Velvet Rain - A Dark Thriller (37 page)

The thing dipped its head into a patch of dead grass and started to gnaw at it … only it wasn’t grass.

He saw the grisly head; half of it was already eaten. Truly, it was more a mash of thick fur and flesh than animal, all of it slick with blood. It had one sad sliver of an eye, and all he really knew was that the other one was likely being digested right now. Its tail had been gnawed off and was lying beside the carcass.

He clenched his eyes shut; forced the sickness in his throat back down.
No … NO.
His mind convinced him it was not a cat, but a rat, one of those big ones he sometimes found in the barn. Or that really big one they’d found at the bottom of that dried-up well, out at Ben’s place two summers back. Of course it was, what else could it be. But then something snapped inside, for when he opened his eyes, he slipped into a silent scream, at the sight of that small tuft of white on its right hind leg.

Abbott
—

The vomit came. He doubled and more came.

Ryan groaned. He turned away, unable to look. And then, when he could, whirled round and bolted forward.

“
GET OUTTA HERE! GO ON! GO!
”

Costello the Cat-Thing raised its hideous head. It had ripped more flesh from its sibling, the meat hanging from its jaws in sinewy strands, that crimson-green slime dribbling along them. Its big egg-eyes doubled in that impossibly shrunken cat head. It looked insane; looked alien. It wolfed down the flesh, and before Ryan realized what was happening, the thing was coming for him.

He tripped over himself in his stupor. He lost his footing, and just as he tumbled the thing was on him, clawing at his leg. It slashed his ankle, and he cried out, more in terror than in pain. It went to gnaw at his flesh, and he kicked at it, just missing. It swiped at him again, clawing his sock and catching there. He flung his leg up, and up came the cat-thing with it. It hissed wildly and shrieked an awful sound that nearly scared him to death. On his back now, it straddled his leg. He winced. The thing stank like an outhouse that had stood in the blistering heat for a month. Stank of rot. The flies, all dead, made him groan with disgust. The cat-thing vomited that horrible slime along his leg; the stuff was warm and thick. He screamed at it, called it a fucking piece of shit, all the while stomping at it with his other foot until it retracted its claws. Its ribs made a disturbing cracking sound on the last kick. It flew up and landed on its side, and all he could think was that it wasn’t a cat anymore, not really, because cats always landed on their feet. Yes, this was a cat-
thing,
a thing from hell, a thing that would claw out his brain and eat it. A thing that would kill him … if
he
didn’t kill it first.

He rolled from it. He got to all fours and saw it listing. It was injured, certainly, but raw emotion drove it, kept it hungry and dangerous. He watched it closely, praying it would flee, but then its eyes grew again as if it were ready to strike.

He scrambled back as the thing leapt. It was awkward and terrifying, making a ghastly shriek. Its eyes were hideous—yellowed like old butter—just like Beaks. He rolled left and it missed him, striking the ground hard. It staggered trying to gain its footing. He clawed some dirt and whipped it at it, blinding the thing, and then he managed to his feet and took to a safer distance.

The dirt clung to its oily coat, the dusty flies looking like cancerous cysts. It was sitting up again, listing in that cockeyed manner, as if at any moment it would tip over. But he knew better.

He snatched up a rock and fired quickly.

Missed.

He cursed in frustration. He shouted at the thing, flailing as he flung wild shots at it with a flurry of stones. He nailed it in the side and the beast wailed. It turned away and made its way toward the house. It was surprisingly agile considering its condition, and he chased after it, hurling another rock its way. He lost sight of it as it found its way under the veranda. Almost immediately, that small space exploded with cats, as Mortimer, Samantha, Buddy, and Champ bolted from it, each of them running for their lives. They were crazed with terror, zipping wildly in different directions, and he almost tumbled, dizzied as he was, trying to follow their flight. They just kept running, and he lost them.

He held up short and froze. There was a new sound. A dull gnawing that sent him crawling with gooseflesh. The relentlessness of it, the rawness of it, terrified. Slowly, almost without thought, he slipped to all fours, to peer into the murk beneath the steps.

“
JESUS!
”

He backed off as fast as his stumbling hands and legs could move. The cat-thing had sunk its jaws into the crown of Pepper’s head and was eating her alive. It kept on at the open flesh there, attacking it viciously,
purring
as it did. But what had truly sent him reeling was that Pepper simply stood there, staring, blinking slowly, her empty eyes drifting, as if she were powerless to stop it. As if she were already dead.

The cat-thing looked up from its meal and gulped down the crimson mash in its maw. It couldn’t force the stuff down fast enough, the meat a bulging lump in its thin throat. And when it saw Ryan reaching for a rock, it instinctively clasped its jaws into the fur at the back of Pepper’s neck and dragged her, still alive with vacant eyes, into a dark crawlspace under the farmhouse.

“
PEP!
”

He couldn’t breathe; could not believe. He dropped the rock and cupped his hands to his ears. Sickening sounds were coming from the crawlspace, gnawing and purring sounds … and then, one final, helpless meow.

Ryan Bishop shut his eyes tight, and began to weep.

~ 9

It would be no trouble getting in. When the liquor ran dry (either in town at the garage or out at the Wild, and in any case, not likely before two in the morning), the idiot would slip out of his pickup, and somehow, God knew, stagger his way to the fuckin’
shack
(as Ray Bishop referred to the guesthouse, always emphasizing it,
Yeah, yeah, lay off me, woman, I’m
gonna
fix that goddamn window in that fuckin’
shack). Almost always he would fall over, give royal shit to something or other that had tripped him up, usually a cat or a rock or his own useless feet, never knowing, never caring, that his young son could see him from his bedroom window, see him slip a greasy hand above the door for the key. Most times he came home alone, sometimes with the boys … and sometimes not. Ryan never dared a peep about the women, Christ no, never had the guts, and he had always hated the sonofabitch for it. Hated himself for it.

Mom probably knew … and he hated that, too.

He supposed the Ghost was right after all. Everybody had secrets.
Everybody.

Henry Roberts had Billy Kingston. He had his father. And all the horrible things the bastard had done.

And Kain Richards had his, didn’t he? He couldn’t be certain that what had happened to Beaks had happened to Costello, but of this he was dead sure: the Ghost was the smoking gun. He did something, all right. Did something to all of them. And now, it was time for
his
little secret to come crawling out of the darkness like the creature it was.

He slipped the key from the lock and returned it to its safe place. He turned the knob, but drew away from it suddenly. His hand was still trembling. He made a fist and got a grip. When he could, he turned back to the veranda. He sniffled as he fought the tears. His mind was still screaming that what he’d just seen was impossible. That this was all like some horrible dream.

Like a dream that was real.

He didn’t want to go in. He had wanted to for the longest time—at least, he thought he had wanted to—but the reality was, he was scared shitless. Scared of the truth. Scared of what this drifter could really do when his world came crashing down around him. The funny thing was, in the end, Bullshit Benny had said it best.

That guy scares me.

He swallowed a fist in his throat. And just when he feared he might reach for the key and lock himself out, he heard those gnawing sounds in his head … and Pepper’s last pitiful cry.

Ryan stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

He surveyed the room. Too neat. As if the guy was ready to bug out at a sneeze. He took a stiff shot of the No. 8 and set it on the table. He went through the drawers quickly, careful not to disturb the few clothes he’d discovered. Nothing in the pockets. Under the bed. Under the mattress. The bathroom was equally frustrating.

Then he saw the knapsack in the corner.

He checked the window. Checked his watch. Still early. They would stay for the fireworks. They always did.

He took up the bag and placed it on the table. It was a ragged leather thing. It smelled old. Not like a forgotten chest in a dank basement, or even that old library smell. Like something that had been around the block a time or two, absorbing all of the smells of all of the places in its travels … and he supposed it had.

The side pockets held some coins and some matches. A couple of dulled pencils. A small folding knife that had carbon shavings on it.

The zipper gave him trouble, but it came. He unfolded the sack and some clothes threatened to fall out. He tucked them back in, set the bag flat, and opened it.

He took up the envelope there and found it unsealed. He slipped it open and unfolded the single sheet of paper. He shook his head in disgust and slid the insulting note back.

He went through all the clothes. Every pocket, every arm, every leg. Even the socks and underwear. Nothing.

Inside the pack, two stitched pockets held a few small bills. He took five dollars and slipped the cash in his back pocket, then had second thoughts and returned it. No sense giving the drifter a reason to suspect him.

Disillusioned, he straightened the clothes and placed the envelope neatly on top. He was about to close it all up, but he noticed that the lining inside bulged slightly in one corner near the bottom. He felt around. Fingered it. He took the clothes out and set them on the bed carefully.

There
was
something beneath the lining.

He couldn’t find a zipper or a flap of any kind. He checked the exterior and found nothing to indicate a way in. He thought of the knife, then thought against it.

He set the bag upright. He poked at the lining. Slowly, he ran a finger along its edge and stopped where he felt resistance … then slipped it deep inside a fold. He had missed it the first time.

A
zipper.

He found the clasp and had to work to pull back the lining, revealing a hidden compartment. He opened it.

A small cloth sack, drawn closed with a thick string, beckoned him. When he removed it, he was surprised by its substantial weight.

Inside, eighty, ninety dollars. Enough to keep a runner running for a while.

He took up the book that was inside. It was solid and leather-bound, at least as old as the knapsack, and just as traveled. A small piece of paper marked a spot in it, and as he went to open it, the paper slipped out.

A photograph.

The black-and-white print was faded and wrinkled. But
she
was young and pretty, with wide eyes brimming with spirit. Her smile was quite infectious. Nice lips.

“Not bad,” he said, and wondered how it was a guy could have a looker like this and just leave her behind. Then he thought of Ben, how
he
had left Marge Bonner just like that. That was different, sure, but it always amazed him how guys could do that.

There was a stain there, yellowed from years, just above her head. It might have been a water stain from a single drop, but he didn’t think so. This had started life as a tear.

“Guy had it hard for this one,” he said.

He went to put it down, but those eyes held him. They really were something.

He flipped it over. Read the scrawl on the back.

Angela

Newark, 1934

Thirty-four? Didn’t make sense.

Newark?
That
made sense. A lot more than Miami.

He set it aside and stared at the book in his hand. It felt so much heavier suddenly, like an old chest filled with secrets.

Ryan opened it, took a good drink, and began to read.

~ 10

Kain huddled against the passenger door. His clothes, still soaked from the on-the-spot shower, were tight and uncomfortable. The air in the cab was hot and dead. He was ill of color and still felt nauseous. His eyes fell closed a moment. A little better. He could still hear the muted thrum of the holiday crowd.

Lynn, she too a drowned rat, signaled right, waited for a car to pass, then steered her father’s flatbed onto the road. Parked vehicles stretched for a good quarter mile on both sides, narrowing it to one lane, and then they were clear. She flicked on her high beams.

Kain apologized again.

“Would you stop it?” she said. She looked over at him. “Don’t … don’t you say it.”

He started to.

“Listen,” she told him, cutting him off. “You’re not going to sit there and tell me how better off we’d all be if you hadn’t come into our lives. That doesn’t wash, and you know it. You don’t know him, Kain. Not like I do.”

He could only nod. The static had ebbed, but his head and his body ached. And damn it all if he didn’t crave a cigarette.

He spoke softly. “Are you all right?”

“I should be asking you,” she said. “It’s bad, isn’t it.”

He rubbed his eyes. His temples. The headache was killing him.

“I have some aspirin at home,” she said.

What he wanted was a bullet.

“She’s fine,” she said, as if reading his mind. She sighed. “Tonight’s just full of surprises.”

True enough. After Ray Bishop had left, Big Al had asked (demanded, not surprisingly), just what the hell that crazy had been on about. About how he knew Kain to begin with—and more to the point, how Kain had owed him. Lynn had started in with a lie, but Kain had stopped her. The old farmer had taken the truth in stride, but his better half had surprised everyone. While Georgia in no way approved of her daughter’s silence on the issue (not to mention Kain’s), she understood. Hugging her child tight, she had thanked the Good Lord He’d seen fit to send Kain to her that day in the diner, and looking over Lynn’s shoulder, she had regarded the drifter with a reassuring smile.