Following Rain

by Darrel Nelson

  She and Paul proceeded toward the west end of the park. As they walked, she fought the burning sensation behind her eyes and forced herself to keep alert. She was tired, but sheer determination kept her moving.

  Ahead, a woman lay on a bench near a tall, red sculpture. She had several bags gathered around her, one of which she was using as a pillow.

  “Hello,” Rain called out, to announce their arrival.

  The woman propped herself up on one elbow and squinted her eyes.

  Rain held out the photograph and tilted it so the woman could see it in the glow from the streetlight. “Have you seen this man?”

  Glancing at it warily, the woman asked, “Why do you want to know?”

  “He’s my father and he’s wandered off.”

  The woman tapped herself on the temple. “Is he not right in the head?”

  Rain dropped her gaze. “Car accident.”

  “Oh, dear. I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Paul stepped around Rain and held out the twenty-dollar bill. “We’re offering money for information.”

  The woman shook her head. “Put that away. Someone needs help so I’m glad to tell you what I know.” She looked back at Rain. “Yes, I saw him.”

  “Where?”

  She pointed to her right. “By the west entrance. He passed me as I was coming up from the beach.”

  Rain took a step closer. “Did you notice what he was wearing?”

  The woman thought for a minute. “A blue shirt and a pair of black jeans.”

  Rain’s eyes widened. “And his socks? What color were they?”

  “He paused and pulled off a shoe to empty out a pebble or something, and I noticed he was wearing white socks.”

  Rain whirled around and faced Paul. “Charlie was wearing a blue, short-sleeved shirt and a pair of black denim jeans. And white socks!”

  “When did you see him?” Paul asked, anxiously addressing the woman.

  “About a half hour ago.”

  Paul reached into his pocket and handed the woman a fistful of bills.

  “What’s this for?” she asked, eyeing the money in disbelief.

  “For you.”

  Rain quickly bent down and gave her a hug. “I work at Welcoming Hands, on Broad Street. There’s always a place for you there.”

  “Well, thank you, dear. I’ll . . .”

  But Rain never heard the rest. She was already running toward the west entrance.

  CHAPTER 38

  People were huddled in isolated groups along the beach, and the occasional campfire flickered in the distance. Lengths of driftwood lay along the shoreline like rows of rustic benches, glowing eerily in the bright moonlight.

  When Paul and Rain emerged from the trees, they scanned the beach. There was no sign of Charlie, and Rain sighed deeply. Paul could feel her anxiety and dread, as palpable as the evening humidity.

  He took her hand and walked toward a group of giggling teens who were huddled around the glowing embers of a campfire. He wondered what approach to take—a sarcastic, low-key one in an effort to be cool, or a serious one that hinted of a potential bust, considering the drugs that were being freely passed around.

  But before he could decide, one of the youth announced, “Hey, it’s Paul Blakely, the news guy.”

  The drugs disappeared as though it was part of a magician’s stage act, and everyone became overly friendly and attentive.

  “Relax, everyone,” Paul said, deciding to play it straight. “No cameras, nothing official. We’re just looking for somebody.”

  “Aren’t we all?” responded a curly-haired young man who was clearly stoned.

  Paul joined the laughter halfheartedly, pretending to acknowledge the young man’s wit. “True, but in this case, it’s an older guy who’s wandered away and got lost. We need to find him.”

  A young woman who was sitting on the edge of the group said, “I saw a guy walk by five or ten minutes ago. He was headed that way.” She pointed further up the beach toward a marina in the distance.

  Rain showed her the picture. “Did he look like this?”

  “Maybe,” the young woman replied, shrugging. “I wasn’t really paying that much attention.”

  Several members of the group snickered.

  “Thanks for the help,” Paul said, backing away. “Everyone be good now.”

  “And if you can’t be good, be lucky, right?” the curly-haired young man replied, to another chorus of laughter.

  Paul led Rain further up the beach and muttered, “Were we that obnoxious as teens?”

  Rain didn’t respond, but Paul noticed her grip tighten around his fingers.

  Ahead, three men were sitting on a clutter of driftwood. Bags were scattered around them, and the condition of their dress and grooming indicated that they were homeless. A wire grocery basket filled with clothing and a pair of old shoes sat on a rock that protruded from the sand.

  “Did any of you happen to notice this man walk by here recently?” Paul inquired, holding out the photograph of Charlie.

  “He in trouble?” asked one of the men, his bony face filled with curiosity.

  “No, just lost.”

  The bony-faced man clicked his tongue. “Might be the feller that came by here a few minutes ago. We invited him to sit a spell and join us, but he just kept on walking. He didn’t even—”

  “Which way did he go?” Rain asked, cutting him off.

  The man nodded toward where the beach curved into a small bay and momentarily disappeared from view. “That way. But be careful. That’s Cring’s territory tonight.”

  Rain furrowed her brow and looked at Paul.

  “Come on,” Paul said, heading up the beach on the run.

  Rain hurried after him. “What did he mean?” she asked.

  “The Crings are a local gang,” Paul replied. He decided against telling her that of the two hundred gangs in the area, the Crings were one of the most active. They had a reputation for recruiting boys as young as twelve and pulling them into a world of violence and drugs. And once the recruits joined, they were members until they died. Which sometimes wasn’t that much later.

  As Paul climbed over a tumble of silver driftwood, he heard a noise ahead. It was the sound of laughter, mingled with cries of protest. His heart lurched in his chest, and he cleared the last length of driftwood in a single bound and raced forward.

  After rounding the curve in the beach, he suddenly dropped to the sand as though he’d run into an invisible barrier. He quickly crawled backward for a couple of feet and motioned for Rain to duck down.

  She dropped to her hands and knees and crawled up beside him, looking at him anxiously. He put a finger to his lips and then edged forward until he could just see around the curve again. As Rain moved up beside him and followed his line of sight, he had to quickly cover her mouth so she didn’t scream.

  Standing in a circle ahead of them were ten to twelve youth, illuminated by the glow of the campfire. Several of them wore black baseball caps, backward, wrapped with blue bandannas. Others had shaved heads but also wore blue bandannas. They all wore white T-shirts, neck chains, and oversized pants with a stripe down each side. And standing in their midst . . . was Charlie!

  He was being pushed back and forth like an inflatable, weighted balloon and was struggling to remain on his feet. The youth were laughing boisterously, and Charlie was shouting at them to stop. But the more he petitioned, the rougher they became.

  Rain wiggled out of Paul’s grip and tried to get up, but he held her down and placed a hand on each side of her face. “You can’t go charging in there,” he whispered sternly. “It will only make things worse.”

  Tears filled Rain’s eyes and she tried to pull free once more.

  “Rain, listen to me,” he hissed. “We’ll be no good to your dad if they get ahold of us, too.”

  Her eyes flicked from side to side as if she was considering her options. Finally she relented. “Then what are we going to do?” The ache in her voic
e distorted her words, and Paul could feel her body tremble.

  “Call for help,” he replied.

  “9-1-1?”

  Paul shook his head. “Mack Hansen, a friend on the police department.”

  “Hurry!” she whispered plaintively, peeking around the curve again.

  Paul dialed the number and waited anxiously for his friend to pick up. “Mack, I’m in big trouble here!” he said when his friend came on the line.

  “Do you know what time it is?” came the sleepy response.

  “Mack, this is an emergency. A group of Crings have ganged up on Charlie, Rain’s father. You remember?” Paul gave Rain a guilty glance. “They’re going to hurt him. You gotta come now!”

  “The Crings!” Mack grunted. “I’ve been wanting to take a chunk out of them for a long time. Where are you?”

  “Olympic Sculpture Park, northwest end, along the beach.”

  “I know the area. I’m on my way. Now look, wait until I get there and don’t do anything stupid in the meantime, got it?”

  “Just hurry, Mack.” Paul ended the call and looked at Rain. “He’ll be here soon.”

  Rain’s expression said more than her words. “But what if it’s not soon enough?”

  Those were Paul’s thoughts exactly, but he didn’t vocalize them.

  The gang members continued to shove Charlie back and forth until he tripped and did a face plant. Howls of laughter went around the circle as they kicked sand at him. Then hands reached down and yanked him to his feet and the shoving continued.

  Once again Paul had to restrain Rain from rushing forward to intervene.

  But his outrage was growing, too, and he didn’t know how much longer he could remain a silent witness. It was sickening to lie there and watch a dear, innocent person being manhandled by a group of punks. The injustice was almost more than he could bear, and he had to will himself to remain there with Rain for her safety. If the gang members got their hands on her . . . He brushed the awful thought aside.

  Charlie fell again and was dragged back to his feet. Only this time he came up with a handful of sand, which he threw in the face of the person standing nearest to him—a tall, muscular youth with a bulge in the back of his shirt. The muscular youth issued a string of profanities and rubbed his eyes as Charlie broke through the perimeter of the circle and raced toward the trees. The others laughed at the spectacle, but the laughing stopped when Musclebound pulled the bulge out from the back of his shirt. It was a Glock, and he aimed it at the fleeing figure of Charlie.

  Paul was on his feet in an instant. “No!” he shouted, waving his arms and rushing forward. “Stop! Don’t shoot!”

  Everything came to a halt as if time had been immersed in liquid nitrogen. Eyes shot uncertainly in all directions and no one flinched.

  As Paul stared down the barrel of the Glock, he realized how defenseless he was. There wasn’t a stick or even a rock that he could use as a weapon to defend himself. He was at the mercy of Musclebound, who did not appear to be in a compassionate mood. There was nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.

  Time thawed instantly when Charlie shouted, “Paul!” and started to move toward him.

  Rain sprang to her feet and cried out, “Charlie, stay there!”

  Musclebound pointed the Glock alternately toward Charlie, Paul, and Rain, using big arm movements as though he was sending a message in semaphore. “Trying to crash our party?” he sneered, motioning everyone in.

  Paul and Rain reluctantly stepped forward.

  “Who do we have here?” Musclebound drooled, eyeing Rain lustfully.

  Paul placed himself in front of Rain. “Look, we just want to take him”—he pointed to Charlie—“and get out of here. He wandered away on us and now we’ve found him. You boys have had your fun. No harm done, right?”

  Chortling ominously, Musclebound glanced over his shoulder at the other gang members. “Have we had our fun yet?”

  An evil chuckle traversed the circle.

  Paul’s mouth went dry and he instinctively moved Rain even further behind him. “We’ll just leave and pretend none of this ever happened.”

  “Oh, it happened all right. But the fun isn’t over yet.”

  As Charlie took a step toward them, Rain motioned for him to remain where he was.

  Paul quickly assessed the situation and decided he had one last card left to play. “Look, I’m Paul Blakely, with KNEX-TV.”

  “That is him,” one of the gang members said. “I recognize him from the news.”

  “And I’ve already called the police. They’ll be here any minute.”

  Musclebound glanced from Paul to Rain and back again. Then he reached out and took Rain by the arm. “Then we don’t have much time, do we?”

  “Leave her alone!” Charlie warned, advancing another step.

  Training the Glock on him, Musclebound shouted, “Back off, dude!”

  “Don’t touch her!” Charlie said defiantly.

  Paul used the momentary distraction to try and wrestle the Glock away from his assailant. But Musclebound wrenched his arm free and knocked Paul to the ground. As Paul struggled to get up, the other gang members descended upon him and pummeled him with their fists and feet. He received several blows, and one in particular snapped his head back and he saw a blinding flash of light and felt a burning pain in his neck. Then three of the youth pinned him to the ground with the constraint of a straightjacket.

  Sand clogged Paul’s nose and mouth, but he managed to twist his face sideways and gasp for air. He stopped breathing altogether, though, when he saw Musclebound grab Rain’s arm again and yank her toward the others.

  Shouting in rage, Charlie lashed out with an upper cut and knocked Musclebound to the ground.

  The enraged youth came up spitting blood, and there was a look of murder in his expression. “You’re dead, man!” He aimed the Glock at Charlie and squeezed the trigger.

  “No!” Rain cried. She leaped in front of her father in time to intercept the bullet. A low moan escaped her lips and she fell to the ground in a heap and lay motionless.

  Charlie gave an anguished cry and dropped to his knees beside her, cradling her head in his arms.

  An agonized moan rattled in Paul’s chest and he tried to wiggle free, but the three youth tightened their grip and one of them punched Paul as a reminder to lie still.

  Musclebound looked on coldly and then placed the Glock to Charlie’s head.

  Suddenly the pulsating wail of sirens sounded in the distance.

  “Come on!” shouted one of the gang members. “Let’s get out of here! Forget him!”

  Flexing his jaw in uncertainty, Musclebound pushed the gun harder against Charlie’s head.

  “Don’t!” Paul pleaded.

  “Forget him!” shouted another gang member. “It’s the cops!”

  The three youths released their hold on Paul and sprang to their feet. Musclebound swore in frustration and then turned and followed the others who were already disappearing into the trees.

  Paul painfully crawled over to where Charlie knelt, cradling Rain’s head in his lap as tears coursed down his cheeks. A large, red splotch stained the front of her shirt just above her belt line, and her face was pasty white.

  “She won’t wake up, Paul! I can’t get her to wake up!”

  Tenderly brushing the hair from her forehead, Paul stammered, “Stay with us, Rain. Help is almost here. Stay with us.”

  Rain looked at him and a slight smile appeared in the corner of her mouth. And then it was gone.

  Paul watched helplessly as the light slowly began to fade from her eyes. Pressing his face against her cheek, his emotions burst, and his anguished pleas mingled with the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps in the sand.

  * * * * *

  With siren blaring and lights flashing, the ambulance raced down Broad Street, heading for Noxby Medical Center, the nearest facility. The driver proceeded through intersections where the lights had turned red, and because the t
raffic was sparse anyway, the ambulance made good time.

  Paul was allowed to accompany Rain, but he had to sit in the front seat while the paramedics worked on her in the back. He and Charlie had refused any medical treatment so the paramedics could focus on her. Charlie followed behind in Detective Mack Hansen’s vehicle. Paul had asked the detective to call Maria and let her know the details.

  During the mad rush, Paul fought the pain that pulsed through his head in recurring frequencies. Everything seemed surreal. The blare of the siren, the flashing red lights, the hushed conversation between the paramedics, and the moonlight’s silver sheen on the buildings and roadway. It hurt to breathe but he forced himself to remain alert. For Rain’s sake. She needed him now more than ever, and he hardly dared blink for fear it would create a lapse in his concentration.

  “We’re losing her!” one of the paramedics said.

  “Come on, stay with us!” the other pleaded.

  Paul attempted to twist around in his seat to watch, but a sharp pain shot through his side and he clutched his bruised ribs. He had to take shallow breaths for a minute, but all the while, he remained aware of the conversation coming from the back.

  “I can’t get a pulse.”

  There was a moment of silence.

  “Start CPR.”

  There was another moment of silence, and Paul heard the sounds of steady, rhythmic pumping and deep, sustained breathing as if the paramedics were slowly inflating a large balloon. And then at length, “She’s not responding!”

  “Hand me the paddles, and charge to 100.”

  The sounds of hurried movement followed and then, “Charging . . . 100 . . . clear.”

  Paul heard the jolt and it seemed to course through his body. His heart lurched in anticipation, but his hopes fell when he heard, “No good. Charge to 200.”

  “Charging . . . 200 . . . clear.”

  Another jolt, and then low muttering from the back.

  “Charge to 300.”

  “Charging . . . 300 . . . clear.”