Rain Drops: Three Free Samples

by J.R. Rain

  He shook his head sadly. “No.”

  “Do you remember him?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “Were you aware that he had followed you back to the store?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see him again at any other time?”

  “No.”

  “Did you speak with him?”

  “I think we did.”

  “Do you recall what was said?”

  “No, I don’t. I think I commented on the shark.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Your mother made them laugh with the rabbit ears. They thought she was funny.”

  I digested this. “Since finding the pictures two years ago, have you done anything—anything at all—to follow up on your wife’s murder?”

  More shifting, as if the plush leather chair could possibly be uncomfortable. He motioned toward the files on his desk. “I’ve been busy lately, too busy, you know....”

  “Let me finish for you, father. You were too busy making money to follow up on your wife’s murder. Too busy solving other people’s problems to worry about a woman you never truly loved.”

  He shrugged.

  I got up and walked around the desk and looked down at him. I stood before him, breathing hard, blood pounding in my ears.

  “Do what you’ve got to do,” he said, “and get the hell out of here.”

  I backhanded him across the face. The force of the blow almost sent him over the arm of his chair. He regained his balance. A red welt was already forming on his cheek bone. Blood appeared in the corner of his mouth, then trickled out. He said nothing, did nothing, just watched me. His eyes were passionless and empty. No, not empty. There was something there, something deep within, something trying to climb up from the unfathomable depths of his cold soul, but then he blinked and it was gone.

  Chapter Forty-four

  I was sitting next to a window drinking a large iced vanilla coffee when he appeared in the parking lot from behind a large truck. The day was hot, but he didn’t seem to mind or notice his copious layers of clothing. In fact, he wasn’t even sweating. Maybe he was God.

  Once inside, he ordered a cup of coffee and sat opposite me, carefully prying the plastic lid off and blowing on his coffee. Finally, when appropriately cooled, he took a sip.

  “So where do you go when you’re not here speaking with me?”

  “Wherever I want.”

  “And where might that be?”

  “It’s not where you are, Jim, it’s how you get there.”

  “Wow, that’s nice. You should put that on a bumper sticker.”

  “Where do you think I got it?”

  “Great, now God’s quoting bumper stickers.”

  “It’s an old truth, Jim.”

  “The journey and all that,” I said.

  “Yes, it’s about the journey,” he said, sipping quietly and watching me with his brownish eyes.

  “And what happens once you get there?” I asked. “What happens once the journey is over?”

  “That is for you to decide, my son. You can stay there, or you can start a new journey.”

  “A new journey?”

  “Of course.”

  “Are we talking reincarnation here?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Jack. “Are we?”

  “Does reincarnation exist?” I asked.

  “The soul lives forever,” said the bum in front of me as if he knew what the hell he was talking about. “But the soul can choose many forms.”

  “Okay, it’s too early in the morning for this shit, Sorry I asked.”

  “Apology accepted. But there’s a reason you asked, isn’t there?”

  There was, but I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer. I put down my iced coffee and set it aside.

  “So where’s my mother now?” I asked. “You know, her spirit, or whatever?”

  As I spoke, Jack inhaled the coffee deeply, pausing, taking the scent deep within, making it a part of him.

  “She is wherever she wants to be,” he said, exhaling.

  “And where would that be?”

  “For instance, she is with us now since we are talking about her.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Yes.”

  “And is she sitting next to me?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer at first, although he gave me a gentle smile.

  “She is in your heart, Jim. Be still, and feel her there.”

  I looked at the old man across from me. On second thought, he wasn’t really that old. On third thought, I was hard pressed to gauge just how old he was, although he was certainly older than me. And then another thought occurred to me: My mother. I suddenly remembered a time when she and I had gone to the beach together in the city bus. She let me ditch school and had treated me like a prince that day.

  My breath caught in my throat. Fuck, I missed her.

  “She misses you, too,” said Jack. “But she wants you to know that she is always with you.” He paused, and that gentle smiled found his weathered face. “And that you will always be her little prince, even though you are a big son-of-bitch.”

  And all I could do was wipe my eyes and laugh.

  Hi, mom.

  Chapter Forty-five

  “Last time you were here, Knighthorse, my school was turned upside down. Please, no more bodies.”

  Vice Principal Williams’s levity over the tragic suicide of her football coach was a tad alarming, but I let it slide without comment. She had come to the door to shake my hand. Today she was dressed in a white pant suit and a white blouse that was see-through enough to ignite the imagination of any hormone-enraged teenaged boy. And to ignite the imagination of at least one hormone-enraged detective.

  “Um, nice blouse,” I said.

  “Thank you,” she said. She looked down at it. “Or are you just saying that because you can see the outline of my bra?”

  “Which qualifies it as a nice blouse.”

  She settled into her chair behind her desk. I sat before her. Her gaze did not waver from mine. “I am a married woman.”

  I pointed to the rock on her hand. “Not a hard fact to overlook, even for one as highly trained as I.”

  “What makes you so highly trained?”

  “I apprenticed for two years with my father. And he is the best.”

  “You say that almost grudgingly.”

  “My father and I have never been close. You could say he was unsupportive in my earlier sporting endeavors.”

  “You hold that against him?”

  “Yes.”

  She studied me some more, and we held each other’s gaze for a heartbeat or two. She inhaled and her chest inflated and the lacy bra pushed out. It was a calculated move.

  “Currently my husband and I are separated.”

  “I see.”

  “What is your situation, Mr. Knighthorse?”

  I hesitated. I did not know my situation. Cindy had not called me for two days. As far as I knew she was gone.

  “I am in a similar situation,” I said.

  “Perhaps we can entertain each other in the meantime.”

  “Entertaining is good.”

  “How about dinner this weekend?” she asked.

  I thought about it. It was getting old drinking alone.

  “Mrs. Williams—”

  “Please, Dana.”

  “Dana, this weekend would be...fine.”

  She smiled, relaxed and sat back. She had the attitude of a closed deal. “Now what can I do for you?”

  “Where can I find the school band director?”

  “Bryan Dawson?”

  “If that’s the band director.”

  Her fingers drummed the arm of her chair.

  “Is there a problem, Dana?” I asked.

  She turned in her swivel chair and gazed out her considerable window into the empty quad. I continued to watch her, intrigued by her response.

  “Why do you wish to speak to him?”

  “A
manda quit the school band unexpectedly. I want to find out why.”

  “Seems a reach for your investigation.”

  “My job is to reach. Luckily I have a long arm.”

  “You can find him here in the mornings. Room one oh seven, around six a.m. Band practice starts at zero period, six forty-five a.m.”

  “Is there something I should know about him?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look, I’m a good detective. Perhaps not as good as my pop, but the next best thing. If there’s something going on with your band director, I’m going to find out about it. But you and I can cut a deal now, and if you make things easy on me, perhaps I will agree to keep things quiet.”

  “Perhaps?”

  “Perhaps is the best I can offer.”

  “Perhaps is not good enough.”

  “Then I will find the truth on my own, and there is no deal.”

  She sat back and gazed at me from over steepled fingers. “You are a hard sonofabitch.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “I just want myself and the school left out of it.”

  “I can probably swing that,” I said.

  “Probably?”

  “Best I can offer right now.”

  She got up and shut her door, then sat back down and faced me. She didn’t look me in the eye. Instead she busied herself by adjusting her desk calendar this way and that. She only risked glancing up at me occasionally. Even then she seemed to only focus on my unnaturally broad shoulders. Who could blame her, really?

  “Now, there have been some, ah, alleged indiscretions between Mr. Dawson and a couple of his students in the past.”

  “Have the allegations been confirmed?”

  “No.”

  “Was Amanda Peterson one of those who allegedly had an indiscretion?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did these indiscretions involve?”

  “Sexual advances.”

  “Has anyone looked into the allegations?”

  “I did.”

  “And what did you discover?”

  “He denied everything and there was no proof, and now one of the girls is dead.”

  “And the other?”

  “Lives in Washington state.”

  “Do you have her address?”

  She looked at me blankly. Then turned to her filing cabinet behind her, opened it, and busied herself for the next minute or two thumbing through files. She removed one and brought it to her desk. There she copied some information down on a sticky pad, then passed it over to me. There was a name on it, Donna Trigger, along with a phone number.

  Dana sat back. “You are very thorough.”

  “No stone unturned.”

  “Are you just as thorough in the bedroom?”

  “You’ll just have to use your imagination.”

  She smiled, and her cheeks turned a little red.

  “Oh, I have.”

  Chapter Forty-six

  I figure if I’m going to haul my ass out to Huntington High by six a.m., then I was going to reward myself with some Krispy Kremes.

  Which I did, along with two containers of chocolate milk. I don’t drink coffee, and since I’m still looking to add some weight, whole chocolate milk has the kind of calories I’m looking for.

  It was cool enough for the heater, and since I didn’t want to waste all my precious calories shivering, I went ahead and cranked it up. With the ocean to my right, I drove languidly south along Pacific Coast Highway. I was not in a hurry and I had my donuts to keep me company. The ocean was slate gray and choppy this morning, but that did not stop the handful of faithful surfers, who dotted the breakers like so much flotsam.

  I turned up a street called Mariner, which, coincidentally, just happened to be Huntington High’s mascot, and neatly finished the last of the Krispy Kremes, slugging it down with the remainder of the chocolate milk. I pulled into the visitor parking spot. My gun had traveled on the seat next to me; these days I kept it particularly handy.

  I licked my fingers clean before grabbing the gun and shoving it in my shoulder holster. I just hate sticky gun handles.

  ***

  I was waiting outside room 107 when I heard footsteps coming from the adjoining hallway. Instinctively I reached inside my jacket and rested my hand on the handle of the Browning. A man appeared from around the corner. He was young-looking and in his early thirties, thick black hair and a nice build. His face was narrow and clean-shaven. He was a handsome guy; worse, he knew it.

  When he saw me, he paused in mid-step.

  “Bryan Dawson?” I asked.

  He made an effort to smile broadly. It was a good smile, the kind that would melt any impressionable high schooler. However, I was not an impressionable high schooler.

  “You are the detective,” he said, brushing past me, knocking a shoulder into mine. It was a calculated shoulder strike, but I didn’t move. He careened briefly off-balance and only recovered by grabbing the door handle.

  “Pardon you,” I said. “Are you okay?”

  “Oh, yes, sorry. A little clumsy this early in the morning.”

  He had known of me, which I found interesting. Someone had hired the thug, too; someone who had known of me as well.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m just glad your shoulder is okay,” I said jovially. “How do you know me?”

  “Someone pointed you out the other day when the police arrived for Coach Castleton. Weren’t you the one who found him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Must have been awful,” he said. “Seeing his brains and shit all over the place.”

  His gaze was unwavering and challenging. I didn’t like him. He was cocky, loud, and too sure of himself.

  “It was more awful that he found it necessary to end his life. The murder of Amanda Peterson has had significant repercussions. Not to mention an innocent boy is in jail for the crime.”

  “The police don’t seem to think he’s so innocent. For them it’s an open and shut case.”

  “Luckily for Derrick, I don’t think it’s so open and shut.”

  “Which means what? You’re only a private dick.”

  “Means I’m going to find the killer.”

  “So what can I do for you?”

  “May I come in?”

  “No.”

  “Did you have a relationship with Amanda?”

  “I was her band director.”

  “Did you have a relationship with her outside of school?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Where were you on the night of Amanda Peterson’s murder?”

  “I have nothing left to say to you.”

  “Of course you don’t.”

  And he promptly shut the door in my face.

  Jim Knighthorse, master interrogator.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  It was late and we were at a restaurant called Waters in the city of Irvine. Coincidentally, a small, foul-smelling, man-made lake sat next to the restaurant. I wondered what came first: The lake or the restaurant?

  Vice Principal Dana Williams had pushed hard for this meeting, so I agreed to meet her here. I sensed she liked me. I also sensed she was a very lonely woman. So why had I agreed? I didn’t know entirely. She was loosely connected to my case, so I could always justify the meeting in that way. I was also lonely myself. Very lonely. Perhaps we were just two lost souls meeting in the night, at a pretentiously named restaurant.

  “Do you talk to your ex-girlfriend much?” asked Mrs. Williams. She emphasized the ex part a little too much.

  “She’s not my ex. We’re just taking a break from all the action.”

  “What sort of action?” she asked.

  “Nevermind,” I said. I didn’t feel like talking about it, especially someone who was all for my break up with Cindy. Anyone who was all for my break up with Cindy was no friend of mine.

  “Do you always speak in football jargon?” she asked.

  We were seated outside, on
the wide, wooden deck that wrapped around the entire restaurant. We had a great view of the fake lake. A duck floated nearby. It could have been fake, too, but I doubted it.

  “Yes,” I said simply.

  “I see,” she said. She toyed with the red straw sticking out of her margarita. If my lack of enthusiasm for our meeting was making her uncomfortable, she didn’t show it. I sensed that she saw me as a challenge. “Do you think I’m pretty?” she asked suddenly.

  Admittedly, the question caught me off-guard. I looked at her from across the table. She was looking ravishing, to say the least. A tight blouse that showed way too much of her chest. Make-up that seemed expertly applied. Hair perfectly framing her pretty face.

  “Yeah,” I said. I wasn’t in the mood to dance around the subject.

  She beamed, pleased.

  Our food arrived. Clams for her. A burger for me. I ate the fries first. She watched me eat. She was about to ask me something, probably something about Cindy, when I cut her off. Enough of the bullshit.

  “So how long have you been separated?” I asked.

  She shrugged, sipped her drink. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  She leveled her stare at me and I was reminded again that she was very much the vice principal of discipline at Huntington High. When she spoke, she lowered her voice ominously. “I don’t remember, exactly. A few years I suppose. Is that okay?”

  “Hey, I’m okay if you’re okay,” I said, and very much wanted to get the hell out of here. Mrs. Williams’s apparent ability to go from flirtatious to bitch was alarming at best.

  We ate our food in silence. Actually, I ate and she toyed. I wondered what the clams thought about being killed only to be toyed with.

  Probably be pissed off.

  “Do you think Derrick killed Amanda?” I asked suddenly. Hey, might as well get some work done. In the least, I could write the dinner off for tax purposes.

  “Yes,” she said immediately.

  “Why?”

  “He had motive and he had the murder weapon.”

  “Damning evidence,” I said. “Except that all indications seem to point that he was truly in love with Amanda.”

  “Which would make his jealousy all the more unpredictable,” she said. “Wouldn’t it?”

  I shrugged. I didn’t like answering leading questions.

  We continued to eat. Just beyond, the duck floated unmovingly. I was now certain it was fake. Or asleep.

  While we ate, I could sense Mrs. Williams watching me. Her watching me made me uncomfortable in a way I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Perhaps I sensed in her an unpredictability. She reminded me of my father in that way. Happy one moment, a real piece of work the next.