A Killing Rain

by P J Parrish

  “Louis --” she whispered.

  He covered her mouth with his and leaned into her, pushing her backward, his hands trying to work the T-shirt higher up on her body, over her head so he could see all of her. Touch all of her. Have all of her.

  “Louis —-”

  “Don’t talk.”

  “Louis,” she said.

  He drew back, and realized he had wedged her against the wall and the wicker chair.

  “Inside,” she whispered.

  “No,” he said. He grabbed the blanket that had slipped to the chair and spread it on the floor of the porch. When he looked back at her, she was pulling the T-shirt over her head. She dropped the T-shirt to the floor and lay down on the blanket.

  He couldn’t see her clearly in the dark. He undressed quickly and knelt on the blanket. She pulled him down, into her arms. Cold skin against his own cold skin. Then the warmth as she wrapped the blanket over them both.

  CHAPTER 36

  After he left the trailer, Vargas stopped at the gas station near Carnestown to call Uncle Leo. He tried the refinery first, where Uncle Leo’s office was. Some secretary had told him Uncle Leo was off for the week, taking care of some personal business.

  He had found that funny. Personal business. Strange way of saying I've got to hire somebody to kill somebody for me.

  When Vargas called the house in Naples, he told a maid that he needed to speak to his uncle.

  “Tell him it’s his nephew and that it’s an emergency.”

  She told him Uncle Leo would be home in an hour and to call back. Vargas drove on to Naples, finally pulling into a convenience store to call back. This time the maid said he could come to the house but not until eight p.m.

  Two hours to kill. It wouldn’t be good to show up at Uncle Leo’s early. So he went into the store, bought a chili dog and an orange soda and ate them as he thumbed through some car magazines. Finally, the punk clerk got mad and told him to get out.

  He went back to the Camaro and stuck in a Marty Robbins tape. He slumped down in the seat, listening to Marty singing “Rich Man, Rich Man.” A small knot was forming in his gut.

  Part of it was plain old fear -- fear that this wasn’t going to work out, that he and Byron would never get away. But he also felt a twinge of anticipation. He hadn’t been to Uncle Leo’s house in a long time...eight years.

  He had lived there for a while once. After his mom died when he was thirteen, some social worker came to the trailer, helped him pack his bag and then took him on a long drive. He remembered being led up to a huge white house on the water and into a big room. That was the first time he had met Uncle Leo.

  “I’m your mother’s brother,” he said. “You’ll stay here now.”

  He could still remember his nice bedroom in a far corner of the house. Remember eating his dinners with the old housekeeper in the kitchen and spending most of his time watching television.

  He could also remember that things weren’t always good. He never saw Uncle Leo. He hated school because the rich kids made fun of him. And he missed his mama.

  But things would have been okay if he hadn’t started messing up. Hadn’t started shoplifting cassette tapes from Kmart. That’s when the punishments started.

  Vargas looked down at the dashboard clock. It was time to get going. He pulled the Camaro out of the bright lights of the parking lot.

  He reached down and turned up the volume on the Marty Robbins tape. He didn’t want to think about this part, didn’t want to think about the punishments, but he couldn’t help it.

  Uncle Leo had told him that he had bad blood in him and that the punishments would get rid of it, teach him to be good, make him stop messing up. But all the punishments did was make him scared and more lonely. It got so he’d do anything not to get the punishment. So he was good. Or good at faking being good because he wasn’t sure what good really was. Finally, the punishments had ended.

  So did his stay at the big house. Uncle Leo gave him a new place to live. And the only person he saw for the next year was a red-haired man named Rusty. Then, when he turned sixteen, Uncle Leo said he had to start earning his way in the world and gave him a job in the sugar refinery.

  It was hard work cleaning the equipment, and no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t get the stink of burnt sugar out of his hair and clothes. But for the first time in his life, he had his own money. He would cash his paychecks and stuff the money in a Whitman Sampler candy box that used to belong to his mama. Eventually, he had enough to buy the Camaro off an old man over in Jerome. Once, he drove all the way to Naples and wasted his money on a new movie called “Urban Cowboy.” It hadn’t been a western at all, just a story about some weird guy who just wanted to be a cowboy.

  But then when he was eighteen, he messed up again. He did something really stupid and he ended up in Raiford. He didn’t hear from Uncle Leo again.

  Until three weeks ago.

  Vargas was coming into the little downtown part of Naples. He slowed down as he passed the fancy shops and restaurants. No one was out tonight, looking in the windows or sitting in the cafes. It was too cold. He drove past a golf course and then turned onto Uncle Leo’s street. Funny, how he could remember the way after all this time. He stared at the houses. But he didn’t remember them looking like this exactly. He remembered the houses being bigger.

  The big gate at Uncle Leo’s house was open so he pulled into the curving driveway. His eyes widened as he saw the white car. A fucking Rolls Royce. He recognized it from that hood ornament that looked like an angel. He started to park but then saw a sign for SERVICE ENTRANCE. That’s where the maid had told him to go.

  He pulled around back and parked next to a Jeep. The maid was there at the door to let him in and lead him through the huge gleaming kitchen and down a long hall and into a room that looked like an office. Vargas was glad she didn’t make him wait in that other room, the one Uncle Leo called his study. He didn’t like it in there. It scared him.

  He stood in the middle of the office, not wanting to touch anything.

  Uncle Leo came in through a second door and hardly gave Vargas a glance as he went to stand behind a desk. Vargas was surprised to see Uncle Leo didn’t look a bit older. But he was wearing a tuxedo, and the black wool made his gray and white hair and mustache look even more white. It made him look even taller and bigger somehow.

  Uncle Leo was just standing there, staring at him. Vargas shifted from one foot to the other. He opened his mouth to say something.

  “Take off those gloves,” Uncle Leo said.

  Vargas looked down at his hands. He had forgotten he even had the gloves on.

  “Take off the fucking gloves, Adam,” Uncle Leo said.

  Vargas peeled the gloves off. They were the cop’s gloves. They were nice and fit him good so he didn’t want to lose them. He stuffed them in the back pocket of his jeans.

  “I expected you yesterday,” Uncle Leo said.

  “We had to lay low for a day,” Vargas said. “You saw the news, right, Uncle Leo?”

  “I saw a mess is what I saw.”

  Vargas felt his face grow warm.

  “I asked for one simple hit,” Uncle Leo said. “Put a bullet in Austin Outlaw. How hard was that?”

  Vargas’s eyes jumped away from Leo to the big windows that looked out over the pool. He could see himself reflected in the panes, his body cut up into pieces.

  Byron’s voice coming to him. You can do this, Adam.

  He forced his gaze back to his uncle. “But Outlaw is dead, Uncle Leo. So you owe us money.”

  Uncle Leo came around the desk and it took him only two strides to reach Vargas. He smacked him hard against the temple, sending Vargas stumbling backward.

  “Don’t tell me what I owe you,” he said.

  Vargas rubbed his head, his eyes burning. “Don’t hit me like that.”

  “Hit you? I ought to shoot you. That would solve everything.”

  Vargas was silent, trying to figure ou
t what to say next. This wasn’t working. Uncle Leo was mad at him, and Byron would be too.

  “You’re a fuck-up,” Uncle Leo said. “You always have been.”

  “Then why’d you give us this job?”

  “I gave the job to Ellis. I thought he could do it. I was wrong. He’s as stupid as you are.”

  “Don’t say that,” Vargas shot back. “Byron isn’t stupid. He’s smart. He’s a smart man. Don’t say that about Byron. He didn’t mess up. I messed up.”

  Uncle Leo looked at Vargas long and hard. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d swear you two were queer for each other.”

  Vargas felt his shoulder muscles tighten and he fought to hold his uncle’s gaze, afraid if he looked away he would know, know that what he had just said was true. And then there would be no money. No boat. And no Aruba.

  Uncle Leo finally turned away, walking back behind the desk. He unlocked a drawer and pulled out a large envelope. Vargas waited, his eyes on the envelope, hoping the money was in it but too afraid to say anything more.

  “You and Ellis need to leave the country,” Uncle Leo said.

  Vargas nodded.

  “I’ll arrange to have you flown out.”

  “No, wait, Uncle Leo,” Vargas said, coming forward. “We got a different plan. We’re getting a boat in Everglades City.”

  “No. You’ll just screw it up. I’ll have my pilot take you to Canada.”

  Vargas shook his head, trying to think, trying to digest what was happening. Canada? There weren’t any beaches in Canada.

  Uncle Leo was pulling money from the envelope. He nodded toward the phone on the desk. “Call Ellis. Tell him to meet you at the airport here.”

  “I can’t. There’s no phone where he is.”

  Vargas heard Uncle Leo sigh and knew he was mad. He was shoving the bills back into the envelope.

  “Then go back and get him and bring him to the Naples airport. I’ll have someone meet you.”

  “What about our money?”

  “It will be on the plane.”

  Vargas hesitated. He wasn’t sure Uncle Leo would put the money on the plane. He wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

  “But --”

  “Go on. I want you in the air by midnight.”

  Vargas slipped out the door and walked blindly down the long hall and back through the kitchen. He was still shaking as he slid the keys into the Camaro.

  Tamiami Trail back to Copeland was nearly deserted, only the occasional glow of oncoming headlights piercing the misty darkness and the drone of Marty Robbins to break the silence. Vargas drove the speed limit, not wanting to call attention to himself. Byron would be wondering what took him so long. And he would be mad when he found out he didn’t get the money, that they had to go back to Naples and weren’t going to Aruba.

  Canada...shit.

  It was cold up there. Byron was going to be real mad about that. But at least they would be able to get away now.

  Somewhere up ahead, floating just above the ground, he saw two pinpricks of blue lights. He slowed. The lights grew larger, swirling in the mist.

  Damn it. Cops. A road block.

  Where could he go? He couldn’t just pull off. They’d notice a car sitting on the side of the road by itself.

  The convenience store. He had passed it a mile or so back near Carnestown. He’d go back there. He pulled a U-turn and drove back to the store, parking on the side, away from the gas pumps and neon signs. He went inside, squinting under the fluorescent lights.

  He grabbed a can of orange soda and a bag of chips for himself and a six-pack of Pepsi for Byron, taking them to the counter.

  “That all?” the clerk asked.

  “Yeah,” Vargas said, digging out a few crumpled dollars from his jeans. “What’s going on up the road? Saw a lot of cop cars.”

  The clerk shrugged. “Beats me.”

  “I just drove through there,” someone behind him said. Vargas turned. The man behind him was old, wearing a red St. Louis Cardinals windbreaker.

  “They got some kind of manhunt going on,” the guy said. “They caught one of the kidnappers of that little black kid that’s been in the news.”

  Vargas felt a cold prickle go down his back.

  “They got road blocks all over the place,” the man went on. “Can’t get anywhere on highway twenty-nine.”

  Oh, Jesus. He was going to be sick.

  He walked fast out the door, the clerk yelling that he had forgotten his soda and chips. Back in the Camaro, he sat there for a moment, head spinning. He hit the steering wheel with his palm. Damn it. Damn it.

  There was no place to go. He couldn’t go back to Uncle Leo. He couldn’t go back to his apartment in East Naples. He couldn’t get to Byron and the trailer. He had to find somewhere he could go to think. He had to figure this out, like Byron would do. He drew in a breath and slipped the Camaro into gear, pulling away from the neon lights.

  The tape was still playing. Vargas switched it off, and the sudden silence engulfed him. There was only one place he could go now, only one place left to hide.

  CHAPTER 37

  Thursday, January 21

  The cold woke him, a slight chill in the air of the bedroom. Louis stirred, pulling the sheet up over his shoulder. He didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t want to.

  He had lain in her arms, a part of him more content than he had been in a long time. But as he fell asleep, it was Ben’s face he saw. And he couldn’t shake the sickening feeling that Ellis might have been telling the truth.

  His arm went out across the bed to the other pillow, but the sheet was cold. She was gone. The aroma of coffee told him she was still here, somewhere. He slid out of bed and slipped on a pair of sweatpants. He was pulling on a T-shirt as he walked to the living room.

  It was empty. The kitchen was empty, too. The porch. She’d be out there.

  He paused at the door, hearing her voice. And then, a man’s voice, deep with a slight ironic drawl that he recognized immediately. Mel Landeta. He drew back, listening.

  “You look good,” he said.

  “How can you tell?” she said.

  “I can hear it in your voice. You’re happy. So I know you look good. You always looked good when you were happy.”

  “I don’t think happy is the word for it, considering what’s going on,” she said.

  “But you’re happy with him.”

  She paused. “I like him, Mel.”

  Louis looked at the floor.

  “You want some more coffee?” she asked.

  Louis heard the creak of the wicker chair as she got up. He stepped into the doorway. Joe and Mel looked up at him. Joe smiled.

  “Hey, Rocky,” Mel said.

  His long body was stretched out on the lounge chair. Black loafers, white socks, faded black pants, an open-collar white shirt, black leather jacket, and yellow aviator glasses.

  “Mel,” Louis said, giving him a nod.

  Louis glanced at Joe. She was in all black: jeans, sweater, jacket. Ready to go for the day. Maybe ready to go back to Miami. She was holding two mugs.

  “Let me get you some coffee,” she said. She went inside the cottage, touching his arm as she passed him.

  Louis looked back at Mel, wondering why he was here. On the small table between Joe’s chair and the lounge sat Byron Ellis’s file, Joe’s notebook, a three-ring binder with Miami PD embossed on the front, some crime scene photos of the old people’s house, the drop site, and three or four newspapers. The top paper was quartered, Benjamin’s photo visible.

  “Sit down, would you?” Mel asked.

  Louis sat down in the closest chair, leaving the middle one open for Joe. His eyes moved back to the table and Ben’s picture.

  “She called me,” Mel said. “Thought maybe I could help.”

  Louis looked at him then out past the screening, through the sea oats, to the water. Something bothered him about Mel being here, but he wasn’t sure what it was. Why did she think he needed any
help? And why did he know what she looked like when she was happy?

  He felt Joe’s hand on his shoulder. She handed him a coffee mug. He thought she’d sit down but she went back inside the cottage, closing the front door.

  For a minute or so, they sat in silence. Mel spoke first.

  “Things aren’t very clear right now, are they?”

  Louis didn’t answer.

  “When a case is personal,” Mel said, “you lose perspective because you’re operating on emotions instead of logic, anger instead of experience.”

  Louis took a drink of coffee. Now he knew why Mel was here. To tell him to calm down. Take it easy. Don’t let it become personal.

  “Mel, I’m okay,” Louis said. “I can handle this.”

  “You get involved. You can’t help it.”

  Louis closed his eyes.

  “The boy’s not dead,” Mel said. “You didn’t kill him that night you tried to deliver the money.”

  Louis looked up. “How do you know that?”

  Mel sat forward, planting his feet on opposite sides of the lounge chair. “Ask yourself one question,” he said. “Why did that guy take the chance of coming into Susan’s house dressed as a cop?”

  “Because he wanted another shot at killing Outlaw,” Louis said.

  “According to the TV Outlaw was already dead.”

  “Maybe they didn’t believe the TV report.”

  “Why wouldn’t they believe it?”

  “Because they knew I wasn’t Austin Outlaw.”

  “They thought you were Outlaw earlier that night. They thought you were Outlaw at the ransom drop.”

  Louis was quiet.

  “When did they stop believing you were Outlaw?” Mel asked.

  “After the noon newscast the next day,” Louis said.

  “Why did they stop believing?”

  Louis was quiet for a moment. “Someone told them.”

  “Who?”

  The answer was obvious. Ben had told them. Ben had seen the newscast and had told them that it wasn’t his father who had been killed.

  Mel sipped his coffee. Suddenly Louis didn’t mind him being here at all.