynn Bishop … but mostly about how she had pulled away from him.
He
had always been the one to pull back. To walk away. Run away.

“Penny for your thoughts,” she said.

“Huh? Oh … I was just thinking about how much paint we’ll need. I’ll pick up some more this week.”

She offered him a glass as she set the tray on the table beside them. She joined him on the swing.

“To teamwork,” she said, raising her glass.

“Teamwork,” he echoed, and clanked his against hers. “It looks pretty good from here, doesn’t it?”

She took in their handiwork. “You know? It does. But I think I got more paint on
me
than the barn.”

She sipped her drink as Kain rocked them gently with his foot. She smiled mildly behind her glass, but he could tell there was something stirring in her mind. She’d been open enough as they’d worked, talking and joking, but in moments she’d seemed preoccupied. Maybe she was thinking about Ryan; maybe Ray Bishop. Maybe life before the Turn.