Red Rain- The Complete Series

by David Beers

  “No, Father.”

  “Why not, John? You come here asking for a way out, for God to give you something, and then he does—through me—but you refuse to take it.”

  John turned to him, fully, so that his left leg hung off the pew. “I love my wife. I love my kids. I can’t leave them; I can’t let them know.”

  “Then hell awaits you, John.”

  “I know.” He stood up and walked out.

  “Did you get what you wanted out of that?” Harry said.

  John had felt light when he left the car. Despite everything happening around him, the urge to (don’t say it) do what Harry wanted, the danger the Starbucks’ girl presented, etcetera—he felt somewhat happy riding around with Harry. He allowed John to forget, to live in a world not plagued with reality’s terrors. Harry gave John freedom.

  Now, though, the lightness was gone and a deep weight anchored him to his conscience.

  “If I wanted to hate myself, then yes.”

  “Lord in heaven, why do you keep doing this?” Harry said.

  “Because I don’t want to be you,” John whispered.

  “And I don’t want to be dead, but shit happens, John. Look, things were going great for the past couple hours—don’t do this to me, don’t turn into a goddamn sourpuss. We’re on for tonight; I don’t care what you say. If you try to stop it, I promise, I’ll make life a living hell.”

  “Just shut up,” John said. “We’re going to do it.”

  Alicia watched John walk to his car.

  He looks like someone in there just told him he was going to hell, she thought. His head was bent down, staring at the ground, and his shoulders slumped as if he dragged some heavy load behind him.

  Alicia’s hands started sweating again the moment she saw him. She calmed down once he went inside, but now she knew how hard this would be—avoiding being caught wherever he decided to drive.

  Back in the parking garage, she thought that it would be okay if he caught her, but now … the whole thing just seemed wrong. He was going to a church instead of home. He walked out of the church looking dejected. And now she would continue following him, trying to find out what was wrong.

  Everything, she thought as John’s car pulled off. Everything is wrong.

  Alicia counted to ten again and followed John out of the parking lot.

  They drove and drove, she watching the back of his car, trying to stay close enough and yet far enough away. The never ending balancing act.

  The roads looked the same, as did the cars, all of them a blur as Alicia focused on the only thing that mattered—finding out where her brother was going. Not home, clearly. He could have been at home thirty minutes ago, pulling down a few streets and then finding his house—full with his wife and kids.

  That’s not where he was headed, though.

  Finally, an hour into the drive, John exited the highway and Alicia followed. The sun was down beyond the horizon and the moon coming up on the other side. She didn’t know the area they were in, but as she pulled off the exit she began taking in her surroundings again, trying to understand whether her brother was dragging her to some drug infested cesspool.

  But no, the houses she saw looked nice. Not millionaire, but solid middle class for sure.

  She kept driving, turning on new roads, until finally, he parked at the curb. Alicia didn’t slow at all and as she passed his car on the driver’s side, didn’t look over. She kept moving through the neighborhood.

  Is he having an affair? she wondered. It made sense, because why else would he be in this neighborhood at eight o’clock in the evening? Should she call Diane and ask her what in the hell John told her he was doing?

  Anger splashed across her consciousness like splattered red paint.

  How could he do this? Have a goddamn affair when he had two kids and a wife waiting for him at home?

  Calm down, she thought. You don’t know anything yet.

  She knew enough, that he was in some strange neighborhood by himself. She turned her car around and parked about ten houses down. Far enough that she could still see his car but not so close that either of them could see inside the other.

  She didn’t know which house he went to, not in the dark and with the time it took her to turn around, but she knew he went in one of them because his car was off.

  Alicia fumed as she waited. She wanted to call Diane, but at the same time, this was her brother. When their father passed, he would be all she had when it came to blood. Would she throw that all away right now, before she knew why he was here?

  No. She would wait and then ask him just what in the fuck he thought he was doing.

  John looked at his hands; they were completely still, not a single tremor through a single finger. His hands were always still before he got started.

  “They’re still because we were meant for this,” Harry said from the passenger seat.

  Maybe he was right and maybe he wasn’t. John only knew that he felt at home, a hundred feet from murder.

  “Are you ready?” Harry said. “I’m fucking ready.”

  John felt Harry’s energy almost radiating from his bloated body to the rest of the car. Harry got amped and John got focused. This was how things went.

  “Let’s go, man. Let’s get inside there.” Harry spoke low, but his words rang with an urgency that a mother watching her child drown could easily recognize.

  “Take it easy,” John said. “You’ll blow your whole load before we even get in there, baby.”

  He opened the car door and got out without waiting on a response. He closed the door gently, so that barely a noise escaped as it clicked home. He started across the street, and heard Harry’s door closing just as softly. Then the patter of Harry’s feet as he jogged to catch up.

  “Here we go, here we go, here we gooooo,” Harry whispered.

  John felt his back waistline, making sure the pistol was there—he could feel it with his back, but he always double checked. Getting to the climax and realizing you’re missing a major piece was perhaps the worst feeling in the entire world. John had experienced it once and never again.

  Harry, needless to say, had been pissed.

  John walked up the driveway, the lights from inside the house casting a slight glow on the yard. He made his way to the door and lifted his hand to knock.

  29

  Present Day

  Larry turned the burner on high and placed the pan holding the pat of butter on it.

  Three minutes and the pan would be ready.

  He turned around and double checked his ingredients, making sure everything was ready to go, because this recipe relied on time more so than perhaps any other he had attempted. If you were off by more than a half minute, the meal wouldn’t turn out right.

  Larry loved to cook more than anything else in the world. In fact, he loved it so much, he separated himself from most people in order to do it. His mother and father both told him he was an idiot and would regret such a decision later in life, but they couldn’t understand.

  They called him rarely now and he returned the favor.

  He loved them, but a distance rested between them and himself—a distance that he didn’t have the time to fully bridge.

  The last time they called was when his ex-fiancee called them, telling his mother of their engagement’s end. He hadn’t called his mom because he didn’t want to hear her bitching. She wouldn’t get it regardless how many times he tried to explain it.

  He ended the engagement for the same reason he ended all his relationships. At some point, they began demanding too much of his time. He loved to cook, but it was more than that, truth be told. A lot more. His parents called it obsessive and refused to give him a single dollar for culinary classes. So Larry saved over the years and started classes in August. Tuesday and Thursday, six to ten at night.

  People didn’t understand and that was absolutely fine. He made his decisions of what he would be—or at the least attempt to be. If women couldn’t get on
board with the training schedule he put himself through—school and then homework every day he wasn’t in school—they had to go.

  He didn’t know where all this training would end up, and to be honest, he wasn’t overly concerned. He knew what he loved to do and that’s what mattered to him.

  The art of it.

  The joy that came from such art.

  Larry grabbed the sliced potatoes in front of him and turned around, placing them in the hot skillet and listening to the beautiful sound of frying start. He didn’t have time to dwell though. He looked at his watch, the seconds ticking away, and when it hit twenty, he turned, grabbed the onions and scattered them over the potatoes.

  He heard the knock on the door, but it was distant, like someone calling to him while he slept deep inside a dream. He didn’t even look up, only put his eyes back to his watch. Another thirty seconds, turned around, grabbed and scattered the bell peppers.

  The doorbell rang, and this noise cracked through his dream like a whip on a bull’s back.

  He looked up, already knowing that what he was trying to do was lost. It took complete concentration for this recipe. He looked up at the pan, the vegetables sizzling in it. He reached forward and turned the fire off, sighing as he did. He had no idea who might be at the door, only that he had no desire to speak with them. He had more green peppers, onions, and potatoes—that wasn’t the problem. He just didn’t like being interrupted when focusing so hard.

  He turned around and leaned on the kitchen island for a second, placing his palms on the white surface.

  The doorbell rang again, and Larry recognized defeat. He stood up and walked across the kitchen, heading to the door.

  “Where the fuck is he?” Harry said. “I know he’s home.”

  John said nothing, only looked at the door in front of him, listening intently for the sound of footsteps. Larry Kolzet was inside the house, John had no doubt about that, but this was taking longer than he originally allowed for.

  “I don’t like this,” Harry said.

  John didn’t like it either, but he wasn’t going to panic yet. For the want of two doorbell rings the kingdom wouldn’t be lost.

  And then he heard it, the sound of someone walking across the floor, heading to him. Perhaps the guy had been in the shower, or maybe eating dinner. John didn’t know and it really didn’t matter because he was on his way.

  “Here we go,” Harry said, whispering finally. “God, here we go.”

  The door opened and John smiled brilliantly. The smile he used to get his first date with Diane. The same smile he used to disarm so many people in the past, because it’s so hard not to smile back.

  This guy didn’t, though, and John felt something go off in his head. Something that said to leave, to walk away from the whole thing immediately.

  That something was pushed down with the force of a tsunami making landfall. It never had a chance to make a true impression, not with the momentum coursing through John.

  “Hi, Larry?” John said.

  “Yes, can I help you?”

  “My name is John. I …” he turned around for a single second, glancing once more across the surrounding houses. As he came back to the front door, he brought his hand up—holding a dish rag—so quickly that his arm might have been a snake snapping at prey. He walked forward as he did, pushing in. The man struggled, letting out a grunt, but John kept his hand on his face, and two breaths later, all struggle left as he sucked in the chloroform.

  John moved in fast, his muscles acting the same as an NFL linebacker’s might. With his left leg he kicked the door closed behind him and lay the man down on the hardwood floor. He turned around, not glancing at Harry, and went back to the door. He stepped outside, closing the door behind him, and headed back to his car—looking like he forgot something. In reality, his eyes swept the scenery, looking for anything—an errant light that wasn’t there before, someone on the porch with a phone in their hand, any possible thing that might show he’d been caught. He hadn’t wanted to bring him down at the front, but the no smile thing changed his mind at the last second.

  John ducked into his car, dug around in his console just in case anyone was looking, and then walked backed to the house.

  He saw nothing.

  John opened the house door and went in.

  “Ready?” Harry said.

  The man sat bound in a chair. John hadn’t been able to find tape, so he shoved his mouth full with a rag and wrapped rope around it, keeping it in place no matter what Larry decided to do.

  “Are you going to wake him up?” Harry said.

  John sat on the couch while Harry stood, pacing across the living room.

  “I wasn’t planning on it. The chloroform will wear off in a bit. I want to enjoy this some.”

  Harry shook his head, wearing impatience the same as he did his clothes. He kept pacing.

  “You leaving after this?”

  “Huh?” Harry said.

  “Are you done here? Going away again?”

  Harry stopped. “Done?”

  “Yeah, done. This is the longest you’ve ever hung around.”

  “John, do you realize what’s happening around you right now? They have a witness. They’re questioning that witness. You need me here when this is done, because you can’t do all this alone. You don’t have the patience or energy—or hell, the will—to finish that girl off if we need to.”

  John looked at Harry. The friend he knew all those years ago looked nothing like this, nothing but the most distant relation to the creature in this living room. His skin looked like it held gallons of water, as if John were to touch him, he would sweat salt water. No eyebrows. The large scar ripping across the top of his head.

  “I can handle it, Harry.”

  “I don’t think you can.”

  “After this, you’re leaving. I’m going to handle everything else by myself.”

  “We’ll see, John.”

  Harry turned to the man tied down on the chair, his eyes fluttering open. John looked too.

  “Here he comes,” Harry said.

  John stood, the gun in his hand now. He walked across the living room and stood in front of the guy that he first saw in the marketing department. A young guy. Twenty-eight, and he knew that because Harry knew that.

  It took a second for Larry’s eyes to focus, coming back to reality after being under for so long. He saw John soon though, and the struggle started. He tried to scream, but quickly found doing so would end with him choking to death as the saliva he threw forward only backfired and started rolling down his throat. He banged around on the chair, trying to break free of the ropes binding him.

  Nothing gave, even the chair was tied at all four legs, so that he couldn’t bounce too far one way or the other. Tipping the thing over would do him no good.

  John watched, saying nothing. Grunts, anger, and fear boomed out of the man in a continuous wave.

  “God, yeeesssssss,” Harry said.

  John stepped closer, so that his own legs were only a few inches away from the man’s knees. Larry stopped moving and stared up at John with wide, red eyes—full of so much fear they might actually try to run away themselves.

  “Do it,” Harry said.

  John heard him, but muffled, like someone yelling at him through a pillow. He focused entirely on the man in front of him, the pulsing vein in his temple, the sweat dripping down his forehead. Every detail.

  His own heart raced, pounding at his chest like pistons in a locomotive.

  John lifted his gun and pointed it at the man’s chest.

  “Go on,” Harry said.

  John pressed down slightly on the trigger, and then raised the gun just a bit, so that it pointed at Larry’s head.

  “What are you doing?” Harry said.

  John didn’t hear him. He squeezed the trigger and the top of the man’s head exploded in a bloody bloom of bone and brain.

  John lowered the gun to his side, a slight stream of smoke rising f
rom the silenced barrel. It floated in front of his vision, slightly distorting the mess across the living room.

  And that’s what this was. A goddamn mess.

  He didn’t need to turn to see if Harry was there; he wasn’t. His old friend had been standing right next to the chair, and now only blood stained the carpet where he once stood.

  John breathed in and out heavily, feeling his heart rate slow.

  Why had he raised the gun at the last moment, shooting the man in the head instead of the chest? The blood from the chest would have dripped down his torso and perhaps fallen to the floor, but wouldn’t have created what he saw in front of him now. Larry Kolzet sat slumped in the chair, a large urine stain on the front of his jeans from when his bladder released. His head was cocked back to the right, hanging at what would have been a horribly uncomfortable position if Larry lived. His eyes stared blankly up at the ceiling. His jaw was slack around the gag and his mouth hung open as if waiting on a lover to feed him a strawberry that would never come.

  John collapsed, falling onto his ass so hard that pain ricocheted up his spine.

  He stared at the dead man in front of him, watching the blood quickly drip from his shattered skull to the floor below.

  “Christ,” he said, his voice a strained whisper. “Fucking Christ.”

  Wave after wave of emotion hit him, emotions that had been locked away or non-existent two minutes before. Goosebumps ran up his arms like chickenpox. Tears rushed to his eyes as the realization of what just happened finally hit him. That he murdered someone. That in front of him, the dead man staring at the ceiling—he caused it.