Velvet Rain - A Dark Thriller (34 page)

“You look like hell.”

The drifter managed a nod. “Thanks.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Dizzy. Just the heat.”

“Gettin’ old,” Ryan told him. “This shouldn’t take too long after all.” The kid grinned a grin that begged to be slapped off his face.

Kain turned without a word and headed to the barn. He returned with the equipment, setting it all down with a bucket of balls in a patch of parched grass halfway between the mound and the guesthouse. Along with the bat, there were two gloves, one of them Ryan’s, the other a well-oiled pitcher’s glove he had borrowed from Jimmy. Reluctantly, Ryan joined him, rolling his eyes at the faded, but legible,
J. Long
scribbled on the leather.

The boy went for his glove, but Kain snatched it.

“Not so fast.” He tossed the glove behind him. Gave Ryan a look that meant business.

“What’s the problem.”

“First off … well, this was going to be my second point, but since you asked … you’re the problem.”

The boy started, but Kain raised a hand.

“You’ve made it clear you don’t want me around. Fine. But we dealt with that and you lost, Ryan. Be a man and deal with
that.
”

“Who the hell do you think you are? You can’t talk to me like—”

Kain raised his voice. “Second—now listen up—we don’t start with pitching and hitting.”

“What’re we gonna do, dance?” Ryan folded his arms.

Static blared from all directions. It sent Kain reeling. It was as if he were in the middle of some sprawling field, surrounded by giant transmitters bombarding him with a hundred thousand signals at once. News, weather, and sports from around the world in every language, all of them mistuned and overlapping. For a moment—the briefest, the longest—he wanted Brikker. Wanted an injection. Wanted to know what it felt like to have a clear mind again. It had been so long.

“Calisthenics,” he said. He was having a good deal of trouble holding it all together; suddenly he was burning up with a fever. “We start with that.”

Ryan chuckled. “I don’t think so.”

“You can lie to yourself and pretend you don’t care about any of this,” Kain said. “But the fact is, you do. You wouldn’t be out here if you didn’t. Your Mom couldn’t make you do this any more than I could. You want to be out here.” He pointed east, toward the Little Sioux. “You want to be out
there
.”

The boy looked at him gravely. Looked away.

“Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t.”

“Yeah, well, if you know me so good, what’s the answer, smart guy?”

“The answer’s in here,” Kain said, tapping his chest. “You’ve got the talent, Ryan. You just need the brains.”

“Screw you.”

“Tell me you don’t want to play ball again. Tell me you don’t want to blow three strikes past that sap, Jones.”

Ryan stirred. Flinched a bit.

“Say it.”

“I’m not playing this game.”

He started to turn, and Kain snared him by the arm. The young man whirled, but the drifter didn’t flinch. Still, there was burning in those rabid eyes, and he felt their fire.

“Take your hands off me, Ghost.”

Kain let him go. He shouldn’t have grabbed the boy, of course, but the kid’s attitude, coupled with his rapidly worsening condition, had simply gotten the better of him.

“Smart man,” Ryan said. “Smart as they come.”

The drifter faded back. The static was duking it out with the sledgehammer again, the pain growing like the mushroom cloud of a hydrogen bomb.

“I just want to help, Ryan.”

The teenager regarded Jimmy Long’s glove. He shook his head in disgust, and then he kicked the bucket of hardballs over.

“We’re done for today …
Coach.
” The boy snickered as he headed back to the house. Twenty minutes later, he gave the guesthouse the finger as a certain shortstop’s pickup sped past in a whirlwind of dust.

They never heard the Little Ghost scream.

But he did. By God, he screamed, and when he hit the floor in a lifeless heap, the world was still turning. Only this time, it was turning black.

~ 5

They came on foot. They came on bikes. They came in cars and they came in trucks. They even came in boats and canoes, and even one came on a home-made raft. Whatever their choice of conveyance, nearly seven hundred hardy Iowans had braved the scorching heat, coming out to the Little Sioux for the Independence Day festivities. The riverfront midway, an annual staple in these parts, bustled with games and rides, clowns and sounds. Canoes raced. Booths burst with arts and crafts and sweaty bodies. Music, in tune and out, rose and fell. The tempting mix of caramel and popcorn hung heavy in the swelter, you could almost taste it, it was syrupy thick. Puffy wads of white gave the illusion of walking Cotton Candyheads. Balloons were bought. Balloons were lost. People got dunked in the Dunking Machine. People got sick on the Tilt-A-Whirl. People fell in love on the Ferris Wheel. As always, a handful of rookies threw up at the pie-eating contest, and, as always, a few veterans did, veterans who were quick to point out with a slap on the back that that was the price you paid, Junior, if you wanted that ribbon. For one harrowing hour (it just wouldn’t have felt like July 4 around here otherwise), a little girl had been lost, then found, lost, then found. Still, despite the on-again, off-again searches, the large gathering was in good holiday spirits, and as evening fell and the first stars began to appear, folks started to settle along the river, laying out blankets and setting up cots and chairs in anticipation of the coming fireworks.

Kain had not wanted to come. His blackout—only four days ago, though it seemed much longer—had exacted a heavy toll. Unconscious for nearly an hour, upon coming out of it, he had cried out in terror. It had been as if he were a child again, staying with his grandparents while his parents were away, cowering in that unfamiliar bed in that unfamiliar room, the covers clutched tight to his face, watching the closet door with eyes as big as marbles and waiting for it to sprawl open. And when it did, when one of hell’s children finally came for him, he would scream bloody murder, and when the screaming wouldn’t stop, Gramps would come, all scruffy and wide-eyed and barefoot in pajamas with that musty old nightcap, always stubbing his toe on the end of his bed and making him giggle. He would slip down next to him in the dark, swing that big warm arm around him, calming him, telling him there was nothing in the blackness that could harm him. And when it was time, when the tears had stemmed and the heart had found courage, the old wizard would work his white magic and cross that cold floor, all the way to the door. Standing there in the darkness, he would defy the demons and splay it wide, click on the light inside, show him it was all right, there was nothing in there but some clothes and some hangers—show him it was all just a dream. Then he would smile and turn off the light, close the hell-door and tell him a funny story, and it would
be
all right. The old man never told him that he stubbed his toe on purpose. Never told him that the things he saw were things that
might
come to be.

Yes. Four days ago; he
had
screamed. God, yes. The nightmares … the memories … the visions he had felt and seen. Things he’d known; things he could neither explain nor hope to understand. Awesome things. Frightening things. He had run a wild fever. He had been deathly cold, had struggled just to rise to his knees, able only to claw into bed, crippled and aching; only the iron-bar beatings from Brikker’s thugs had crippled him more. Worse still, the killer headache that had taken him down had hung on well into the following afternoon, clinging to him like some desperate animal, its claws stuck in him. He had craved a smoke so badly he might have killed for one. His nose had bled a river, something that hadn’t happened since the days of the Project. The vomiting had finally stopped after his fourth trip; the true hell had come in hours of agonizing dry heaves. And in the bathroom mirror, staring back at him in all its decay, he had seen that horrifying face, the real Little Ghost: drawn, white, and damned.

When Lynn had come around eight he had pretended to be asleep, but she had been insistent with her knocking. He had looked like death and had deflected her concern with a lie, telling her he hadn’t had much sleep the night before. She hadn’t bought it, no ice for this Inuit, but at least she had not pursued it. When she had pressed him about today’s outing (sinking to batting her baby blues and oh please oh
please
won’t you come), he caved. And yet, in spite of the heat, in spite of the intimidating throng and the lingering questions of just what the hell was wrong with him, he had to admit, he was having a good time. Even Georgia seemed to be enjoying herself.

“Come on, cowboy,” Lynn said brightly. Dressed in comfortable white shorts and a red short-sleeved top, the small red flower in her hair was a perfectly sexy accoutrement. “It’ll be fun.”

“Oh, I gotta see this,” Big Al said, grabbing hold of the cane he’d set beside him. He wriggled free from the snug confines of his sagging folding chair, his ample frame filling it and then some. He relied on the cane as he started to rise.

“Allan Jefferson Hembruff, you’ll do no such thing.”

“Cripes, woman, stop tryin’ to bury me before my time. Now help me up.”

Georgia rose from her chair and steadied him. “You’re such a stubborn old mule.”

“You coming, Mom?”

“Waitin’ for the ‘works,” Georgia said. “Reverend Tate told me Sunday he heard right from Sid Plummer there’ll be Lady Liberty with Roman Candles.” At that she smiled knowingly, and then the good woman eased into her chair and began to fan herself, looking perfectly content to miss out on the chills and the spills of what Georgia Hembruff had always professed a waste of time and a game for the foolhardy. The annual Three-Legged Race.

A wide area had been cleared for the event. A yellow ribbon marked the finish fifty yards down field, and above it, a big red banner granted credit to Henderson Lumber, proudly boasting its tenth straight year as Official Event Sponsor. Scores surrounded the course, and at least a dozen pairs of contestants were either ready to go or still preparing to. A teenager let out a girlish shriek as she toppled onto her boyfriend. Marge Bonner was pinning a big black 6 on her big left breast, and her partner, a young man of no more than eighteen, watched with big wide eyes. When she finished she pinned another 6 on him, but upside down, and then laughed as she swatted him on the rear. A couple in their thirties looked entirely lost over which legs to knot, the husband switching sides with his wife at least a half dozen times; she was quite rotund and their legs just didn’t seem to fit. One pairing’s rope kept coming undone, and now the husband was standing there scratching his head, rope in hand, wife in impatience. A middle-aged woman, looking completely out of place with no partner, scanned the crowd for her better half and found him chatting up a pretty young thing near the sidelines; it would be safe to say she had other ideas for the rope in her hand as she marched after him. Four young men, each sporting shirts and caps graciously supplied by the sponsor (“
You’ve Got A Friend At Henderson!
” boasted their bold red shirts), were completing their task of hanging a long string of lamps along the sidelines. A wide podium had been erected for the occasion, and the mayor of Spencer, Randolph B. Tate (no relation to the good preacher man, Pritchum), traded practiced waves with the crowd, sitting front and center along a row of equally schmoozing councilmen. A pair of tall loudspeakers marked the stage corners, and Sid Plumber, sporting not a poorly fitting coach’s uniform, but rather a dull gray shirt and black trousers too short for his chubby legs, stood between them rambling into a microphone,
Testing, One, Two, Three, Testing, One, Two, Three, Is this thing on.

“You’re kidding me,” Kain said.

It was not a long course, as stated, yet it offered entertaining challenges all its own. The field sloped sharply downhill for nearly half the course, a menace that had served its share of sprained ankles and sprained wrists, bruises and broken fingers, broken egos and broken legs (but not so often as to force a relocation of the event, or worse, cancel it outright). As if that weren’t enough, it took a small rise that offered a most unusual hazard: a short jump over a deep trench filled with mud (two small signs at each end informed the participants that the brown soup was also sponsored by Your Friends at Henderson). Thirty paces beyond the muck lay the finish line, and beyond that, a rudimentary shower of sorts waited for those participants who, year after year without fail, stood muddied and embarrassed and in dire need of it. A bright red water truck from the Spencer Fire Department stood next to it, pumping water into a huge tub supported by a crude wooden framework, a framework that had, back in ’56, collapsed, turning a poodle into a puddle, and generating a lawsuit against the organizers, the fire department, and even incumbent Tate, that had threatened to end the race once and for all. Fortunately, cooler heads had prevailed with an out-of-court settlement, the town council voting unanimously to provide the plaintiff with a newborn puppy, and a year’s supply of Purina Dog Chow from Milton’s Hardware & Grocery.

“Break a leg, son.”

“Thanks, Big Al.”

“As I recall—cripes, who was it? Granger Purdy’s boy. Yeah. About five or six years ago. Broke both of ’em. Poor kid was on crutches for six months. I see him sometimes. Kid still don’t walk right.”

“Well, that’s certainly nice to know.”

“What’s the matter?” Lynn taunted, tugging at Kain’s arm. “Scared of a little mud?”

“You know,” he said playfully, “I really think Lee’s a better match for your height.”

“Oh, no. You’re not talking your way out of this one.”

“Not a chance,” Lee-Anne chimed. Despite the suffocating heat, the young girl sported slacks and a long-sleeved shirt, shading herself with a small umbrella for most of the day. She scratched where the bandages itched. “I think he’s afraid to get those boots dirty.”