Velvet Rain - A Dark Thriller (51 page)

“Not a chance,” Kain agreed, raising his voice to compete with the boisterous fans. “Had a little chat with Coach Plummer a while back. About the time I was teaching Ryan, if I remember.” He winked with a knowing grin, and the big farmer laughed.

The din subsided as the pitcher took the throw from the catcher. Ryan adjusted the brim of his cap. Kept his eyes glued to the batter.

The Madness coach snapped at Jones, and the big bruiser backed off, calling time. The boo-birds came out. Jones stood there defiantly, brooding, and then, only when the umpire prodded him, took up his stance. He cast the pitcher that cocky single swing, drew the bat back … and delivered the Swirl.

“I can’t look,” Lynn said, covering her eyes. She slid her fingers open, just enough to see.

Ryan stepped up and set himself into position. The sign came quickly from his catcher, and like a man on a mission, he delivered the perfect pitch.

The big bruiser had lost all grace in his naturally gifted swing, flailing wildly at the breaker. Jones spun out and slipped to the ground unceremoniously. He hit the dirt on his side and rolled onto his back, his right ankle twisted. He cried out in anguish, but the roar of the crowd, hearing that final pop from the catcher’s mitt and that hammy
Steeeeerike!
that sent them into bedlam, drowned him out. The Tigers bench went wild, second- and third-stringers leaping to their feet. Ben Caldwell was jumping up and down like a fool, hammering a fist in the air, screaming his happy head off. The fielders bolted to the mound from all directions, swarming their hero; a few of their caps blew off in their celebration. Coach Plummer, despite his less-than-nimble body, joined the fray, his flood pants rising higher and higher with each quick step of his chubby legs. The crowd stormed the field cheering and hollering, running wildly toward the ballplayers, a few of them tripping over themselves. The players along the Madness bench sat subdued and dejected, most of them with their heads in their hands. None of them went to console their fallen leader, not even their coach. The man in the red ball cap headed for the parking lot in disgust.

Despite the bedlam, all Kain could think about—besides the relentless throbbing in his brain—was Jimmy Long. His heart sank. Still, he followed Lynn gamely down to the field. They made their way through the thick sea of bodies, Big Al doing all he could to keep up and managing pretty well. When they finally reached the mound, they saw Ryan rising above them, sailing on a sea of hands. No longer was he that gangly, uncertain boy filled with anger and distrust: he was beaming, he was laughing, he was grinning and bursting—the
real
Ryan Bishop, for what was, most certainly, the very first time in his life. He was high-fiving Ben when a small hand poked up and snatched his ball cap. He turned quickly, saw his mother wearing it, and smiled wider; saw his grandfather and let out a triumphant woo-hoo as he beat a fist into the air. Someone set off some firecrackers and the din grew, but above it all, someone called out
Ryan,
and when the young man turned to its source, when he saw just who it was that had said it, his eyes lit up … and then he reached down, man to man, and took Kain Richards’ hand.

~ 29

Kain was still playing with his scrambled eggs when they heard the knock at the front door. Lynn, who had been quite preoccupied with her own thoughts this morning, looked up with unease. Their conversation had been minimal, more akin to that of pleasant strangers; she had been too polite to press him, he too disconcerted to discuss his post-game meltdown. She got up to greet her father—he heard her kiss him on the cheek—and the big farmer followed her into the kitchen. He stood in the doorway, his morning paper tucked neatly under his arm.

“Beaks?”

“Out back,” she said. “Did I hear thunder?”

“Sure did,” the farmer said. “Been watchin’ those clouds since I got up. Cripes, I’d take a single drop right about now.”

“How you feelin’, old-timer?”

“I should be asking you that, son.”

“Bit of a headache,” Kain said, and that was the truth. “I’ll hitch a ride back if that’s okay.”

Lynn gave him a look.

“Well … Nate
could
use a hand,” Big Al said. “You sure you’re up to it? You look a little ragged.”

“I’m fine … really.”

Lynn gave him another look.

Big Al took up a chair.

“You want something, Dad? Eggs?”

“Maybe some juice, thanks.”

She fixed him a glass with some ice and sat down.

“Any word?” Kain asked.

“Not a peep,” Big Al said. “Just got off the blower with that idiot, Berridge. Told me to stop calling.”

“My God,” Lynn said. “They don’t even care about that boy. This whole thing makes me sick. And Lee, she … I just don’t understand any of this.”

Big Al calmed her with a fatherly glance, yet his usual steadiness seemed to falter. He placed his paper on the table. He paused, then looked to the drifter soberly. “This might not be the right time,” he said. “Not with Jimmy and all. Fact is … you need to see this, son.”

Lynn looked to her father worriedly. Kain regarded her with trepidation, then regarded the farmer with a capitulating nod. So: it had finally come.

Al Hembruff opened the paper near the back section and folded it over. There was his grandson, game-saving hero of the Spencer High Tigers, reaching down to shake hands with one of the adoring mob. The grainy image didn’t show all of Kain’s face, but it showed enough.

“I don’t understand,” Lynn said.

The farmer looked at the drifter … the drifter looked at the farmer.

“Would someone
please
tell me what’s going on?”

It had been so much blur, so debilitating, the brilliant flash of lights, one upon another, that had sent Kain crashing. The local photographer, the same newshound who had nearly caught him during the Three-Legged Race, had popped up during the post-game celebrations and started firing. That had been worrisome enough, but his fear had not stopped there; almost instinctively from conditioning, he had slipped into a panic, his mind spinning, spiraling out of control. Perhaps the headaches had been the catalyst … who knew anymore. It had been the Crypt all over again, Brikker and camera, flash after flash after flash, and he had been unable to fight off the demons this time. They had devoured him, and he had nearly blacked out, falling away from the screaming crowd—running, really, running from the screams, running for his life, just as he had run through those dark, endless corridors during his escape. Lynn must have thought him insane, for she had barely been able to settle him after he had made his way behind the bleachers; she had found him shaking, cowering like a child. She had talked him through it, had held him when he had needed it most, and like the good woman she was, had tried
so
to comprehend his terror. How long they had been there he couldn’t know, but when they had finally emerged the ballpark was theirs alone. Big Al and Ryan had waited patiently for them in the car, showing only concern when he and Lynn had strapped themselves into the back. They’d had the decency not to ask.

He spoke so faintly he could hardly hear himself.

“Kain?”

He looked up at Lynn.

“A scrapbook,” he repeated. “He keeps a scrapbook.”

“What? Who?”

“Brikker,” Big Al said. He turned to Kain. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“But I still don’t—” Lynn cut herself off.

“I’m sorry, Lynn.”

She could say nothing.

“It’s the only way,” Kain said.

Big Al interjected. “I only know so much about this Brikker fella,” he said. “Only what you told me. But if only half of what you told me is true—Christ—Kain’s right, darlin’.”

“Listen to me,” Kain said. “Please.” He waited for her to look to him. “Lynn.”

There was a low, somber rumble of thunder. She raised her eyes slowly. Met his.

“This,” he said, tapping the newspaper. “This is what Brikker has been waiting for.”

“But it’s just a small-town newspaper,” she said. “Nobody sees it.”

He went on to explain Brikker’s dark obsession; how something so seemingly innocuous could—and in this case, would, if he failed to act—lead to his capture.

“How long?” she said dimly, finally.

His gaze drifted a moment. “I don’t know. A week … maybe two.”

“Then go to the police,” she said, her voice rising in restrained panic. “We’ll
all
go. We’ll tell them—”

“Easy, girl,” Big Al said, taking her by the hand. “First of all, there’s already enough people around here who know about this young man. Second of all … men like Berridge would more likely turn him in.”

“But he hasn’t
done
anything! He’s not a criminal.”

“He didn’t mean it like that,” Kain said. “But he’s right. And even if by some miracle Berridge did want to help me, it wouldn’t change a thing.”

His expression turned black.

“Brikker’s above the law,” he told her. “He doesn’t even exist.”

She turned away. She looked adrift, so lost. Her eyes were glossy.

“And if you stay? If you fight?”

The drifter shifted a glance toward Big Al a moment. He fell back to his daughter.

“You’ll be killed,” he said. “All of you.”

~ 30

The good Doctor signaled with barely a glance. Strong left him.

He turned up the oil lamp and eased back in his chair behind the Air Marshal’s desk. Smoke filled the room; filled his lungs. The lulling tick of the clock stirred him. He lit up a cigarette and savored it, savored it as he had not savored one for so long. Dali’s work sent a chill coursing through him.

He had never been this close … not since Miami.

Brikker stared at the envelope for the longest time.

Two hours later, he was on his way.

~ 31

He could hear the rains.

The sharp break of the balls … the haunting vocals of Jimmy Dean. So, too, could he hear Sarah-Jane and her down-home sweetness, just as he heard the rocking sounds of the King as the wind rustled through his hair from the back seat of that ’58 Sunliner on his way to Des Moines. He could hear the excitement, the freedom, in that young girl’s voice. What had she said?
Jobs and adventure?
Yes, she had. He could hear the Little Duke, too, the kid mimicking his famous namesake with just the right drawl of Dukeness. And as he looked out over those boundless Iowa cornfields into that deepening sky from his perch on the Hembruff veranda, he could hear his heart break.

Just passing through,
he had told Sarah-Jane. Told anyone he’d ever met. He wondered how she was; wondered if she had ever gotten out of dead-end Rocheport.

“Penny for your thoughts, Kain.”

He turned to the good woman. Smiled wanly.

“I’m off,” Georgia said, and she rose from her rocker. She went to him, and she put a soft hand to his cheek. She felt warm; her eyes were reassuringly bright. “You’re a good man, Kain Richards. You deserve better.”

She smiled warmly and kissed him tenderly on the forehead. She sniffled, and she hugged him; she smelled of talcum. She left him then, and he nodded after her. Big Al joined him a few minutes later and took up across from him.

“I know,” Kain said, as if reading the farmer’s thoughts. It had been five days since the photograph in the paper. Five days too long.

“Wisconsin?”

Kain regarded him, downcast. “Maybe Canada.”

Big Al nodded. “Damn cold there,” he said. “But it’s nice in British Columbia.”

A crow spread its wings, rising in the distance.

“It’s so quiet here,” Kain said. He was turned away, losing himself in that endless prairie again. The first stars were barely winking through the twilight.

“What do you see, son?”

“Sorry?”

“You’re always looking,” Big Al said.

“I am?”

“You am.”

Kain drew pause. “I don’t really know, I guess.”

“… It’s big enough, you know.”

“Big enough?”

“For everyone. The world, I mean. You’re gonna find whatever it is you’re looking for.”

“I wish I knew what that was.”

“I think you do,” Big Al said. “We don’t always know it when we want to … but deep down … we do.”

Kain’s expression dimmed. “Big enough,” he said.

“Plenty big enough,” the farmer told him. “Big enough they won’t find you.”

“I’m tired,” the drifter said. His head ached. “Just … tired.”

“I know, son.”

They sat silently for a time, the crickets wakening to a soothing chorus. Finally, the farmer spoke.

“It’ll be all right.”

Kain looked up. “Am I that obvious?”

“Know my little girl pretty well,” Big Al said. “She’s strong. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out how she feels about you … and that it goes both ways. Fact is, if things were different … well … they aren’t. But she’ll survive this. She understands.”

“Yeah,” Kain said flatly. “And Ray?”

Al Hembruff stiffened. Stroked his ample chin. “I know Ray Bishop,” he said. “He killed that boy. Know that as sure as I know hell is waiting for him. For now, he’ll lay low … he has to. Is he
finished?
” He shrugged.

Kain stirred.

Big Al raised a brow.

“There’s more than Ray Bishop, Big Al.”

“Brikker.” The farmer paused to take a long gaze toward his daughter’s farm. “He’ll be coming,” he said. “He’s gonna bring it all down right here.”

“I’m sorry,” Kain said. “I should have left a long time ago.”

“Listen … this is nobody’s fault. Look at me, Kain.”

Kain did.

“Let it come,” Big Al said. “Brikker and his thugs will do what they do. But this family’s a lot tougher than you give it credit. If that man thinks we’ll give him anything that will lead him to you … he’d better think again.”

Kain could only swallow something thick. “Do you … do you think they’ll find him?”

Big Al sighed deeply. He got out of his chair and hobbled across the deck. He looked as if he’d aged ten years since that first day when he’d backed up in his pickup and offered Kain a job. He drew a pair of cold ones from his hiding place, then placed the lid back on the barrel as quietly as a mouse. He handed one to Kain as he pulled up in the rocker, and suddenly, the drifter realized what was happening.