And that result simply would not stand. Winston had invested too much of himself now, both in time and emotion. He could taste the possibility of life again, the potential for a future. It was a sensation which, despite his successes over the last several decades, he’d not felt since he was in his thirties, when the future seemed like a never-ending tunnel of hope. All of the money he’d made in life, all of the wins he’d captured in his professional career—as well as in other aspects of his life, including romance and friendships (though those were long past)—all amounted to a thin residue on his memory now, a sheen on his soul that he could barely detect anymore. Death was too heavy an idea, too overshadowing a concept to allow the light of more pleasant notions to shine through.
And Death had loomed over Winston for a year now, watching him like a dragon over its prey, helpless in the confines of its lair, the fiery creature waiting for the precise moment to take him in its jaws. And though the pain and sickness which had led to that first diagnosis had mostly passed, Winston could always detect the illness flowing beneath his skin, sense it in his belly and taste it in his mouth, as if his blood had been infected with some thin, poisonous element.
So, when the auburn man of the extinct American Northeast tribe finally made his offer, giving Winston the price he would have to pay for the reward of Life, the elderly millionaire could barely restrain his enthusiasm. A manic pleasure had grown steadily in Winston’s belly and loins as he listened to the bargain; it was the feeling he’d thought gone forever, but it had resurfaced in that moment, recalling in him some lost moment from a day in his teens, when the smile from a pretty girl had flashed his way, her eyes sparkling and suggestive, locking with his.
But Zander’s offer had been more marvelous than any tingle sparked by a flirtation. It was a proposal that offered more than just the religious notion of afterlife, of golden streets or awaiting heavenly virgins. Beyond just a cure to Winston’s sickness and the hope of living out his natural, earthly form, Zander had suggested a life that went beyond any normal span, decades perhaps. Centuries?
But why him?
Winston had assumed his proximity to the telescope was the most reasonable explanation, and for several weeks following the visit, he thought nothing more of the question. But as the weeks grew to months, he meditated more on the matter, and although he suspected his home’s location certainly played some part in the selection process, he now believed there was more to it than that.
It was his age. His age and the fear of death that resounds—to varying degrees—in all men.
And perhaps his wealth played a part as well, money suggesting the qualities of greed and opportunism. Winston never cared as much about money as much a most in his tax bracket—his net worth was somewhere north of thirty million—and ‘materialistic’ wasn’t a character trait to which he would have ascribed to himself. But there was desire in him just the same, and only those at the brink of death could ever understand such avarice for life, such avidity to continue beyond one’s natural cycle.
And there was no doubt the visitors had done their research on Winston, beyond just an inspection of his years in retirement in Garmella, Arizona. He was the CEO of Demornay Labs for just under twenty years, and though that certainly was no position of celebrity, it was one public enough that anybody looking could have discovered certain personal beliefs about Winston, beliefs that would have made him a qualified candidate. He was no man of god, for instance—they would have learned that much—and, based on the handful of interviews he had done over the years for various trade publications, he probably came off like a burgeoning atheist. That would have played into Zander’s evaluation, Winston figured, as such a stance would eliminate any karmic barrier that might interfere with his decision-making, any fear that his soul would burn forever in the place which, to that point, he doubted existed at all.
But Winston was no fool either, not the kind of man who would have willed his assets over to strangers for some secret elixir or be taken in by a low-rent pyramid scheme while his fortune dwindled. Thus, his reaction to the grandeur the visitors had touted should have been one of extreme pessimism or amusement even. And as he recited the story in his mind now for the thousandth time, he recalled how much the offer had sounded like that of a Jehovah’s Witness or some other religious peddler, pledging the eternal while offering nothing other than a story as proof.
But Winston had listened with zeal and anticipation to this potential for an extended life, and in that moment, he could feel nothing but hope and elation. Euphoria. He was convinced the Arali were real despite a lack of even a shred of actual evidence. But there was something about Zander that had captured Winston’s fascination in a way no one ever had before. It wasn’t just charisma or passion, nor was it just the man’s own true belief in the beings that he was describing. There was something physical about Zander that was different, a shine in his eyes and a depth to his voice. It was a glow—that was the only word that came close—an all-encompassing radiance that had filled the room when he spoke.
So, the threshold of belief had been crossed that day, the belief that the Arali had the ability to grant Winston a life that hinted at immortality, and once he found himself on that side of faith, his mind was open to anything. Everything.
And if the price for such a prize was simply to interrupt signals coming into the Grieg Telescope from some unknown satellite or star or sentient being on the edges of space, that was a minor effort for the payday that was to come. And as the visit had drawn to an end that day and the two men and one woman left his home almost ten hours later, Winston Bell was all in, a full-fledged servant to their cause.
He shook off the memory and focused on the vehicle approaching him now. It wasn’t an audit truck, but it was an unwanted visitor just the same.
Garmella police.
Winston had always considered Sheriff Ramon Thomas’ a rather pleasant fellow, at least as people went generally, and under most social or professional circumstances, he would have welcomed the young man’s company.
But the sheriff’s phone calls and visits, despite the mostly pleasant tone of them up to that point, now came to Winston soaked in dread and tension. And the fact that the Sheriff was making his visit so early in the month this time, Winston took as a bad sign.
Winston stood and shuffled down to the foyer where he waited for Sheriff Thomas by the door, watching as the dark blue cruiser pulled into the driveway. As the sheriff made his way up to the front porch, Winston absently practiced his look of despair and confusion, the look an old man might give to a police officer after being apprehended for walking naked along a residential street at nine in the morning. Sheriff Thomas knew Winston wasn’t senile, though—far from it—but he also wouldn’t discount the troubles of an old man living alone in a modern world. Perhaps Ramon himself struggled with the battles of technology, so why wouldn’t the old hermit who lives down the lane?
Winston opened the door before Ramon knocked and immediately hung his head, no trace of humor on his face, selling the act of shame. After a few beats, he looked up at the sheriff. “I’ve done it again, I guess. Is that right?”
Ramon frowned. “Afraid so, Mr. Bell.” All former deference was gone from the sheriff’s voice this time, his pitch laced now with a dusting of annoyance. “This is getting to be a monthly thing. Not sure they’re gonna let this continue with just a warning. You know the arrangement.”
Winston said nothing, allowing the silence to be his apology, even showing a glisten of moisture at the corner of his right eye.
Ramon closed his eyes and frowned, and then he slowly began to swivel his head. He looked back at Winston and smiled weakly. “You gotta keep the radio off, Mr. Bell, that’s all there is to it. What’s so intoxicating anyway that you can’t find it on one of the cable music channels? There’s gotta be fifty of those channels on the TV.”
Winston brushed a knuckle against the corner of his eye and then waved the hand dismissively. “Those st
ations are all rap and robot music. They don’t cater to people my age.”
“I’m pretty sure they have a fifties format on one of those channels. That’s probably around your generation, right? And, come to think of it, I don’t know of any terrestrial radio stations around here that play that anyway. Not anymore.”
Winston raised a finger and waved it in mock accusation. “Ah, but that’s where you’re off, Sheriff Thomas. I’m no fan of Elvis Presley or Buddy Holly; that’s what those channels on television play and that’s not my style. Sinatra and Dean Martin. Those are my guys. And there’s a wonderful station out of Mesa that plays them all day long.”
The sheriff smiled and nodded, and Ramon knew by the look that he had made distant enough inroads for today, at least far enough that the next time he violated the transmission agreement, he could start his latest explanation from a place of good will. Sheriff Thomas wasn’t fed up with him—not yet—and perhaps he could make it a couple more months without him ever getting to that point. After that, if Zander had been honest and accurate with his timeline, none of what happened after that would make much difference.
“All right, Mr. Bell, I’m not going to cite you this time, but the next time I’ll have to. And worse, I may have to come inside and look around. And definitely take the radio away. It won’t take but a minute for a judge to give me that authority.”
Winston let his smile fade and then he nodded solemnly. “I understand.”
The sheriff nodded back, a trace of a smile still lingering on his lips, and Winston thought absently that the man had a naturally good temperament, perfect for the job to which he’d been elected.
“I’m going to let the folks at the Grieg know that I talked to you, okay? So, I don’t expect you’ll hear from anyone else this month. But if you do, do me a favor and don’t mention all the warnings I’ve given you. They’re gonna think I’m soft over there. Fair?”
Winston Bell flashed a soft smile and nodded lightly. “That is well beyond fair, Sheriff. Thank you.”
“Okay then. And maybe invest in a CD player. They still make them, you know? I’ll bet Ol’ Blue Eyes sounds wonderful on digital.”
Winston’s eyes and lips narrowed now as he studied the sheriff, suddenly rueful that the polite lawman of Garmella would have to die along with everyone else in the town. “I shall look into it then, Sheriff. Thank you again.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Allie pulled the cruiser from the station slowly, her palms already sweating at the idea of entering Maria’s house and confronting the creature up close.
Creatures, she reminded herself. At least two of them. Maybe more.
The idea that there existed more than one of the dusky monsters from Maria’s kitchen, and that they were somewhere in Garmella at that very moment, probably turning another innocent citizen into a statue of granite, was almost too much to conceive.
Or was it already over? Was everyone in town already dead? And how many outside of Garmella were gone?
Allie let her mind explore the latter thought further, and she soon realized she hadn’t had contact with anyone outside of Garmella since early yesterday.
Was the world destroyed?
“Stop,” she whispered, instinctively flashing her eyes up to the rearview mirror, checking to see if the kids had heard the command to herself. But Josh and Maria were engaged in their own narrative, one in which, based on the looks on their faces, was almost certainly to do with the calamity of Maria’s mother and father.
Allie returned to the moment, encouraging herself to keep her mind from spiraling into disaster.
Just focus on what your eyes see. What your ears hear. Everything else is just your mind. Just pictures.
She eased the cruiser onto Courthouse Road and then crept along the deserted street, letting the car roll along on its own momentum, propelling at a speed just above a walking pace.
It’s hard to focus on what your eyes see when there’s no one left in town, she thought.
Of course, Allie couldn’t be sure about the truth of that notion, but if it were the case that the town was gone, exterminated, then that was the only thing there was to deal with. What other choice did she have but to accept reality for what it was?
She peeked again to Maria and Josh in the backseat where the children now seem focused on something lighter. A whisper and giggle soon erupted, and Maria caught Allie’s eyes in the mirror and instantly dropped them, embarrassed. The girl’s loss was catastrophic, unimaginable, and yet the power of a single friend’s kind words and attention had already given her—if only temporarily—the sweet relief of distraction.
Allie considered again the tale from Maria and the haunting impossibility of what she had described. Allie still held firmly to a grain of skepticism, just as any rational adult would; but in the silence of her mind, with the pride of her intellect and experience now stripped away, she knew every word of it was true.
The silence of her mind.
If she was committing herself to honesty now, to reality, and she believed in Maria’s story, then Allie had to examine what she, herself, had experienced in the Suarez’ backyard. The images she had seen in her own mind. Ramon had picked up on it, and there was no point in Allie denying it to herself.
Cassidy Mayes.
Allie had consciously approached the full memory of that day on the boat only once in her life, and that moment had come during a therapy session several years after the incident, when she had committed herself to getting sober yet again. She knew it was the pain of Cassidy that was at the root of her drinking—and occasionally heavy drug use—and that exorcising the pain of her friend’s assault would be the most important step to getting clean.
Allie had shown up on time that day and with the true intention of clearing her conscience and starting on the road to recovery; but despite her willingness to sit with the therapist, she couldn’t muster the strength to actually talk about the experience. It was a naïve idea to have considered in the first place, she realized, to be able to unload all of her troubles out during that first session; the single event that had plummeted her into depression and substance abuse was probably years away and thousands of dollars down the road.
Allie’s cynicism toward psychology grew exponentially that day as she walked from the therapist’s office—twenty minutes early and feigning a sickness that felt real in her gut but was almost certainly brought on by psychosomatic guilt—but even then, Allie knew it was she who was unwilling to talk about the event, and she vowed never to return or think of Cassidy Mayes again.
And true to her promise, since the day of that failed therapy session, any time the images of Cassidy—or Cody Reynolds or Brian Clark, for that matter—began to creep into her mind, Allie shooed them away like gnats, refusing to let their faces come into focus.
“Ms. Allie?” Josh chirped suddenly from the backseat, the demure voice snapping Allie back to reality.
Allie blinked several times, scanning the sidewalks on either side of Cyprus Lane, taking note of the quiet of the air, the stillness in the branches of the mesquites. A few birds chirped from somewhere inside the canopy of the trees, and the echo of a dog barking in the distance filled her ears, both sounds bringing a mild, albeit faulty, sense of reassurance to Allie.
Focus!
It was an action easier intended than done, especially with her mind bent on dredging up demons from her past.
Demons.
“Ms. Allie?”
Allie locked Josh’s eyes in the mirror now. “Yes, honey, what is it?”
“Can we try to find out about my mom next?”
Allie dropped her eyes instantly, reflexively, the question unsettling her. But she quickly regained her composure and brought her focus back to the road, considering the question.
Josh Carter’s family.
Everyone had been so focused on Maria and her story—and for good reason—that Josh’s household and the whereabouts of his parents had yet to come up. Mayb
e Josh had spoken to Ramon about it, Allie couldn’t know for sure, but considering the circumstances and the chaos of the day, she doubted it.
“Where do you live again, Josh? Sanderling?” Allie tried to sound casual, but the squeak as she said Josh’s name gave away her concern.
“Desert Squall. But my mom is supposed to be at work now. At Carla’s.”
Carla’s Diner was in the opposite direction of where they were headed currently, but in a town as small as Garmella, nothing was very far from anywhere else.
“Sure, Josh, of course. We’ll check the diner. It’s probably a good idea anyway. Maybe everyone decided to have an early lunch today.”
Allie smiled broadly and checked the mirror again, where she saw both kids’ faces plastered with stoicism.
Allie frowned and nodded. “We’ll head there afterwards. I promise.” And then she added, “Have you spoken with your mom since this happened? I never quite heard the story of how you ended up with the sheriff.”
Josh told the tale of his evening, how the rain had drawn him to his backyard, and there he had seen the creature and was drawn in by the oddity before following it up to the telescope. He also told the story of the necklace, of his lie, and about how the creature had allowed him to live after hearing his confession.
But he had no knowledge of his mother or stepfather, and though he sounded hopeful, especially about his mom who had work in the morning and wouldn’t have been at home if the creatures had invaded them, Allie knew that wasn’t an entirely sound belief. After all, Riley Tackard and Jerry Kellerman were both killed at work, so being out was not a magic shield.
But Josh hadn’t yet reached the same point as Allie, which, if not in the actual neighborhood of hopelessness, was certainly in the vicinity.
They Came With the Rain Page 15