Hard Rain

by Peter Abrahams

  “I wish I had.” Mrs. Rodney’s eyes filled with tears. They rolled down her cheeks. She took no notice of them and didn’t make a sound.

  “What do you mean?” Jessie said. “Why did Pat lie about you?”

  “Oh, go away. I don’t want to talk.” She looked down into the grave. “Haven’t you got any decency?”

  “I know this is a bad time for you.” Jessie reached out to touch her arm. Mrs. Rodney backed away. “But it’s a bad time for me too. Pat disappeared, and he took our daughter with him. Your granddaughter.”

  “I don’t have any granddaughter.”

  “Yes, you do,” Jessie said, feeling in her pocket. She took out Kate’s photograph and showed it to Mrs. Rodney. The woman turned away. Then Jessie did something that appalled her even as she was doing it: she grabbed the back of Mrs. Rodney’s head—so thin and bony—and forced her to face the picture.

  “That’s Kate,” Jessie said. “She’s your granddaughter and she’s still alive.” Her voice was shaking. She let go of Mrs. Rodney. “But you’ve seen her, haven’t you?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never laid eyes on that child. Maybe everything you say is true. But I haven’t seen her. And I haven’t seen Pat in years and years. Not since he went away to that horrid concert.”

  “What concert?”

  “The Woodstock one.”

  Mrs. Rodney looked again into the grave. Her hands twisted the gladioli stems.

  “I don’t believe you,” Jessie said.

  Mrs. Rodney made a low sound. It might have been a groan. Then she opened her purse and fumbled inside. She found a pack of cigarettes, stuck one in her mouth, found a lighter, lit the cigarette. With the flowers, it was a lot for her unsteady hands to manage. She lost her grip on the glads; they fell into the grave. Mrs. Rodney stared down at them. She made the low sound again and then drew deeply on the cigarette.

  “You’ve seen them,” Jessie said. “Haven’t you?”

  Mrs. Rodney shook her head quickly from side to side. Sparks flew off the end of her cigarette.

  “Where are they?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mrs. Rodney said, her lips clenched around the cigarette. “I’m not even sure who you are. You accost me like this at my own daughter’s funeral in the middle of my grief, with all your rough questions, but I don’t know who you are. He never men—”

  Mrs. Rodney cut herself off, but too late.

  “That’s it,” Jessie said. “I’m coming to your house.”

  “You have no right.”

  “We’re talking about my daughter.” Jessie’s voice rose, cold and hard. “I have every right.”

  “I could call the police.”

  “You could. They’re looking for him too.”

  “They are?”

  Jessie nodded.

  Mrs. Rodney sucked her cigarette down to the filter and tossed it aside. A gust of wind caught it and blew it into the grave, down with the flowers. “Oh God help me,” Mrs. Rodney said. “I can’t take any more.” She got down on her hands and knees, reaching for the cigarette butt. Her arms were too short. She bent further; her skirt rode up, exposing her scrawny legs.

  “Here,” Jessie said, kneeling beside her. She picked up the cigarette butt and the flowers. The butt she ground under her heel, the flowers she lay in the wheelbarrow, beside the gravestone.

  “Where’s your car?” she said.

  “I don’t have one. I came on foot.”

  “I’ll drive you.”

  They walked down the path to the parking lot. A dog barked angrily behind the junkyard fence.

  “What if I don’t tell you where I live?” Mrs. Rodney said.

  “Then I’ll find it some other way.”

  They got in Jessie’s car. Its front end had been battered by the black van that night outside the residence and the windshield was cracked, but Mrs. Rodney didn’t seem to notice. She sat silently in the unmoving car, looking at nothing, for half a minute, maybe more. Then she said, “Turn right at the end of the road.”

  Mrs. Rodney lived close by, on a rutted street lined with decaying tract houses. Her house had decayed the most. It had blocked gutters, peeling paint, dirty windows and a tiny brown lawn. All that Jessie saw in passing. What she noticed right away was the absence of the black van and Mrs. Rodney watching her out of the corner of her eye.

  Mrs. Rodney unlocked the front door and stepped in ahead of Jessie. Her eyes darted around the gloomy interior. Then she turned, almost pirouetting like a far-gone house-proud frau, and said in a very bright voice, “See? Nobody home.”

  Jessie pushed past her. She went from one dark room to another, snapping on lights. She saw grimy wallpaper, sagging furniture, everything chipped, broken, ruined. She saw no sign of Pat or Kate.

  Jessie returned to the front hall. Mrs. Rodney hadn’t moved.

  “See?” she said again.

  “Is there a basement?”

  “No,” Mrs. Rodney replied. But her eyes slid toward a closed door across the hall. She was a poor liar.

  Jessie went to the door and swung it open.

  “I wouldn’t go down there,” Mrs. Rodney said. “It’s always flooded.”

  “Flooded?” Jessie felt for the switch, turned it on. A weak yellow light shone somewhere below. She moved toward it, down a wobbly staircase.

  The basement reeked. Water gleamed dully under a bare bulb. But it wasn’t depthless and didn’t swallow Jessie up when she stepped off the last stair. It didn’t even top the edges of the soles of her shoes.

  Three mattresses rose out of the water like islands. These looked almost as seedy as the one in the tunnel, but they weren’t completely bare. Blankets, threadbare and rumpled, covered at least some of the ticking; there were other things as well: soft-drink cans, fast-food wrappers, scattered bits of tinfoil, a blackened pin, several bent lengths of sturdy copper wire. And under one of the blankets lay a Coca-Cola T-shirt, size extra-small.

  Jessie picked it up and pressed it to her face. The Coca-Cola T-shirt had no smell, but she kept it there for a few moments anyway.

  Then she explored the rest of the basement. She found a stone staircase leading up to bulkhead doors. She pushed them open and looked out into a small backyard. It was muddy, muddy enough to show clear tire tracks, leading away from the bulkhead and around the side of the house.

  Jessie closed the doors and went upstairs. Mrs. Rodney was still in the front hall. Jessie held up the Coca-Cola T-shirt.

  “They went,” Mrs. Rodney said.

  “Who went?”

  “You know.”

  “Pat?” Mrs. Rodney nodded. “Kate?” She nodded again. “And who’s the other?”

  “You know.”

  “Hartley Frame?”

  Mrs. Rodney nodded a third time.

  “Where did they go?”

  No answer.

  “When?”

  “This morning, I think. I didn’t actually see them. They used the hatch. They weren’t here long. Just since Monday. I knew nothing before then. I swear by all that’s holy.”

  Monday. The day after she had gone into the tunnels. Hartley Frame had had to move on, taking Pat and Kate with him. They were on the run.

  “Why did you let them stay here? Didn’t you realize something was wrong?”

  Tears were glistening again on Mrs. Rodney’s cheeks. “It’s all my husband’s fault.”

  “Your husband? Is he alive too?”

  “In Purgatory.”

  “He’s dead?”

  “Yes. But not soon enough.” Her voice cracked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean he’s the cause of everything, if you know anything about psychology. He was a vicious brute. He used to beat Pat and beat him and beat him and beat him.” Mrs. Rodney came closer. The tears were flowing now, down her face, dripping off her chin. She gripped Jessie’s arms; her hands were small and bony, but surprisingly strong. “Beat him a
nd beat him. I want you to understand that and try to forgive. Pat doesn’t mean to be violent.”

  Jessie jerked herself free. “What are you talking about? Pat’s not violent.”

  Mrs. Rodney started to speak, stopped herself, then said, “It wasn’t all my husband’s fault, even though he was a brute. It was Dennis Keith’s fault too.”

  “Why?” asked Jessie, thinking of the photograph of another old woman, in Erica McTaggart’s bedroom.

  “I don’t mean to blame him. Not like I blame Patrick senior. They were friends, after all, when Pat was little. His mother and I worked at the plant together. But Dennis was different; he had plans.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Jessie said. The woman’s elliptical comments were leading her away from where she wanted to go.

  Mrs. Rodney’s voice rose with hers. “He introduced my boy to Hartley Frame and his free and easy ways. It put a lot of ideas in his head that were too much for him.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as getting away with things. Such as their music and their … their immorality.”

  “Are they selling drugs, Mrs. Rodney?”

  She looked down at the worn carpet under her feet. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I’m a stupid old worthless bag.”

  “Are they on the run from whoever killed Blue?”

  Now, at last, sound came to accompany Mrs. Rodney’s tears. She howled. And howling, she slumped against the wall and sank to the floor. Jessie reached out and laid her hand on the woman’s shoulder. Mrs. Rodney didn’t acknowledge her touch, but made no move to knock her hand away.

  Jessie crouched in front of her. Mrs. Rodney’s eyes were no longer brilliant blue, but opaque with thick tears; her wrinkled face was smeared with fluids. “Where did they go, Mrs. Rodney?”

  No reply.

  “You have to tell me. Do you want your son to die too?”

  Mrs. Rodney howled again, a high horrible sound that pierced the air like sirens. “Not the little girl,” she cried. “Just not the little girl.”

  “She has a name. Kate. She’s your granddaughter.”

  “Oh, if that was only true. I’d give—I’d give …” She couldn’t think of anything. It was very quiet in the ruined house. When Mrs. Rodney spoke again, her voice was so low Jessie could hardly hear. “Don’t you see? He’s still my son. Nothing can change that.”

  The crying stopped. Jessie helped Mrs. Rodney to her feet. She wiped Mrs. Rodney’s face with the sleeve of her jacket.

  “You’re kind,” Mrs. Rodney said.

  Jessie shook her head. “Where did they go?”

  The bleary eyes gazed up at her. “Square one,” Mrs. Rodney said softly. “Back to square one.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “That’s what Pat said. Back to square one.”

  “What did he mean?”

  “I don’t know. I’d tell you if I did. I swear to God I would.”

  36

  The visible world was still composed of shades of gray, but as Jessie drove back to the motel, the darker ones predominated. When she parked in front of room 19 and got out of the car, cold wind gusted in her face. She looked up. The sky was wild.

  Jessie felt in her pockets for the key, before remembering that she no longer had one. She knocked on the door and waited for Bela’s angry face to appear in the doorway. But no one answered her knock. She tried number 20. No answer.

  Jessie went into the office. No one was there. Keys lay in wooden slots behind the desk. Jessie took the one from box 19.

  She let herself into her room. Everything was the way she’d left it, except that her note was gone and Bela wasn’t sleeping in the easy chair. The Verdi book lay there in his place.

  She called room 20 and let the number ring. No answer.

  “Shit.” Was Bela somewhere out in the cold, searching for her?

  She put down the phone. It rang immediately.

  “Yes?”

  Whoever was on the other end didn’t speak. “Yes?” Jessie said again.

  “Jessie?” said a voice.

  A man’s voice. She barely recognized it. But she did. “Pat?”

  “Yes. Is that you, Jessie?”

  “It’s me. Oh God. Where the—” Many thoughts warred for Jessie’s attention. “Is Kate all right?” was the one she spoke.

  “Yes, she’s all right.”

  “Let me talk to her.”

  There was a pause. Jessie thought she heard muffled talk. Then Pat said, “She’s not here right now.”

  “Where is she?”

  Another pause. “Outside.”

  “What do you mean outside? Go get her.”

  “Just a—” Muffled talk.

  “Where the hell are you?” Jessie said, only half-conscious of how loudly she was saying it. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Another voice came on the line. Another man. “Hi there, Jessie,” he said.

  Jessie wasn’t aware of how hard she was squeezing the phone or how hard her heart was beating; her whole being was concentrated on the faint electronic hum at the other end of the line. “Is that Hartley Frame?” she said.

  The man laughed. She didn’t like that laugh at all. “Got me there,” he said.

  “I want to talk to my daughter.”

  “She can’t come to the phone right now. Is there any message?”

  “Why not? Have you done something to her?”

  “Me? Of course not. You’re welcome to come and get her.”

  “Where?”

  “Where? You want me to tell you where?”

  The sound of that was worse than his laugh. “You said I could come and get her.”

  “Sure I did. And I meant it. I’m just having a little fun. But the thing is—who’s coming with you?”

  “No one.”

  “That’s good. Because it wouldn’t be right. It’s too … soon, you know what I mean?”

  There was a long silence. He was waiting for an answer. “You’re not ready yet?” Jessie said.

  “Yeah. That’s it. So just come alone, for now. After everything that’s happened I wouldn’t want to feel … like threatened, if you understand.”

  Jessie understood. At least she recalled the gist of all the articles she’d read and movies she’d seen about the emotional problems of returning war veterans; and realized this was much worse. “I’ll be alone,” she said. “But where?”

  “Three guesses.”

  “But I have no idea.”

  “Try.”

  “The cabin on Mount Blackstone.”

  He laughed. “That’s one.”

  “Please. Just tell me.”

  “Try.”

  “Spacious Skies?”

  “That’s two.”

  “Look, I don’t know the answer. Why don’t you just—”

  “Come on, Jessie. Be a good sport.”

  She thought. “In the tunnels?”

  “Nice try. That’s three. Give up?”

  Jessie was about to say yes when it hit her. “Woodstock,” she said. “At the site of the festival.”

  There was a pause. Then he said, “Well now, you are something, aren’t you? Got it in four. It really shouldn’t count, but I’ll bend the rules a little.”

  “And you’ll give me back my daughter?”

  “I promise. If you come alone.”

  “How do I know she’s all right?”

  “Because I told you.”

  “Let me speak to her.”

  “Why? Don’t you believe me?”

  Oh, God, Jessie thought. The articles and movies hadn’t explained how to handle this. Then she remembered Alice Frame. “It’s not that,” she said. “It’s just that I’m her mother, and I miss her. Like your mother misses you.”

  “What do you know about my mother?” The phone vibrated against her ear.

  “She thinks you’re dead. You’d make her very happy if you came back and saw her. It would remake her life.”

/>   Pause. “How do you know?”

  “I talked to her.”

  “When?”

  “Sunday.”

  “Is that today?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t see her today?”

  “No.”

  A long pause. “We’ve got a lot to talk about,” he said.

  “Yes,” Jessie answered, thinking of him and his mother.

  “I mean you and me.”

  “You and me?”

  “Check.”

  There was another silence. Jessie listened for sounds on the line. There were none. They were very near. Kate was very near. She felt it.

  “How do I know that Kate’s all right?”

  “You don’t trust me?”

  “It’s not that. It’s just that I’m a mother. Like your mother.”

  “Like my mother?”

  “Yes.”

  He laughed the laugh she didn’t like. “That’s a good one,” he said. More muffled talk. Then he said, “Okay, mother, here she is.”

  Bumping sounds.

  Breathing sounds.

  “Kate? Kate? Is that you?”

  “Mom?”

  The sound of that word cut down to the core of Jessie’s being. “Oh, Kate, darling, are you all right?”

  Kate’s voice trembled, but she didn’t cry. “Mom, don’t—”

  The line went dead. Jessie stood by the phone, waiting for it to ring again. It didn’t.

  37

  Grace’s office had changed. The big desk was still there, the comfortably padded swivel chair, the VDT, the keyboard, the printers, the file cabinets, the government-issued framed photographs of the Grand Canyon. But the can of Almond Roca was gone. And so was Grace.

  A young man sat in her chair. A very young man, with short dark hair and a closely shaved baby face. He wore something that made the room smell like a pine forest.

  “Where’s Grace?” Zyzmchuk said.

  “Grace, sir?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Fairweather, sir. I’m the new GR-3.”

  “Since when?”

  “Yesterday, sir. I’m very pleased about the promotion and anxious to get down to some hard work.”

  “At what?”

  “At what, sir?”

  Zyzmchuk went into his own office. No one was sitting in his chair. He sat in it. He called Grace’s home number. No answer.