Rainy Fall
Claudio Hernández
Translated by Eva Molina Romera
“Rainy Fall”
Written By Claudio Hernández
Copyright © 2017 Claudio Hernández
All rights reserved
Distributed by Babelcube, Inc.
www.babelcube.com
Translated by Eva Molina Romera
Cover Design © 2017 IG_Royal
“Babelcube Books” and “Babelcube” are trademarks of Babelcube Inc.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Rainy fall | Claudio Hernández
Rainy fall
Author’s Biography
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Rainy fall
Claudio Hernández
First edition eBook: September, 2017.
Title: Rainy fall.
© 2017 Claudio Hernández.
© 2017 Cover design: DNY59 gettyimages
© 2017 Cover design: IG_Royal istockphoto
© 2017 Formal editing: Tamara López
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this publication, including the cover design, may be used, reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, magnetic, optical, chemical, including photocopying or recording by Internet without prior express and written permission of the publisher or the author. All Rights Reserved.
Are you here again? Well, yes, here I am. I owed it to you. But first of all, my dedication: This book is dedicated to my wife, Mary, who puts up with me and with my childish things, like this one, every day. And I hope she never stops doing so. This time I have embarked on a new adventure that started when I was a child and it has at last been finished with tenacity and support; this is another dream that has come true. She says that, sometimes, I shine... but just sometimes... I have started believing it myself...
Rainy fall
Jack Feather Feet had fucked himself up, literally, although he had been the toast of the town for several months after the cold winter, during the Strawberry Spring, as the locals called it, and throughout the summer, when the lizards dozed off in the quarries sticking their pinky tongues out. But after nine months nobody was talking about Reverend Larry any more. He came back again with the heavy October rains. He was Jack Feather Feet, and Sheriff Burt Duchamp had his nose out of joint with the presence of the FBI men and their perfectly ironed suits. His animosity towards beer had increased, and his bulky belly was filled with more than two kilos of fat, dense as lard. Nonetheless, he had stayed faithful to beer.
He woke up with a jerk as if he had been pushed by a spring placed on his back, and he was all sweaty, with the mental picture of those pink knickers with white lace covered by moist leaves. It made him panic. He felt a throbbing that was like a hammer pounding on his heart. He threw his hands up to his face and then he noticed with some surprise that his fingers were moistened. Outside, a flurry of rain pattered against the window and the water drops hit the floor, the vehicles and the wooden roofs with such ferocity that they sounded like a heavy downpour, like the raindrops were made of metal. It was a background noise, a constant tapping, and it sounded like a nervous brigand tapping his fingers on a dusty canteen bar in the Wild West.
And then, while he was staring out the window, he saw the lightning tearing the sky apart before branding the ground below like a missile. That image reminded him of a face. It was the face of a young girl, her eyes wide open and wet from the rain. Her mouth was being gagged by a dark leather gloved hand, while someone was pushing a huge cross inside her with the other hand, penetrating her so violently until it ripped her open, splitting her apart, until her blood got mixed up with the rainwater.
He had seen the same image when he had held Larry’s hand, right after he committed suicide, except that there was no snow now, but rain. Peter felt so baffled that he moved his head from side to side as if wanting to get rid of the rain drops. But Reverend Larry, the so called Jack Feather Feet, was a thing of the past, although he had left a strong imprint on Boad Hill.
Peter had written the story and it became a best-seller, but what really interested his readers and for the onlookers and reporters was his gift; that dark gap where he had a vision of the inside of a person. Thus, Peter had isolated himself from the world. He locked himself at home for those damned nine months, with his father John, who was all day busy watching Christie’s boobs and who was always peeing blood.
And yes, Peter also had wet dreams about Ann. He still desired her. But Ann was really elusive. He had made up with Denny, her brother, but he had not been able to come near Ann again.
He remembered the last image of his nightmare again, with dry throat. He visualized those pink knickers with leaves covering them, protecting them from the rain.
He had left the cold winter behind but now the rainy fall had come.
Right then the mobile phone rang with Fancy’s ringtone, China Blue, playing softly, almost like a whisper in the middle of the night. It was a bad omen, as Peter foreboded when he picked up the phone with his long fingers to answer.
1
“Peter, those two from the FBI are driving me crazy. They say that there was another girl killed before this one, 40 kilometers away, at Place Land, a place near Main Road heading in Boston direction, you know, where all those unfortunate girls’ autopsies were performed. That guy William has a new job. I need you...”
“What?” Peter yelled.
And then he hung the phone up.
2
Fancy’s warm tone, China Blue, rang again under the flashes of lightning, and the random noise made it look as if the world was going to split into two. He couldn’t hear the music, but he could see the bright light of the touch-screen display focusing the light up like a lantern. A white light moved from the ceiling to the wall, and finally it illuminated Peter’s face, who had barely pressed the green button with his thumb. He could read Burt’s name at the top of the screen.
“I am not available” Peter said, not really confident.
“Peter, I need you. Both Ethan and Charlotte are breaking my balls and they have invaded my city, fucking hell...”
“Who are they?” Peter cut short while a lightning mirrored in his glasses. He had put them on before answering Burt’s first call.
“They are the FBI agents.”
“What are they doing here?”
“They say they found a certain Maya Grey on the outskirts of Place Land, near Main Road, apparently in a very bad condition. She had worms in her eyes.” There was a short silence that seemed to last forever, and added, “She was in the woods, covered with leaves, her eyes wide open and her private parts ripped, as it happened last winter.
Peter felt his stomach was burning up.
“And what do you want from me?”
“We have just found another corpse. It is also the body of a young girl, I don’t remember if I told you before. They are really young girls, from Secondary School. She is Kaylee Collins, Liam’s daughter, who lived at 44 Road Street. The poor girl has been ripped open from her ass to her belly, and the killer has kept her eyes open, so now they are filled with water from that damned rain. I need your help, Peter.”
There was another instant of silence, when a thunder could be heard, and then some crackling noises through the phone.
“What do you want me to do? Do you want me to go all over the town shaking hands with the neighbors with a stupid smile on my face? What should I tell them? Should I say “don’t worry, I’m just trying to find out if you are the killer?”
Burt burst out laughing. He shouldn’t have done
it.
“Don’t see it that way. You saw Reverend Larry’s murders after he was dead. So I just thought...”
“That I could go and touch the poor girl to find out if I can see the killer’s face, didn’t you?”
Burt did not answer.
A streak of lightning lit up the window from side to side, and when the thunder hit the ground, the glass trembled inside the window frame.
“Maybe” Burt said finally with a calm voice. The constant rain and what seemed to be rained drops bouncing off his felt hat could be heard in the background.
“Leave me alone” Peter said, and then he hung up the phone.
3
John, Peter’s father, was awake, lolling on the sofa. The TV was on and the screen lights were illuminating his pale and languid face. He had his hand on his crotch, and he tightened his lips every time he moved. He had taken his last pee in the afternoon, and he took great pains to take a leak of urine mixed with blood. He wasn’t scared, but he felt a sharp pain in his lower abdomen that made him see stars, even though there were storm clouds all around. It was being a tedious fall. He knew he was about to have his day, but he did not say a word about it to his son. He would never do it, not even when he was in the toilette, doubled over in pain with his sweaty face on the edge of the toilet bowl.
The TV chatter filled the air, and sometimes the room was illuminated by an intense white when the sky was struck by lightning. At those moments Christie’s words were lost within that bellowing sound.
Peter adjusted his glasses and then he went downstairs barefoot, with his socks on. He was wearing white socks, two sizes too big for his feet. He had problems with his toenails and when he put on tight socks he felt twinges of pain caused by the edges of his nails. Sometimes the small injuries under his toenails were infected and he had to cut them from root to tip to help his body create a new nail, and he would pray for it to be fine.
He had been left disconcerted by what Burt had told him, and he did not know if he had heard right or what to do. He could see the TV light on his feet going up to his knees as he was going down the stairs in silence.
Was there a new victim? Yes, there was. Was it an isolated case? Apparently, it wasn’t. Was he using the same Modus Operandi? What did Burt mean? By the time he was reaching the last step he noticed his father was watching Channel Four.
“Dad, What are you doing awake so late?”
John tilted his head.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“It was the storm, wasn’t it?”
The television lights reflected off his glasses.
“What about you? Why are you wearing your robe? Were you going to have a glass of milk? I just had the last drop...”
“No, I wasn’t.” Peter interrupted, grimacing. “I didn’t come down to have some milk.” He had gone blank, he did not know what to say, but he kept on walking towards his father to sit by his side. He sat down on the couch gently, like a feather dropping softly.
“Then, why the hell have you come down?”
“The storm is keeping me awake.” Peter lied, shrugging his shoulders and cracking a smile that could be hardly noticed.
“I don’t believe you.” His father said, stretching his lips into a slight smile.
“I don’t believe you either” Peter answered, looking into his eyes which looked like two burning cigarettes in the dark. Then they turned into green and finally, they were a mixture of blue and yellow.
“I have watched a Clint Eastwood movie.” John explained, turning his look towards the television again, which was sparkling like a Christmas tree. Then lightning stroke the night sky and everything became white.
“What movie?”
The deafening sound that came after the lightning was so strong that the glass shattered.
“I watched Pale Rider. It’s a good one.”
Peter smiled.
“I prefer Heartbreak Ridge” He answered smiling, and his smile turned into a loud laughter.
“Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately?” His father asked, “You wouldn’t last one day in the army.”
“I didn’t do my military service, there must be a reason” The hysterical laughter gave way to a new grimace.
They did not even notice that the window glass had shattered.
4
The rain was pouring down, and their suits got wet, making them look like a big dark spot among the dozens of lanterns which were illuminating Kaylee Collins’ lifeless body. Her face, partially covered, could be seen because of the reflection of the blue and yellow flashing lights from the cop cars, which were piercing the thick forest as if they were trying to make a hole. There was an intense wind and the thermal sensation was particularly cold. But the X files couple, as Burt Duchamp called them, stood there leaning forward in front of the dead body as if they had never seen something like that before.
Their official car, a grey Ford, had no rooftop flashing lights, but its headlights were heading towards Kaylee’s corpse, which was trapped between the leaves.
Constable Lloyd Chambers, Jack Hodge, and, of course, Martin and Richard were also there. They were wearing a yellow raincoat, and they looked like fireflies in the middle of the night. They were leaning against the hood of the car with their hands on their belts, with serious and wet faces and unexpressive eyes. They kept their mouths shut like zippers. Burt glanced at them and frowned under his felt hat. They knew what he meant.
The tall man, with brown hair and pointy nose, walked towards Burt. He was soaking wet. He reached Burt then and raised his right hand to show his FBI identification with a picture that made him look much older. The man would be in his forties and he was normally built, neither too slender nor too fat. But, to tell the truth, he didn’t have a paunch.
“I’m FBI agent Ethan Morrison” He said with a southern accent but speaking a refined English.
Burt knew their names already, and he also knew that they worked for the FBI. He was just pretending he didn’t.
“Oh!” Burt replied, as if he wasn't aware of their names, spitting on the floor. “A little spit won’t be noticed with so much rain, will it?”
The woman, who had long dark hair, was wearing a grey suit. She turned around with her hand on her chin, as if it was really heavy, the other hand under her elbow to back it up.
“Do you know who that girl is?” Ethan asked, leaving aside their discrepancies, which seemed to be quite a lot.
“I probably don't. Do you know her?”
Ethan stared at him, with his face soaking wet and thousands of raindrops caressing his skin.
“I don’t know who she is right now, but I’m sure I will know everything about her tomorrow.”
Burt cracked a smile and spat again.
The woman turned around again; she looked disgusted.
“I’m sorry, I probably ate something bad tonight and I can’t stop spitting.” He touched his Adam’s apple and then he said: “I feel something sour in my throat and I don’t know how to take it off.”
“I see.” Ethan said, putting his identification back in his wet pocket.
The crime scene lit up with a big white spotlight: It was lightning.
5
“You are still in love with her, aren’t you?” Peter was listening to the raindrops tapping on the window when his father asked him.
Peter nodded.
“Yes, dad, I’m besotted with her. But she resists me.” Peter looked glum; his glasses glowed slightly under the light.
“Well, hold her hand and use that charm of yours to find out how to woo her.”
“You know I don’t leave home because of all those onlookers and the journalists. It is too much for me. I can’t stand it. They still talk about me on social media.”
“But it is just a gift you were born with, son.” He ran his hand through his son’s hair, hiding the pain in his underbelly, and he added: “You inherited it from your mother; she gave it to you before she passed away.”
“There are so many things” He said, but he didn’t know how to keep on talking. He just clenched his hands so strongly that his fists turned white. He clawed his nails into the palms of his hands until it hurt, although no cuts resulted from doing so and he did not bleed.
John grabbed the TV remote control and changed to Channel Four. Christie was there, displaying her gelled hair and her wide eyes on the screen. He looked at the wall clock and he saw it was half past twelve. He could read the headlines at the bottom of the TV screen:
Murder victim found near Boad Hill.
John’s eyes grew as large as saucers, and not because of Christie’s boobs, but because of the news. He turned up the volume and her voice could be heard above the rain.
“FBI agents have already come to our city after the appearance of a corpse that reminds us of Jack Feather Feet’s murders; Jack Feather Feet, the murderer we were supposed to have forgotten already; we have been informed that, apparently, a young woman has been found murdered the same way that Reverend Larry used to kill his victims. Apparently, another body was found near Boad Hill, at Place Land, and the modus operandi had been the same. Stay on this channel; we will keep you posted, as everybody is baffled at the moment ...”
John turned the TV volume down. He looked at his son, and then he asked him, interrupting his silence:
“Are you going to help them?”
Peter touched his glasses, and then he passed a hand over his hair, which was dirty and flat. He made a grimace as his lips started to move.
“Sheriff Burt has already phoned me” He said, and then he added with his head down: “I told him to sod off.”
His father stared at him with a serious expression.
6
“This is my partner, Charlotte Hayes” Ethan said, pointing at her at the same time. She turned around and her blue eyes looked directly into Burt’s eyes. She approached slowly, as she was soaking and her hair was tangled, and she stretched forth her hand towards the sheriff.
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