Velvet Rain - A Dark Thriller

by David C. Cassidy

  The ground settled as the last of the freight cars rambled by, the train westward bound, and he followed its fading plume along tracks that seemed to unfold forever. He had found this perfectly lazy spot outside of town, the view broad and inspiring, and the glorious sunrise took his breath away. A man could spread his wings here, he thought, and quickly chastised himself. What was he thinking? He could linger three weeks, possibly four, make some money and move on. His was the way of the drifter now. The way of the runner.

  Would the way always be? Would the chase ever end?

  He knew the answer; as clearly as scars in the mirror.

  It would end when Brikker ended it.

  The train blared its horn twice in the distance, and this mild interruption settled him. He checked the time. He had better get a move on. He had called Big Al from the Roadside last night, had asked if it would be all right if he came in late. No problem. He drove into town and managed to make himself presentable in the diner’s washroom, had poached eggs and rye toast for breakfast, some good strong coffee, and by nine-fifteen was in the lobby on the pay phone, Brikker the furthest thing from his mind, dialing the number on the back of last night’s check.

  ~ 9

  A woman answered on the fifth ring, and he recognized the voice immediately. He had expected the waitress, true, but she hadn’t actually said that the number she’d given was her own. He was glad it was. She had the perfect operator’s voice, soft and silky, and he was also glad she sounded all right. They talked a few minutes, and the directions she gave needed no writing down. She lived only ten minutes from the diner, on a farm just out of town.

  He passed a barn badly in need of upkeep as he made his way up the long drive. He parked face to face with an olive pickup, one that had seen better days; its front bumper was dented badly in the middle, as if it had struck a tree. It had a small crack in the windshield.

  He got out. The farmhouse, a large affair of two floors with big bright windows, offered an awninged veranda with a swing for two. Despite its fade and peeling white paint, it was welcoming. Brilliant flowers hung above the railing and all along it, a blur of whites and reds, alive with the sweetness of rose. Wildflower ran about the place in sweeping pastels, and down in the dry gully there, a grand oak stood among the flora, a bald tire hanging from its strongest arm. A crow burst from the tree and circled wide before it perched itself on the peak of the decrepit outbuilding. It cawed twice in quite the raucous, as if to certain the visitor it knew it was watching.

  A ruckus made him turn. A German shepherd bolted from behind the barn, beelining for the road. Four wild cats hounded it, two of them black, one blindingly white in the sun with a patch of black on its tail, the last an orange tabby. The dog broke stride, cut a sharp left, and the cats veered with it, gaining rapidly. Just as it was about to break again, it dug in hard with its huge paws and stopped short. The black cats crashed into its hind legs like stooges.

  The big beast took stock of the intruder. It lowered its head and growled. The cats got their backs up; the tabby bared tiny fangs and hissed.

  He stepped back slowly. Now all the cats were making the sounds of snakes. The dog made a small move toward him and backed off. Its growl turned meaty.

  He swung round and slung himself on the bed of the truck. The animal came at him with more brass kahunas than it had first shown, drawing so close he couldn’t possibly climb down and reach the cab. It was old, its black-brown coat deeply grayed, but there was life in its old legs, and its old choppers. Now it was circling in fits, barking up a storm.

  “Beakers! NO.”

  Lynn Bishop stood at the steps, and despite the odd circumstance, he couldn’t help but notice how striking she was in her simple summer dress. She held an anxious face as she hurried down. She stared at the cats, stunned. They wouldn’t stop hissing; they looked like crazed fanged puffballs. She shooed them off with a loud clap, and the felines scattered like a gang of bad-asses running away from a kid they were beating up on, after the kid’s bigger brother has just shown up.

  She shouted the dog’s name again. It didn’t heed, so she snared it by the collar and struggled to rein it in. It fought fiercely, digging in to escape, but when she scolded it—an effort that seemed quite foreign to her—its temper seemed to evaporate; it let out a whimper and cowered behind her. She scolded it again, then sent it off with a firm point of her hand and a sound GO. The animal served up a pathetic whine, then lumbered up on the deck and flopped meekly in a corner. As if in shame, it buried its head in its paws.

  “What’s gotten into you?”

  She shook her head as she turned about, and with a small chuckle she seemed genuinely embarrassed of, looked up and said, “Are you okay?”

  Kain, who by now was perched on top of the cab, nodded. Although suddenly he felt like the perfect idiot.

  “I think you can come down,” she said. “Honestly, I’ve never seen him go off like that. And those cats … that was a little strange.” She seemed content to shrug it off.

  “First time for everything,” he said, but he knew. Dog or cat, pig or rat—pretty much any beastie with four legs and a tail—didn’t take to souls with the Turn. They knew.

  To them, it was as if he were some kind of ghost. He had to laugh at that given his new nickname, but didn’t it fit, suddenly? He hadn’t had a pet since he was ten, hadn’t been able to step inside a zoo since … since the year he discovered what he was. The year he became a ghost. And with his life now, drifting from place to place, wandering through dead-end relationships, he felt like one. A phantom in want of a heart.

  He climbed down.

  “I’m really sorry,” she said.

  “Four cats and a dog. A real animal lover, huh?”

  “What can I say? A sucker for strays. Seven cats.”

  “Do they all take after him like that?”

  “Every last one. He’s terrified of them. Big suck.”

  “Dog’s gotta get some backbone.”

  “This is the first I’ve seen of it.”

  The shepherd perked up as if it understood. It let out a muted growl, but slipped down and fell silent at its master’s displeasure.

  “So … now that you know the place comes with a top-notch guard dog, care to see where you’d be staying?”

  “No time like the present.”

  She led him across the expansive yard to a small guesthouse, it too weathered its share of years, already making excuses for its shoddy shape. She had been hoping to paint it before someone moved in, she said, the house was next, and that barn, well, that rickety old thing would just have to wait. And just as she was about to tell him how it didn’t look like much, he said it was perfect.

  “Perfect? Hardly. I almost didn’t give you my number last night. It’s so cramped.”

  “If it’s got a bed, it’s plenty big enough.”

  “The windows are shot.” The one near the door was a spider’s web, and the side window, boarded up from the inside, had a thick crack that ran a crooked diagonal from one corner to the next. “And the bed creaks—”

  “Isn’t this the part where you’re supposed to be selling me on it?”

  “It’s not exactly the Ritz.”

  Kain circled it and stopped on the far side. All in all it stood in passable shape, although countless black marks blemished the wall on this side, most of them in and around a slightly misshapen rectangle of faded red paint. A large number weren’t even close to the outline. He looked behind him and discovered a small dirt mound in the weedy grass perhaps sixty feet away.

  “You wouldn’t have a son named Ryan, would you?”

  She regarded him quizzically.

  “I’ve seen him pitch,” he said. “By the river.”

  “He’ll only practice when you’re sleeping.”

  “I’ll plug my ears with cotton.”

  She held back a laugh, then burst; he joined her. Still, despite himself, he had to wonder how her son would take this. They hadn’t exac
tly hit it off.

  “Seriously,” she said, still grinning. “He won’t be using it, not once it’s rented. But I understand if you don’t want it. I sure wouldn’t.”

  “Forget about your son’s pitching. You really gotta work on yours.”

  She shrugged.

  He stood back and took it all in at once. He seemed to be going over something in his head, and then he cleared his throat as if preparing to make some grand speech. He raised his arms, waving them about like a crazed game show host.

  “Now here’s a dandy,” he started, adding an over-the-top British accent to his theatrics. “Quaint one-bedroom farmhouse … indoor plumbing?—indoor plumbing, complete with bed and bath, all within arm’s reach, perfect for small child—”

  She started to laugh again.

  “—close to livestock, hissing cats and growling dogs, wide-open spaces—”

  “Stop!”

  “—easily converted to batter’s box, comes complete with bucket of baseballs—”

  She was holding her gut now.

  “—once owned by the Queen herself—”

  “Stop!”

  “—and offers a breathtaking view.” He looked right at her then, and Lynn Bishop reddened.

  “You’re crazy,” she said, and she blushed again. It was remarkable how flattering it was on her.

  “It’s perfect, believe me.”

  “You haven’t even looked inside. The roof could be falling in for all you know.”

  “If anything needs fixing, I can fix it.” He gave the barn a once-over, and then he turned to her home. It could use a new face. “And I’m pretty handy with a paintbrush.”

  She grew a wee smile that was a sin in its sweetness, and that first glimpse he’d had of her in the diner, that lithe and sexy look, stirred him. The color in her skin deepened. And suddenly, he could smell delicious perfume on her.

  “Are you sure about this?”

  He looked past her, far beyond the cornfields. The Hembruff stead was perhaps a mile as the crow flies, two by a leisurely walk roadside. This couldn’t be more perfect.

  “I’m working up there.”

  “The Hembruff place? Well, there you go.” She paused a second. “The Missus puts out quite a spread.”

  “That she does.”

  “A little strict with the drinks, though.” Lynn raised a hand with two fingers in a V. Two beers.

  He nodded. “House rules are house rules.”

  “Does Big Al still hide beer in that old barrel of his? He doesn’t think anyone knows.”

  “I take it you’ve worked for him.”

  “Well … it’s been a while.” Suddenly she held a truly impish grin. “So how are Mom and Dad?”

  “… Mom and Dad.”

  It must have been all over his face. They were both adults, but he couldn’t help but feel like some high school kid trying to pull one over on the girlfriend’s parents. There was nothing going on between them—and there wouldn’t be—but bunking at the boss’s daughter’s place didn’t seem like such a good idea. And even if Allan Hembruff didn’t have a problem with it, dollars to donuts Georgia Hembruff would.

  “She’ll put up a fuss,” she said, as if reading his mind. “Mom still thinks I’m sixteen, for crying out loud. I mean, after Ray … you’re not worried, are you?”

  He stumbled a little. “I don’t want to cause any trouble. They’re good people.”

  “The best. But Dad’ll be happy I finally rented this old shack. He’s been helping with the bills, but I know I’ve been a drain. Besides, he must like you a whole lot.”

  His face fell blank.

  “Gave you the keys to his truck, didn’t he?”

  Of course. She knew all along.

  “Ma?”

  Lee-Anne Bishop was seventeen, her mother’s daughter in every nuance; the proverbial spitting image. She was still half asleep as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Barefoot at the steps, she wore pink pajamas with long sleeves. Kain couldn’t help but think how hot the girl must be. It must have been eighty-five degrees. Maybe ninety.

  “I heard Beaks,” she said. “Everything okay?”

  “Uh huh. You want some breakfast? I’ll fix you some if you want.”

  “Thanks, Ma.”

  The girl scarcely acknowledged the stranger, offering a polite Hi in a frail voice. Kain returned a small wave, and she drifted inside with the dog.

  “She’s got her mother’s looks.”

  “I’ll take that as—” Lynn stopped herself. “Do you realize I don’t even know your name?”

  “Kain. Kain Richards.”

  “Cain with a C? Or Kane with a K?”

  “K.” And then he spelled it out.

  “Lynn Bishop. But I guess you already knew that.”

  She offered a hand, and he shook it.

  “And you’ve met Beaks, of course. And Lee-Anne.”

  “And the cats. Most of them, anyway.”

  She was about to add something, but didn’t.

  “Something wrong?”

  “It’s just that … well, you’ve met Ray, too.”

  “Ray … Ray who?”

  She smiled with him then, but only a little. He couldn’t imagine anyone smiling much over Ray Bishop.

  “… I, uh … I should be getting in to work.”

  “Yes … yes.” She seemed pleased to move on, motioning to the ramshackle guesthouse. “Last chance to back out.”

  “Sold.”

  They shook again.

  “I’ll leave it unlocked and the key on the table.”

  He climbed in behind the wheel and started the engine. He was already backing up when he set his foot on the brake. Clearly she had something more on her mind.

  “I just wanted to thank you,” she said, her eyes brightening. “For yesterday.”

  The drifter nodded. He backed the truck around, and then, watching her take the steps in the rear-view, headed off to work. He didn’t know he was smiling.

  ~ 10

  The day passed quickly. By noon he’d driven his first tractor, a John Deere 4010 with Syncro-Range transmission, and by one-thirty he’d had his first tractor accident, steering into a fence to avoid a squirrel that had scampered across his path. That had been it for the Great Tractor Experiment, at least for the day, and he had finished his shift repairing the damage with Nate Russell and Mike Bedard. He’d been the butt of their jokes, most about his advanced age and how anyone over eighty shouldn’t be allowed to drive. Later, he supped with them and the rest of the Tribe, enduring Nate’s melodramatic recollection of the mishap; in Nate’s version (his arms splayed four feet wide), the squirrel had been This big, I tell ya, and the Little Ghost just had to swerve or he mighta been killed. After the laughter, Kain thanked Georgia for the fine meal, tasked his limit with Big Al on the deck (the man slipped him a third brewski, this one tucked inside the barrel), and then decided to head out. He was just about to leave when the man asked if he’d found a place to stay. Kain simply came out with it.

  “Woulda told you about it myself,” Big Al told him, much to his relief. “But Georgia … well, she’s just Georgia.”

  “I can find another place. It’s no problem.”

  “Cripes, no. That woman’ll just have to get on side. Fact is, there’s bigger fish here.” The farmer drank and wiped the suds from his lips. His usual laid-back demeanor seemed to dissolve. “We worry about Lynn. She’s just a holler away, but she’s still our little girl, you know?”

  “I understand.”

  Big Al was downcast. “She tell you about Raymond?”

  “She mentioned him.”

  “Had their troubles … I’ll leave it at that. But I don’t trust that man, not as far as I could throw his sorry ass. I hope you never have to cross paths with him.”

  The farmer slipped into silence. His old eyes were troubled, as if he were recalling some black memory he had tried desperately to forget. The lines in his sunbaked skin deepened. He paused, uncertai
n, and then he met Kain squarely, adding what the drifter already knew.

  “Ray Bishop’s dangerous … crazy dangerous.”

  The man looked like he wanted to go on, as if needing to push some crushing dead weight from his chest. But something stopped him. He wore that same unmistakable worry as that guy in the diner—the old-timer who thought Kennedy an idiot—when Ray Bishop had brushed up against him. Except with this man, it ran far deeper. He was afraid. Afraid for his daughter. Afraid for anyone in Ray Bishop’s path. Crazy dangerous meant exactly what it evoked. Men like Ray Bishop (a Stiff if ever there was one, for from him he had read not a crackle of that infuriating static; and even if he had, even if the static could be trusted, he would have had his doubts, for the man seemed as sharp as cue ball) were walking grenades just waiting to go off. And when they blew, look out. Someone always got burned by the shrapnel. He wanted to confess what had happened at the diner, but that was Lynn Bishop’s burden to bear, ultimately her decision. If she wanted her parents to know, she’d tell them … and if she didn’t, he understood why.

  He left the man with his beer and his thoughts.

  Twenty minutes passed on the way to Lynn’s farm, the walk pleasant, and when he arrived twilight had fallen. He moved cautiously up the drive so as not to frighten the shepherd should it lie in wait, and as he reached the guesthouse he stopped cold as a cat surprised him. It hissed before skittering into the darkness.

  The pickup wasn’t there. The porch light was on, and a lamp glowed in an upstairs window. Lynn’s daughter was there, curled up in a chair reading a book. She read for a spell and then her room went dark.

  The door was stiff, and he had to play it to get it open. He found the light switch, but the overhead bulb was out; the lamp beside the bed worked. There was a narrow closet, a small dresser, and a table with two folding chairs tucked neatly inside its legs. Fridge and woodstove. Cupboard and sink. The ceiling didn’t appear to have any fatal flaws, although there was some mild water damage in one corner. He spotted the key and slipped it in the breast pocket of his jacket.