Red Rain- The Complete Series

by David Beers

  He didn’t look back yet. He knew she was right. Completely so. But it was okay now, because Harry was gone. John wouldn’t be out until the early morning anymore. Probably not for years but there was a good chance he might not ever want to do it again. He certainly didn’t want to now.

  “I understand,” John said.

  “Do you?”

  He nodded. “I’ll communicate. I promise.” He looked to her, his eyes just as wet as hers. “It won’t happen again.”

  They both stared at each other, neither speaking, until Diane opened her arms and pulled John to her. She held him close and he breathed in her neck’s scent as they embraced.

  John had a lot to make right.

  He didn’t realize he had missed his mother’s anniversary until he woke up and started cooking breakfast for Diane. He hadn’t fixed anything between them, but at least he opened an avenue to repair the damage. The whole thing would take time, but he had that now. The deed was done and it wouldn’t be back for a long time, if ever.

  Now he needed to worry about his father and Alicia. They would be hurt, possibly even angry, at him missing the anniversary and what excuse would he give them? The same bullshit one he gave his wife, he supposed. He had nothing else.

  John would be late to work today, but that was okay. He slept maybe three hours last night, and had a full day ahead, but he needed to take care of these things first.

  He dialed his father’s number, letting his car’s bluetooth system take over. He needed to make this call and then wanted to stop by one other place before he went into the office.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Dad,” John said.

  “Hey.”

  Silence came back.

  “Did you and Alicia go yesterday?” John said.

  “Yeah, we did. It was cold.”

  “I’m sorry that I missed it.”

  “It’s okay, John. There isn’t any law that says you have to go.”

  John swallowed and brought his other hand to the steering wheel, grabbing it with both. “Are you angry?”

  “No.”

  Nothing else. Just that single word and then more silence. His father sounded like he didn’t care one way or another what excuses John made; he didn’t want to hear them. John didn’t think offering any up would help the situation either.

  “Well, it doesn’t sound like you really want to talk right now. I just wanted to call and apologize.”

  “No need to apologize, John.”

  “Alright, Dad. I’ll call you later.”

  “Sounds good,” his father said and hung up the phone.

  John’s bluetooth ended and the radio came back on. He immediately snapped his hand to the knob and turned it off, leaving him in silence besides the hum of the car moving down the highway. What the hell had he done? His father was upset now? His father never got upset, certainly not angry with his children. Yet, how else could John take what just happened? If he wasn’t upset, then he must be having the worst day ever and it wasn’t even eight yet.

  John shook his head, disgust at himself and anger at his father fighting for control of his mind. Disgust because he caused this and anger because … except he knew he had no reason to be mad. Not at his dad. And yet it was there, simmering like oil in a heated pan, ready to burn anything that touched it. Because his father … he shouldn’t be mad. He should forgive John.

  “Shut up,” he said to himself, knowing these thoughts were nothing but childish arguments—each one shouting louder that John was the offended party here, not his father and sister.

  Which brought him to the next person he needed to make things right with, or try at least. Alicia. He looked at the church in the distance; he’d be there in just a few minutes and simply didn’t have the wherewithal to get blasted by his sister the same as he had his father; two people telling him off this morning was more than could take. He would call her when he got off work, maybe. For now, he needed to talk to God.

  He opened the church doors and stepped inside. The place was empty just as it had been when he came a few days ago. Christ still hung from the cross on the pulpit, white light shining down from the ceiling. The air smelled clean, as if someone used an air freshener, though John came here enough to know that Father Charles kept potpourri hidden around the main room for this very effect.

  The door closed softly behind him.

  John felt a sudden urge to run. He didn’t belong here. The past twelve hours had been about him cleaning up a murder, and then cleaning up his life. He hadn’t given a single thought to the victim (His name was Paul. Paul.) and he knew that after this, he wouldn’t give anymore either—nothing besides making sure he wouldn’t get into trouble.

  So why was he here? Did he even deserve to be here, in his Lord’s house?

  If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.

  The Lord could forgive anyone.

  Even you? Someone like you? Who can’t stop?

  I can stop, John thought. That’s why I’m here, because I’m going to stop.

  He feared Father Charles too. Feared the disappointment and disgust Father Charles would express in just a few minutes. Because John had fallen again, in a way that Father Charles could never understand. He had fallen and committed the ultimate sin, murdering one of God’s children. Taking life that God himself had deemed important enough to put on this Earth.

  “John, is that you?” Father Charles called from his office.

  John could still turn back and not face this. Not ask God’s forgiveness. Not reveal this horrible thing to another human.

  He heard the Father’s door open and then close, his feet echoing slightly in the silent building as he walked toward John.

  “Hi,” he said as he rounded the corner at the front of the room. His voice traveled easily across the open space. “Are you ready?”

  No, John thought, but walked forward anyway, heading to the confessional booth.

  He went in and listened as Father Charles entered his side. The booth was tight, not giving much room to move around.

  For your sins, Father Charles once said. You can’t run from them inside the booth, not with it being that close. Also, the church gets a heavy discount by ordering that model. Even God himself is affected by budgets, it seems.

  The small window in between the booths opened and John knew what to do next. The reason he came here, to beg forgiveness for sins that shouldn’t be forgiven.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” John said, forming the sign of the cross over his chest.

  “May God the Father of all mercies help you make a good confession.”

  He knew. Father Charles knew why he was here, because while John came to church regularly, he didn’t confess often. No, these times were kept for very special occasions. The same way he knew his own father’s disappointment through his voice, he could hear it already in Father Charles.

  “Father, I did it again.”

  He let the words hang inside his booth, somehow hoping that they hadn’t made their way to the other.

  “You did what?” Father Charles said.

  “Murder.”

  John heard the sigh, long and heavy, like a man’s last breath.

  “Would you take counsel now, son?” the Father said after a few seconds.

  “Yes.”

  “You need to turn yourself in. You need to go to the police and confess to them, not just God. The longer that you’re out here in this world, the more of God’s children are in danger. You say you don’t want to kill; you’ve told me that before. If you don’t want to kill, then allow yourself to either be locked away or get the help you need.”

  John had heard these words before.

  “How many times will you come here? How many times will you tell me that you’ve committed such a grave sin in the eyes of our Father and ask His forgiveness? Do you think His mercies are limitless?”

  John leaned forward,
his head nearly touching the door. “I don’t know, Father. I don’t know what to do. It came on strong and I tried to fight. I even came here and prayed, but God didn’t answer. He left me alone.”

  “It is not God’s job to fix your failings. He has already given you the opportunity for eternal life through the murder of His Son.”

  “Can He forgive me again?”

  John listened to the church’s air conditioning as the priest remained silent for at least a minute.

  “I cannot claim to know the mind of God. I suppose His mercies are limitless, John, if He chooses to grant them on someone. I don’t know if He will continue to with you, though. You ask forgiveness, but you continue to murder.”

  “I’m going to stop, Father. This was the last time.”

  “I’m not sure you can stop, John.”

  Much of this conversation was a replay of the last time John came to this booth confessing the same thing. Except for the last sentence; Father Charles had never said John couldn’t stop, that he didn’t believe in John.

  “Why would He make me like this?” Tears were ready to fall from John’s eyes.

  “You know that God does not make evil. You’re His child and He loves you, but you’ve turned into a monster.”

  Neither said anything for quite some time. John wept and Father Charles sat in silence.

  “You won’t turn yourself in?”

  “No,” John said. “I can’t.”

  “Are you truly sorry for your sins?” The priest said, returning to the script.

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Your penance is ten acts of charity. May the Lord help you find the righteous path.”

  Father Charles stood and left his booth.

  Charles Raport stepped out of the confessional booth and noticed for the first time that his hands were shaking. Even the hand holding onto his worn Bible shook, his grip not able to prevent it. God cursed him when he sent John Hilt to his flock. Cursed him and might even be laughing now, up in heaven, looking down at Charles’ shaky hands.

  Father forgive me for that blaspheme, he thought as he walked across the room, heading back to his office.

  John had confessed to four murders so far. At first, Charles wasn’t sure the man told the truth—thought he might be trying to create a ruse or see if Charles would break the Seal of the Confessional. Now, though, he knew better.

  John Hilt was a psychopath. One that believed in God. One that might even want to stop being a psychopath, at least a part of him, but all the same, a psychopath.

  The priest opened his office door, set his Bible on his desk, and then practically fell into his chair.

  He wanted to break the Seal of the Confessional. He wanted to tell someone—anyone, really—what he knew. Because it would happen again. The police needed to arrest this man and throw him in a cell, a hospital, or an electric chair. Charles didn’t have the answer to what happened after John was apprehended, just as long as he was out of the public domain.

  And yet he couldn’t. He could do nothing but sit here and shake.

  He had appealed to the Church, asking their permission to alert the police about John, but was told no. Their reasoning relied on the sanctity of confession, and if God wanted someone to know, God would make it happen.

  As far as Father Charles could tell, God was sitting this one out.

  “There’s one thing you can do,” he said to himself. He would have to convince John, which might be impossible. John was smart, and he would know Charles’ endgame.

  And he didn’t know if he could handle something like that, going into a psycho’s mind.

  Yet he couldn’t sit here in his church knowing a murderer walked along its hallways. He had to do something. He just didn’t know what.

  John left the confessional booth long after Father Charles. He couldn’t stop crying and he didn’t want to try driving to work in such a state. He sat and waited until the tears quit flowing. When he exited, his eyes were puffy and his sinuses a wreck. He saw no one else in the church, nor any sign of Father Charles. The priest had gone somewhere, most likely back to his office. Father Charles didn’t speak to John, ever—hadn’t for a long time. In the beginning, he tried to help, but for the past five years, he wouldn’t even look at John. Only in confessions did the priest deem John worthy of conversation. He hadn’t known if Father Charles feared him until today; he understood now. Father Charles hated him. A monster. That’s what he called John. Something not even human.

  John stood for a second in the cathedral, gathering his bearings.

  The priest still hadn’t banned him from this building, but he knew it was coming. As God’s vessel, he could make such decisions. And what then? Another church? Another priest? Because John wouldn’t give up on God. Indeed, he saw God as the only way out of this hell.

  Or maybe Father Charles simply told the police, breaking his vow.

  And would that be best?

  John walked to the cathedral’s front doors and pulled them open, the cool morning air rushing inside. He had been holding his jacket, but as he walked outside he started putting it on, not paying attention to much around him. He walked down the sidewalk, heading to his car, but when his eye caught the light blue tint to his right, he stopped—one arm in the jacket, the other only half way through. He didn’t bother trying to finish dressing.

  John turned, fear jumping into his throat like the Devil’s case of acid reflux. Because he didn’t want to see what came with that blue, hadn’t even thought it possible.

  But John quickly learned that anything was possible.

  Harry leaned against the walkway’s wooden fence. He had an apple in his hand and took a bite out of it just as their eyes met. He grinned as he chewed.

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, John. Tell me you didn’t go in there and confess to the priest. I told you about that before. You’re going to get us both caught.”

  John thrust his arm into his jacket and started walking faster, heading to his car, trying to convince himself that he didn’t see anything on the path.

  “Hey! I’m not mad. Come back!” Harry shouted. John looked at his feet, watching them take one step after another, hoping that focusing on them would take him away from the voice hurling from across the church’s front lawn.

  He tried not to listen to the sound of Harry’s bloated body running behind him.

  He tried not to feel Harry’s dead flesh brush up against his own arm as he caught up.

  “You’re not here,” John said.

  “I’m here, John. I’m here and ready to partaaaay.”

  John didn’t need to look at him to know he was smiling. He kept his eyes on his feet, trying to walk even faster without appearing to run.

  “No. You’re not here. You need to leave. You’re not coming back. I’m done, you hear me? I’m fucking done.”

  “John, you’re not done. I promise. In fact, I think we’re just getting started.”

  18

  Present Day

  Alan looked at his cell phone, wanting to pick it up and call. It sat a few inches away from his hand, but at least part of him realized calling wasn’t the proper thing to do.

  Eight o’clock on Friday evening wasn’t when you called your partner.

  Yet, the itch was there, because he wanted to tell someone about what he saw.

  Fuck it, he thought. He grabbed the phone and found Susan’s number.

  “You told me not to come in,” she said as she answered. “I’m not coming in.”

  “It’s technically not the weekend yet,” Alan said.

  “The weekend starts at five on Friday.”

  “I’m going through the evidence we just got back from the crime scene techs. It’s the same guy, Suse.”

  “I thought you already said you knew it was?”

  “I did, but now there’s proof. Same gun was used. He wiped away the car tracks again, just like he did last time. No fingerprints, no other signs at all,” he said, looking down at t
he report on his desk.

  A long pause before Susan said, “The boss know?”

  “He hasn’t said anything, but yeah, he has to—papers are running it tomorrow.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  Alan’s eyes bunched up for a second and he glanced to the right of his papers at John Doe’s picture. He didn’t see the first victim; no, this time he saw Teresa lying there, her blonde hair a bloody mess. He blinked and when he looked again, a dead man remained on the photograph.

  “I want to try and catch him.”

  “Are you sure, Alan? There’s no reason you can’t give this to someone else.”

  “Yeah, there actually is.”

  Neither spoke for a few seconds and then Alan said, “What are you doing?”

  “Getting ready to meet a friend for drinks. You want to come?”

  “Yeah, right. If I go anywhere it’s home.”

  “You should do that, actually,” Susan said.

  “I’m going to. I just wanted to let you know it’s the same guy.”

  “Thanks, Alan. I’ll see you Monday. Bye, partner,” she said.

  They both hung up the phone, and Alan looked around the office. The place was empty. Completely empty.

  Except for me, he thought. Teresa would have been here, though.

  True. Teresa would have been at her desk, throwing questions over to him from across the room. Probably eating something horrible like Cheetos and listening to some emo-rock on her phone. He missed her, though he hadn’t thought about her for a long time. Years, probably. He thought that the killer escaped, for good—but somehow Alan got lucky and the fucker decided to do it again.

  A lot of this was about justice and a lot of it was about Teresa and, still more, was about Alan.

  They would hopefully have the body ID’d by Monday and then Alan would crank up the machine. The thing was slow and clumsy, but the machine knew how to do one thing: eat. And starting Monday, Alan was going to keep feeding the motherfucker until it finally ate up the bastard who did this.