Dead Man's Rain

by Frank Tuttle

  He snorted and snapped his reigns and didn’t even bother with a “Sir.”

  Cost him his tip, that bit of cheek.

  Curfew in Rannit falls with the sun. The night belongs to the half-dead, the Watch and anybody crazy enough to risk running afoul of the former or tripping over the recumbent, snoring forms of the latter.

  Curfew fell, and the big old bells on the Square clanged nine times. Before the last notes had faded Mama Hog herself was yelling “Boy, wake up,” and banging on my door.

  I swung my feet off my desk, put my sandwich down on a plate and hurried to the door.

  Mama Hog looked up and grinned. “The Widow Merlat found you,” she said, not asking but reporting.

  “She did indeed,” I said, opening the door. “What a chucklesome old dear. She’s coming by later for tea and a séance.”

  Mama cackled and trundled inside. “The Widow Merlat’s got the fear, boy,” she said. “Got it bad.” Mama plopped down into my client’s chair and started eyeing my sandwich.

  “You make that?”

  “It’s from Eddie’s,” I said. “Tear off a hunk.”

  She tore, bit, chewed.

  “You sent me a lunatic, Mama,” I said, shaking my finger. “Shame on you.”

  Bite, chew, swallow. Then Mama wiped her lips on her sleeve and grinned. “She ain’t crazy, boy,” Mama said. “She’s ec-cen-tric. Ain’t that the word for rich folks?”

  “She thinks her dead husband spends his evening knock-knock-knocking at her door,” I said. “Eccentric doesn’t cover that, Mama, and you know it.”

  Mama shrugged and chewed.

  “I have no love for the idle rich,” I said. “But I’ve got no desire to fleece sad old widow women, either.” I went behind my desk, pulled back my chair and sat. “Why not send her to a doctor or a priest, Mama?” I said. “Why me? Why a finder?”

  My sandwich—melted Lowridge cheese on smoked Pinford ham—was vanishing fast. I grabbed a hunk when Mama paused to speak.

  “The widow ain’t crazy, boy,” she said. “Could be she ain’t seeing things, either.”

  I shook my head and swallowed. “Your cards tell you that?”

  Mama Hog nodded. “Cards say she’s got a hard rain coming, boy,” she said. “Turned up the Dead Man, and the Storm, and the Last Dancer, all in the same hand. Dead Man’s rain. That ain’t good.” Mama grabbed another morsel of sandwich, guffawed around it. “But I don’t need cards to see the sun. The Widow Merlat is headed for a bad time. She knows it. I know it. You’d best know it, too.”

  “Dead is dead, Mama,” I said. “That’s what I know.”

  Mama grinned. “There’s other things you need to know, boy. Things about the ones that come back.”

  “First thing being that they don’t,” I said.

  Mama pretended not to hear.

  “Rev’nants only walk at night,” she said. “It’s got to be pitch dark.”

  “Do tell.”

  “You can’t catch ’em coming out of the ground,” said Mama. “It’s no good trying. They’re like haunts, that way. Solid as rock one minute, thin as fog the next.”

  “Sounds handy,” I said. “Do their underbritches get all misty and ethereal too, or is that one of the things man was not meant to know?”

  “Don’t look in his eyes, boy. Don’t look in his eyes, or breathe air he’s breathed.”

  “I won’t even ask about borrowing his toothbrush,” I said.

  Mama slapped my desktop with both her hands.

  “You listen,” she hissed. “Believe or not, but you listen.”

  “I’ve got all night.”

  “His mouth will be open,” said Mama. “Wide open. He’s been saving a scream, all that time in the ground. Saving up a scream for the one that put him there.” Mama lifted a stubby finger and shook it in my face. “Don’t you listen when he screams. You put your hands over your ears and you yell loud as you can, but don’t you listen. Cause if you do, you’ll hear that scream for the rest of your days, and there ain’t nothing nobody nowhere can do for you then.”

  Silence fell. Only after Curfew do we get any silence, in my neighborhood. I let it linger for a moment.

  I leaned forward, put my eyes down even with Mama’s, motioned her closer, spoke.

  “Boo.”

  Mama glared. “Don’t get in his way, boy,” she said. “He didn’t come back for you. But that won’t mean nothing if you get in the way.”

  “Dead is dead, Mama,” I said.

  Mama sighed. “Dead is dead,” she agreed. “Sometimes, though, good and dead ain’t dead enough.”

  Mama rose, brushed crumbs of my sandwich off her chin, and headed for the door.

  “When you going to the widow’s house, boy?” she asked, as she turned my bolt.

  “First thing tomorrow,” I said. “Going to stay a few days, see what I can see. If Old Bones shows up, I’ll stuff my ears with cotton and give him your regards.”

  Mama rolled her eyes. “You watch yourself,” she said. “And not just at night.”

  I frowned. “Meaning?”

  Mama shook her head. “Meaning them Merlat kids would as soon gut you as say hello,” she said. “Bad ’uns, the lot of ’em.”

  “Whoa, Mama,” I said, rising. “You know something about the Merlat kids, sit back down. I’m a lot more likely to run into one of them than their dear departed daddy.”

  Mama didn’t go out, but she didn’t back away from the door either. “Told you all I know. They bad. All of ’em.”

  “How many would that be?” I asked. “Two? Four? Ten? Tell me something I can use, Mama. That was a good sandwich you gobbled.”

  Mama made a snuffling noise. “Three of ’em,” she said. “Two men. One a gambler. One on weed. One woman. Not sure what she is, but I know it ain’t good.”

  “Did one of them have anything to do with Papa Merlat’s plot on the Hill?”

  “I reckon they all did,” said Mama. “But not in the way you mean. You be careful, boy. Real careful.”

  Then she opened my door and was gone.

  I thought about following her. I’ve broken Curfew before, just like everyone else, but I didn’t get up, and Mama’s footsteps were fast and then gone.

  She’d said what she meant to say. I brushed crumbs off my desk, found a bottle of beer in a drawer and settled back to watch the dark.

  Chapter Two

  “This will do,” I told my driver. “Pull over.”

  The cab rolled to a halt. I opened the door and hauled out my Army-tan duffel bag.

  The cabbie looked down at me and wrinkled his brow. “Look, pal,” he said. “I don’t mean to tell you your business, but this ain’t the place for the likes of us come sundown.”

  I’d hauled a handful of coppers out of my pocket to count out for the fare, and I was so shocked I lost my place. “What do you mean?” I asked. “I’ve got a job. I’ll be indoors. The Merlats aren’t half-dead, and even if the neighbors are they don’t bother the help—do they?”

  The cabbie’s eyes darted up and down the empty, tree-lined sidewalk. “It ain’t the half-dead you need to watch,” he said, and then he pointed with his chin at the Merlat house. “It’s them.”

  I put out my hand, and he took the coins. Before I could ask him anything else he snapped his reigns and was gone.

  I watched him go. I considered chasing him down and asking him if he’d like more coins, but rich people tend to look down on common folk running through their lawns, so I heaved my duffel bag over my shoulder and set off for House Merlat.

  I think I even whistled. It was hard not to, that morning—the sun was up, the birds were singing, I had a sock stuffed with silver and a rich man’s bed to sleep in.

  A wrought-iron swing gate worked with griffins and roses opened to the Merlat’s yard, and the walk that wound through it. I opened the waist-high gate and sauntered through, watching the house. A curtain moved in the big window to the right of the front doors, and I hear
d, faint but clear, the tinkling of a bell.

  Behind the house, dogs began to bark and snarl. I switched my duffel to my other shoulder and kept my pace steady. Marble knights and silent angels looked on as I passed, their blank eyes moving to follow my every step.

  The house was set dead center of the big square yard. Ward-walls, each erected by the Merlat’s neighbors, covered three sides. The street-side front fence was just painted iron, a little more than waist high. Mama Hog could have climbed it, so if Old Man Merlat was really taking long evening strolls, he was entering the grounds from the street.

  The right-most front door opened, and the Widow Merlat herself stepped squinting into the sunlight.

  “I’ve been expecting you,” she said, before I’d mounted the first of the dozen tall treads that led from the lawn to the house. “Come in.”

  The widow wore black, of course. She did not smile, though she did nod her head in what I took to be greeting. I guessed that the widow was not accustomed to receiving her own guests.

  “Thank you,” I said. I took the door, she backed up into the shadows of the house and I stepped inside and let the door shut behind me.

  I blinked and lowered my duffel. My feet made crunching noises on the white marble tiles that led down the entry hall. I could see that the hall made a tee about ten paces in, and that going right or left would take you into big dark rooms that hadn’t seen direct sun or a good dusting since the Armistice. Straight ahead, past the tee, the hall opened into a big tile-floored ballroom, and wide, curving oak-railed stairs rose out of the ballroom and wound its way to parts unknown.

  There were stained-glass windows, too, somewhere high out of sight from the ballroom. I couldn’t see them from where I stood, but I could see the splatter of rainbows they cast on the white marble floor.

  “You have a beautiful home,” I said.

  “It was, once,” said the widow. Then she frowned. “Jefrey should have been here to see to your luggage,” she said, keeping her eyes off my battered Army duffel bag.

  “Don’t bother,” I said. “I’ll manage.”

  The widow cocked her head, listening, I suppose, for Jefrey’s footfalls on the tiles. I listened too, but if Jefrey or anyone else was in the house they were sock-foot and tip-toe.

  I picked up the bag. “If you’ll point me to my room,” I said, “I’ll go and stow my gear. We can catch up with Jefrey later.”

  The widow sighed. “You’ll be on the second floor,” she said, turning and marching toward the staircase. “You’ll be sharing the floor with Jefrey, but you will of course have rooms to yourself.”

  “That’s fine,” I said, trotting to catch up. The hall was wide enough to ride four abreast, so I had no trouble sidling up beside the widow. “Before the rest of the crew shows, though, we’d better have a talk,” I said. “For starters—are you sure you want it known what I’m here to do?”

  The widow didn’t slow. “I will not engage in deceit in my own house,” she said. “Those who have seen Ebed know I am right. Those who have not soon will.” She gave me a hard sideways look, then turned away and shook her head.

  “You tell them who you are and what you came to do,” she said. “And you ask them what you will. If they want to stay, they’ll answer, or I’ll see them gone by sundown.”

  We’d reached the foot of the stairs. I put my right hand on the rail, and gazed out at the ballroom and its acres and acres of empty white tiles. The stained-glass windows were set high on the east and west walls; each bore scenes of knights and dragons, in which the knights seemed to usually have the upper hand. The room smelled faintly of lilacs.

  “We had a dance here, about the time you were born,” said the widow. “Not since.”

  “Pity,” I said.

  A door banged shut, and hurried footsteps made clattering echoes in the hall.

  “Lady Merlat,” said a breathless voice. “Pardon, but the dogs…”

  A small, white-haired man in a too-large black butler’s coat trotted into the ballroom, saw me, and stopped. His eyes went narrow, and the set of his thin, wrinkled face turned clamp-jawed and frowning.

  “You’re him,” he said without cheer.

  “I’m him,” I agreed. “You must be Jefrey.”

  The tails of his coat reached well past his knees, and he’d rolled up the sleeves so they wouldn’t leave the tips of his fingers poking out. Jefrey was slim, probably sixty or sixty-five. He wore his thin ashen hair in an Army straight-cut that reminded me instantly of the Sarge.

  I held out my hand to shake his, but Jefrey grunted and turned his gaze toward the widow.

  “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but I don’t like this.”

  The widow blanched. “I did not ask your opinion,” she snapped.

  “You didn’t,” said Jefrey. “But after twenty-eight years I reckon you’ll hear it anyway. That man is here to take your money, and if you get anything in return it’ll be heartache and missing jewelry, and that’s a fact.”

  The widow bit back a reply, turned to me and then started back up the stairs without a word. I shrugged at Jefrey and followed, and after a moment he came stomping up behind us.

  “What do you know about revenants, Lady?” I asked.

  Jefrey made a strangled choking sound. The widow didn’t flinch.

  “The Church claims revenants don’t exist,” she said. “And yet they offer exorcism, in what two priests described to me as ‘extreme circumstances’.”

  Jefrey snorted. “What means they’ll do most anything if the price is right,” he said. I almost forgave him then and there for not taking my luggage.

  “Our mutual acquaintance has another view of revenants,” I said. “She claims they come back to take revenge on their killers.”

  I was half-turned and eyeing Jefrey when I said it. I wasn’t sure if he’d cuss or jump or swing; I was surprised when he just shook his head and glanced at the widow.

  “Is that what you believe, goodman Markhat?” she said.

  “I don’t believe at all,” I answered. “And I won’t, until I’ve seen.”

  Jefrey looked back at me, and some of the hostility left his face. “Thought you was here to bag a spook,” he said. “Thought some old soothsayer from the Narrows sent you.”

  “I’m just here to find out who’s been tramping around Lady Merlat’s yard,” I said. “That’s all. Who, and why.”

  “For sixty-five jerks a day,” muttered Jefrey. The Lady Merlat spun her head around, and her eyes blazed.

  “That is enough,” she said, and it echoed. “No more!”

  We’d reached the top of the stairs. The house sprawled off in three directions—one lit by dusty windows, two as dark as tombs.

  I put my bag down to take a breath, and Jefrey snatched it up. “I’ll take him to his rooms,” he said. “Then we’d better see to the kitchen, Lady,” he said. “Briss and Envey quit.”

  The Lady closed her eyes and took a breath. “I’ll wait for you here,” she said. “Goodman Markhat. Settle in, then find us in the kitchen. Down the stairs, take the right-hand hall, follow the sounds.”

  I nodded. “Gladly,” I said. I started to ask if House Merlat had entertained walking corpses in the yard last night, but I decided it could wait.

  Jefrey sped off down one of the dark halls. I followed, leaving the widow to twist her hanky and stare down at the empty ballroom. I hoped she was remembering dances and not funerals, but I had my doubts.

  Jefrey halted at a big black oak door. “In here,” he gruffed as he shoved the door open. My duffel hit the floor. He stepped aside, and I poked my head in and peeped around.

  “Nice,” I said after a whistle. “But where’s the jewelry?”

  I was wasting my breath. Jefrey was stomping away, his boot-heels loud on the polished oak-plank floor. I shoved my duffel inside and closed the door behind me.

  The bed was big and soft, and the room, once all eight windows were open, was cool and bright and airy. I lay back on t
he bed for a full ten minutes, just soaking up the gentle sounds of birdsongs and wind and far-off carriage wheels.

  “It’s good to be rich,” I said. And then I picked myself up and left to find the kitchen and see how many well-dressed skeletons House Merlat had hanging in its closets.

  At the stairs, I heard voices, wafting down from above. Two men spoke, their voices hushed, their words fast and running over those of the other—brothers, no doubt, rehashing an old argument more by rote than passion.

  And then came laughter—a woman’s laughter, loud and shrill and humorless. Up until that moment, I’d set foot upon the upward stairs, intending to stroll right up and introduce myself to the Merlat children. But something in that laugh made cat-paws down my spine, and I turned to the downward stairs instead and clambered toward the kitchen. I’d meet the children soon enough, I told myself, and it might be best if Mama was there to swat their behinds and keep them mindful of their manners.

  I was halfway down the stairs when a commotion broke out below. I heard Jefrey bellowing, and another man shouting, and I charged off the stairs and onto the polished marble floor just in time to see Jefrey deliver a solid blow with a shiny black walking stick to someone standing outside.

  More bellowing. Jefrey raised his stick again, but the door slammed into him so hard it took him back a pair of steps. He dropped his stick to put both hands on the door and push.

  The door pushed back. Jefrey grunted and cussed and heaved, but went steadily back, his boots leaving long black marks on the tiles as they slid.

  I charged at the door, right shoulder first, hit it hard and kept going. Jefrey scrambled for footing but found it, and between us we slammed the door shut. Jefrey threw the lock-bolt and sagged down on all fours on the tile.

  “Didn’t think they came out in daylight,” I said, puffing a bit too, just out of friendly consideration.

  “Ain’t no rev’nant,” gasped Jefrey.

  Outside, a beefy fist began to pound, and then Jefrey and I heard the barking and snarling that meant the Merlat dogs were loosed at last.

  The pounding stopped. Jefrey sprang to the thick leaded glass panel beside the door and squinted out into the yard. “Get ’em, boys!” he shouted. “Tear ’em up!”