Red Rain

by R. L. Stine

  And as for the third photo, Lea could see even on the grainy Skype image how uncomfortable it made Martha and how reluctant she was to discuss it at all.

  “James and I hoped we were doing the right thing.”

  After that, Martha made an excuse to end the conversation. And repeated her apology, sounding a little more heartfelt this time. “I only wish . . .” No finish to that sentence. And then she was gone, and Lea sat in front of the screen, her eyes shut tight, but not tight enough to keep the pictures from her mind.

  And things began to come clear, began to connect, starting with the twins, and moving to the murder in the driveway and the murder of Derek Saltzman and the disappearance of Ira and Elena and some seventy other kids.

  Starting with the twins, who weren’t really twelve. The twins, who had to be ungodly evil creatures she had brought home with her.

  Was it coming clear? Did she have the connections right? It wasn’t like she was blaming two innocent, adorable boys with such glowing blond hair and twinkling blue eyes. She wasn’t condemning angels. She was starting to see demons.

  But I care about them. I have such strong feelings for them.

  And then Martha’s email arrived, confirming her worst, most terrifying fears.

  She couldn’t read it all. Her eyes blurred the words. She didn’t want to know the truth. Not this truth. She scanned through it, catching phrases that made her heart skip.

  . . . Both died in the hurricane. The priest was summoned to perform the Revenir rite.

  . . . The priest came too late. They’d been dead too long. He should never have revived them.

  . . . They brought the evil of the grave back with them.

  . . . They can kill. They can hypnotize. Like their bodies, their minds never advanced. They are still twelve.

  . . . They lived in isolation on the island. People were afraid of them. They lived by stealing. No one was brave enough to stop them. They waited all these years for someone to take them away.

  . . . They hate adults. They only care about controlling other children. They never got to be real children. So now they want to be leaders of children . . . To hold power over children . . . The only thing they care about . . .

  Lea shut her eyes. “Oh, shit. Oh, shit. It’s too much. It’s all too horrifying. What will happen to Ira and Elena? How can I face Mark? How?”

  Martha’s words brought another revelation. The thought had been lurking in her mind. The email suddenly forced it to her consciousness. The twins hypnotized me. They used their powers on me. They made me care about them. My connection to them . . . that feeling of love I thought I felt . . . it wasn’t real. They used me. Used me to get here. No wonder I’ve agreed to their every wish. No wonder I never opposed them. . . .

  She opened her eyes and shuffled through the three printouts again, as if hoping to see something she missed. Something redeeming. But there was no reassurance here. The past—and her future—held only horror.

  Oh, poor Ira and Elena. Maybe there was time to rescue them. She had to try.

  Carefully, she folded the three photos in half. She tucked them into the big pocket of her silky blue robe.

  She heard a cough. Was that Mark stirring downstairs? The aroma of coffee made her stand up. She stretched her arms over her head.

  Yes, she could feel her heart like a hummingbird in her chest. And the coffee aroma suddenly nauseated her.

  Mark has to know.

  She glanced at the clock on the bed table. Just past eleven. The morning had slipped past. But so what? What did a few hours matter when there was nothing to look forward to but more tears and grief and disbelief and anger and regret.

  She moved to the dresser, adjusting the robe and tying it more securely, and picked up her hairbrush. She swept it back slowly through her straight black hair. It felt real. The touch of the bristles through her hair, the scrape against her scalp.

  She brushed for a long time, leaning her head back, appreciating each stroke with a soft sigh. This was real. Nothing else in her life felt as real. Nothing else could be as real.

  Oh, poor Elena. Poor Ira. What has Mommy done to you?

  She forced herself to set the hairbrush down. Then she took a long, shuddering breath. She fingered the folded-up photos in her robe pocket and murmured out loud, “I’m going to tell Mark now.”

  Face the music, Lea.

  Isn’t that what her dad always said every time she had to be punished for some crime large or small?

  You did the dance. Now face the music.

  Did that make any sense at all?

  The punishment was always the same: Go to your room and stay there till I tell you to come out.

  She pictured her brothers smirking as she trudged off to her room, red-faced, fists swinging at her sides, ready to face the music.

  Well, after all the years, now she was really facing the music.

  She started to the stairs but stopped at the bedroom door when she heard the sirens. Approaching sirens, and there seemed to be a lot of them, a blaring concert of sirens, warring with each other.

  Lea spun around and trotted to the bedroom window.

  Several dark vehicles squealed up the gravel driveway. She saw the yellow letters FBI stenciled on one SUV. Two Sag Harbor black-and-whites, two unmarked SUVs, windows blackened, heavy like armored cars.

  She gripped the windowsill and stared down at them all, her mouth hanging open, uttering small cries of shock.

  Four or five dark-uniformed policemen lined up in front of the house, standing stiffly a few feet abreast of each other, weapons tensed in front of them. Were those automatic rifles?

  She recognized the big black state police captain from the night before as he came roaring out of the backseat of an SUV. Was his name Franks? Yes. He had a pistol in one hand and motioned to the others leaping from their vehicles to follow him to the house.

  They all had guns raised. All of them.

  Do they plan to kill us?

  “Mark?” Lea screamed, squeezing the wooden windowsill. “Mark! Do you hear them?”

  Finally, she forced herself away from the window. She spun to the doorway, her robe tangling around her. And went running to the stairs.

  “Mark! Can you hear me? Mark? What do they want?”

  60

  At first Mark thought people were screaming. The sound made him drop his coffee mug on the kitchen table. And as he hurried to the front of the house, he realized they were sirens.

  And, strangely, the wailing cacophony made him angry. Because they had just been there, just invaded his house and his life, and he didn’t want them back with their foolish accusations and misguided questions and insulting stares.

  I’m sick of the bullshit. I just want my kids to be safe.

  Why are they back here? What are they doing to find my kids?

  Mark clenched his jaw tight and squeezed his fists until his fingernails dug into his palm. And then the pounding on the front door and the shouts shook him out of his anger.

  He heard Lea calling his name. Turning, he saw her halfway down the stairs, her hand gripping the banister, her eyes wide with fright. “Mark?”

  The pounding on the door drowned out the rest of her words.

  “Mr. Sutter, police. Open the door.” Barked. Just like on TV.

  Mark pulled open the door. An army of men—it seemed like an army—led by Captain Franks, who came in with his shoulder low like an NFL blocking tackle, pushed into the house.

  Mark stepped back, blinking at the force of it all. The sheer invasion. The anger. He saw the weapons raised. They forced him against the fireplace.

  He heard Lea scream.

  “Mark Sutter, you are under arrest for the murder of Autumn Holliday.” Franks spitting the words in his face. Standing so close, Mark could smell the coffee on his breath.

  “Huh? Autumn? What?”

  Did the words make any sense?

  Beside him, a wavy-haired cop was reading him his rights from the
screen of an iPhone.

  “Wait! Wait!” Mark raised his hands in the air.

  The cops all tensed their weapons.

  “What did you say?” His voice shrill, almost unrecognizable, shouting over the droning voice of the cop still reading off the phone screen.

  “Did you say Autumn? Killed?”

  He couldn’t help it. He pictured her bent over his desk. Her hands gripping the edge of the desktop. That creamy white ass moving under him.

  “Nooooooooo!” A howl of protest burst from deep inside.

  Two cops stepped toward him menacingly, guns raised. He saw Pavano and Pinto holding back, still in the doorway, as if guarding against any escape attempt.

  Were there cops outside in case he made a run for it?

  What a joke. The child psychologist makes a run for it.

  How could Autumn be dead? Why? Why Autumn? And why did they think he was the murderer?

  “I—I can’t . . . believe it.” He felt sick. He grabbed his stomach. He felt the coffee rising up his throat. “Not Autumn.”

  He let out a long sigh, shut his eyes, and leaned back against the mantel.

  “No. There’s some mistake. Why are you arresting Mark?”

  He heard Lea’s trembling voice. Opened his eyes to see her step warily past Pavano and Pinto into the living room.

  The officers ignored her and kept their eyes on Mark, weapons tensed.

  “You don’t have to answer any questions until you have a lawyer present,” Franks said, the only calm voice in the room. “But you can help yourself by—”

  “When was Autumn killed?” Mark interrupted, narrowing his eyes at Franks. “Last night? You know I was here all night. You were here with me.”

  “How was she killed?” Lea asked, moving up beside Mark, gripping his hand.

  Her hand is ice cold. She’s as terrified as I am.

  “Our initial report says she was murdered this morning. Perhaps an hour or two ago.” His dark eyes locked on Mark’s, probing. “Mr. Sutter, if you’d care to cooperate. Could you tell us your whereabouts this morning?”

  “Huh? My whereabouts?” The word didn’t make sense to him. He knew he wasn’t thinking clearly. The word didn’t seem like English.

  “Did you go out this morning?” Franks rephrased the question. This version sounded more like a threat.

  “N-no. I was asleep. On the couch in the den. I woke up and made some coffee.” Again he felt his stomach lurch. He held his breath, forcing it down.

  “You didn’t go out this morning?”

  His answer came out in a sharp scream. “No. I fucking told you. I didn’t go out. I’ve been in here all morning. Do I have to spell the fucking words for you?”

  Franks didn’t react. He turned his gaze on Lea, holding on tight to Mark’s hand. “Mr. Sutter, can anyone vouch for your whereabouts? Can anyone confirm that you were here all morning?”

  “Lea can.”

  Franks waited for Lea to speak up. Mark saw she was breathing hard. She’d gone very pale. “Actually, I was upstairs. In our bedroom. Mark was down here. But I know he didn’t go anywhere this morning. You kept us up all night, remember?”

  “So you were upstairs and didn’t see him this morning?” Every question Franks asked sounded like an innuendo and a threat.

  Mark gasped, startled by the anger that built up so instantly inside him.

  You should be out finding my kids.

  “I didn’t see him,” Lea started. “But—”

  Behind Franks, a state cop dangled a pair of silvery handcuffs in front of him.

  “You’re wasting your time,” Mark told him, unable to keep a trembling sneer from his face. “If someone murdered Autumn, the real killer is out there. And you’re standing here arresting me, a child psychologist who’s never even been in a fucking playground fight.”

  “Very eloquent,” Franks commented drily. “Listen, Mr. Sutter, cooperate with us now and we can clear this up very quickly.”

  Mark blinked. “What are you talking about? What do I have to do?”

  Lea let go of Mark’s hand. “I’m going to go call Nestor.” She turned to Franks. “He’s our lawyer. He’s in Sagaponack. I don’t think Mark should say another word until he gets here.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Mark concentrated on Franks. “How do we clear this up? Tell me.”

  “Show us your wallet,” Franks said. “That’s all. Have you got your wallet, Mr. Sutter?”

  “Of course I have my wallet.”

  Franks nodded. “Then will you be so kind as to show it to us?”

  Mark thought hard. Where did he leave it? His brain was so churned up. His stomach rumbled with anger. He could feel every muscle in his body tensed and tight.

  Where? Where?

  “I left it on my desk last night.” He started into the hall.

  Two cops rushed forward and grabbed him roughly by the arms.

  “We have to come with you,” Franks said. “You’re in our custody, remember?”

  “I know I left it in my office.” Mark let the two cops walk on either side of him. Franks followed right behind. “I can picture it next to the phone.”

  Into the office. A strong breeze rattling the blinds in front of the open window. Mark gazed at the desk.

  Autumn, how can you be dead? Who would want you dead?

  Autumn, you were so beautiful.

  No wallet.

  He fumbled his hand over the desktop. He shoved a stack of folders out of the way. He pulled open the desk drawer and shuffled through it.

  Don’t look frantic. Don’t make them think you’re frantic.

  But he couldn’t control his hands from shaking. Emotion had taken over. Rational thought always lost out to fear, to panic.

  “I know I left it here yesterday. I was at my desk and I needed one of my credit cards to buy something over the phone and—”

  “Do you want to search for it in any other room, Mr. Sutter?” Franks’s deep voice, mellow and calm.

  Sure, he’s calm. What does he have to worry about? He’s so pleased with himself, so pleased with his false arrest.

  “Yes. Yes. Let me look for it upstairs. In the bedroom. Maybe I left it on the dresser. Sometimes I leave it there. I—”

  “Can I save us some time?”

  Franks’s question made Mark spin away from the desk. He squinted at Franks. “Save time? What do you mean?”

  One of the officers handed Franks a plastic bag. It looked like a food storage bag. Franks shoved it into Mark’s face. Mark squinted at a wallet in the bag. “Is this yours?”

  Mark reached for it, but Franks swiped it away from his hands. “No. No. Don’t touch. It’s evidence. Trust me. We saw your driver’s license inside. Your AmEx card.”

  A dizziness fell over Mark. No. Not dizziness. Falling, a free fall. Like he was dropping down an endless black hole.

  “Okay. That’s my wallet.”

  Franks nodded to the cop at the office door. “Put the handcuffs on him.” He turned back to Mark, shaking the wallet in front of Mark’s face.

  “Mr. Sutter, your wallet was found this morning in the grass next to Autumn Holliday’s front stoop. My advice, sir: Don’t say another word to me until your lawyer gets here.”

  61

  As the solemn-faced cop moved forward raising the silvery handcuffs, Mark had one of those flashing-lifetime moments he had always believed to be only a staple of fiction.

  The room grew dark and Franks and the other officers appeared to fade into the wallpaper. A white light formed like a glaring spotlight in his mind, and the images began to whir past—not of his childhood, not of the history of events that led him to this maddening moment.

  In the two-second flash of bright light, the events of his future swept past him, a frenzied slide show of despair and ruin. He saw a clear picture of his office, now a closet piled high with cartons. His career over. The house empty. His family scattered. Bold newspaper headlines bannering his di
sgrace. He saw the sad faces of Ira and Elena, two hardened, disillusioned kids.

  And Lea . . . Where was Lea? Gone? No picture of Lea?

  And the last image of himself, handcuffed in a tiny gray prison cell, clanging the bars with the handcuffs, pounding out his anger, shouting, “But I’m innocent. I’m innocent!”

  The light faded. The room came back into focus. And Mark, startled, found himself shouting, “But I’m innocent!”

  “Wow. No one ever told us that before,” Franks said.

  Maybe it was Franks’s sarcasm that set him off. Or maybe it was the frightening images of the future that flashed before him, almost like something in a science-fiction movie. Or maybe it was the burning outrage that was making it impossible for him to breathe.

  This isn’t right. I didn’t murder anyone.

  I couldn’t murder anyone. I couldn’t murder Hulenberger. I couldn’t murder Autumn.

  My kids are missing. My kids are in terrible danger.

  Why are they arresting me? Why aren’t they finding my kids?

  Something clicked in his mind. He thought he heard the snap. It was too much. Too much. Without thinking, he started to move.

  He saw Lea push her way past the cops in the doorway. And he heard her sharp cry: “It wasn’t Mark! It was the twins!”

  He heard her blame the twins. Yes, he heard her shout to the officers: “It was the twins.” And he saw Lea pull some papers from her robe pocket.

  But he couldn’t stop himself to hear more. He was already moving. He already had the back of the desk chair gripped in both hands.

  With an animal grunt, he gave the chair a hard shove. Thrust it forward on its metal wheels. Sent it skidding into the cop with the handcuffs.

  He saw the seat cushion bounce into the cop’s midsection. Heard the unsuspecting guy utter a startled groan and saw him toss his hands up, off-balance.

  And then Mark dove to the open window. Both hands on the sill, he flung himself out, swung himself like some kind of circus acrobat.