“Little dirty motherFUCKER,” Jake said. He kicked the boy again for good measure. Jimmy Long was barely moving.
“He’s done,” Frank said. “Let’s go, R—”
It took but a glance to shut him up.
Ray nudged the boy with the bat. The big Sioux stirred.
And then, as the night screamed and no one heard, Ray Bishop beat him, to the very edge of his life.
~
Frank Wright and Jake Maxwell didn’t know much. But they had known enough to fade away; they had slipped back, nearly in step, with every agonizing blow. They stood in the shadows now, cowering, nothing more than silent witnesses.
Ray Bishop knelt beside the boy. His battered left eye was swollen shut. Little semblance of a nose remained. Blood dribbled from his ears. So much blood.
Ray spoke softly, like a caring father might comfort a child after a bad dream.
“That was for my little girl.”
He told him how he had killed his father; whispered the dark secret in the boy’s ear. How it was he could have left him alive … how he’d laughed when he’d struck the match.
Jimmy Long moaned. He dragged himself as he clawed for the knife, his attempt feeble and pathetic. Ray Bishop snatched it up and threw it into the woods. He made his way round the back of his pickup and tossed the bloodied bat inside. His foot was aching like a bastard. Oh, yeah. The kid was gonna pay.
“Let’s get outta here,” Frank Wright said. “Jesus.”
They couldn’t climb fast enough into the pickup. Jake wedged himself in, and Frank followed. He closed his door, as quietly as he could. As if God Himself was listening.
“What’s he doin’?” he whispered. “Fuck, what’s he doin’?” His nose began to bleed, a few drops at first, then a river. “Shit. Shit.”
Jake Maxwell shook his head in disbelief. “Oh, Christ … Christ, no.”
Ray Bishop’s eyes were dark black coins. He hobbled past the side window and stood over the boy. The kid was yesterday’s breakfast, but he was still alive, and that was good. He wanted to do this right. The kid owed. The sins of the father.
He stroked his scar.
And drew out his switchblade.
~ 28
Kain could not drive the boy from his mind. He could see him now, as if he were right there in front of him. Hopping about like a fool, leading the Tribe in one of his crazed rain dances. In fact, the kid had done just that for Big Al’s benefit, just hours before he disappeared; vanished, like a ghost. That had been a week ago, an eternity now. The sad thing was, aside from the relative few who had come to know Jimmy Long, no one seemed to care. No one was really looking. The police had found broken glass and some twisted metal along the old road to Spirit Lake, but not much else (there were some curious tire tracks and some footprints, but nothing conclusive, otherwise), and the truth of it was, they had barely spent an hour riding up there and walking about. The sole officer they’d sent, Officer Berridge, the same narrow-minded Stiff who had investigated the explosion of Lynn’s pickup, had filed his obligatory report, and was quite candid about the situation when the long-haired drifter had pressed him: Mister, people just up and go all the time—for whatever their reasons—now stop wasting my time. Big Al had made the trip with him not three days ago, all the way to Spirit, and all they found, apart from what the smartass cop had reported, was Tommy Long’s burned-out pickup. Not a soul around the lake had seen Jimmy, not the half-dozen residents they’d talked to, at least. He hadn’t known the boy very long, but if there was one thing he did know (and Big Al would set anyone straight on this point), it was that when it came to work, Jimmy Long was always the first one in, and the last one to go home. The kid hadn’t missed a day’s work in three summers, let alone a week. No, he couldn’t get the kid out of his mind, all right; no matter how hard he tried to ignore it, he kept reeling at that beaten and bloodied face he had seen in his vision. He tried to convince himself he was wrong, that it just couldn’t be, but he knew better. The kid was out there somewhere, very likely dead … and at the hand of Ray Bishop, no less. He held no proof, of course, but he was as certain of that as the next sunrise. Lynn had been unable to discuss it at any length, too fearful of the truth; she had tried her best to be strong, but her eyes betrayed her. Even Big Al had been unable to mask his suspicions beneath that pleasant down-home exterior.
His head ached. The brutal heat exacerbated his condition, but he was handling it. He wiped the sweat from his brow and stared blankly into the outfield from his seat in the stands. The Tigers were up by the skin of their teeth, 9–8. The Mason City coach had called time, was prepping his crew for their last at-bat, in this, the final game of the district finals. Sitting close on his left, Lynn offered a small smile as she tugged at his arm. Even now she could summon the brave face. He envied her.
“Hey, cowboy. They’re up.”
He nodded. Straightened a little.
“You okay?”
“Sure.” But she knew.
“I wish Lee was here,” she said.
“Me too.”
“This doesn’t seem right somehow,” she admitted, regarding the young pitcher. The boy was standing just off the mound, talking with the shortstop.
“I know,” he said. “But he’s done a great job.”
“Helluva job,” Big Al said, joining them. He was managing quite well under his own steam, having finally left his cane in the closet. He had two mustard-drowned hot dogs balanced precariously in his left hand, a Coke in the right. He took up his seat beside Kain and set one of his hot dogs on his lap. “He can thank you for that, Kain. Everyone here oughta thank you … if this all turns out right, that is.” He winked.
“Two more?” Lynn said. “You know you shouldn’t, Dad.”
“I’m hungry,” Big Al said, and he took a big bite. He chewed a moment, swallowed the mouthful, then turned to his daughter as he licked some mustard from his top lip. “Don’t you go tellin’ your mother, darlin’.”
They stirred as the Tigers reliever—Number 23—took to the mound. Ryan had wanted to come back, but not this way, and only when Kain had taken him aside and had asked him to do it, to win it for Jimmy, had he agreed. Coach Plummer had made a formal request to the league, and given the extenuating circumstances, had been given the green light to allow Ryan to rejoin the team. A hastily set up meeting to show the man what the boy could do had sealed the deal. But looking at him now, standing there in that uniform, it was more than a little unsettling. Things were happening just as Kain had seen, and he had never felt so powerless to stop them.
“I’ve got goosebumps,” Lynn said. “I can’t take this.”
The umpire yelled Play ball, and the pitcher and the infield settled in. The batter, a hulking left-handed hitter, stepped up to the plate. He offered the hurler a pair of rigid swings. The first pitch was fouled behind him, the second fouled past Rich Saunders at first. Two balls later, the batter grounded one past a diving Ben Caldwell and made his way to first. Small pockets of the crowd cheered, but the hometown boos drowned them out quickly.
Ryan Bishop kicked limply at the dirt.
Take it slow, Kain thought. Just relax, Ryan.
As if hearing every word, the pitcher lifted the brim of his hat and dug in. He waited for the next batter, and when the Madness shortstop came to the plate, he waited for the sign from his catcher, only to wave it off with a subtle shake of his head. He took the next one and fired a small rocket. The batter swung and missed.
The next pitch was a dandy, smooth and true, as fine a pitch as Kain had taught the boy. It zipped past the swinging shortstop and fell into the catcher’s mitt with a solid phoooomp.
“Steeeeerike!” the animated umpire yelled, much to the delight of the crowd.
“Throwin’ smoke,” Big Al said.
Ryan caught the ball and held it in his glove. Kain watched him. No telltale rolling of the ball; no beating himself up. Good.
The catcher signaled, and the pitcher deli
vered. The batter checked his swing. Just outside.
The next pitch came and went … right over Pete Cleavely’s head. The second baseman had made a valiant leap for it, but the ball sailed just out of reach and into the outfield. The crowd burst to its feet as the runner on first rounded second and dashed for third. Dave Metcalf, the Tigers center fielder, scooped up the ball on the run and sailed it toward third. The runner dove, arms leading, into Pete’s older brother Gregg, toppling him just as the third baseman snatched the ball. Dust whipped up, and the third-base umpire splayed his arms wide.
“SAFE! SAFE!”
The partisan crowd booed vehemently, but quickly accepted the call and returned to their seats. Big Al had dropped one of his hot dogs, but was happily mowing down the last one, chasing it with his soft drink.
“Cripes,” he said, wiping his lips. “This is a bugger on the ol’ ticker.”
“No outs,” Lynn said worriedly.
“Pray for a double play,” Kain said. “It’s all we’ve got—” His voice trailed off.
“What is it?” Lynn said, and then she saw. “Oh, no.”
Coach Plummer had raised his hands in the dreaded T and was ambling out to the mound. He talked things over with his reliever (he was doing most of the talking, the pitcher nodding, mostly), and just when you thought the man might yank him, he put up a hand and tapped the boy on the shoulder, in a way that spoke only of confidence. He simply nodded then, smiled, and left the field.
Lynn Bishop breathed a sigh of relief. So did Kain and Big Al.
Ryan straightened. He kicked up the dirt just a bit, enough to dig himself in. He set his ball cap just so.
The batter came to the plate, and Ryan delivered. The batter cracked a solid grounder to short, and Ben Caldwell, ever the cat, snagged it. He tagged the runner on second (the kid had pegged him to miss the catch, had left his base a tad too early) and fired the ball to first for the double. The runner at third was halfway to scoring the tying run, but Rich Saunders owned him, running down the first-base line toward home. The runner lost his nerve and backed up, then quickly dashed back to third.
The crowd erupted at the fine play of the shortstop, but their celebrations quickly soured when Number 13 took the batter’s box. The bruiser seemed larger than life suddenly; he held swagger. His eyes were dark stones. William Jones stepped up to the plate, set his footing … and then raised a hand and backed off. He tightened his batting gloves. Adjusted his helmet. Tapped the sides of his shoes with his bat.
“Come on, Jones,” someone yelled. It came from high up in the stands. “You stink!”
“Attaboy,” Jones’ father shouted. He waved his red ball cap. “Attaboy!”
“What a show-off,” Lynn said.
“This kid’s dangerous,” Big Al said. “He hits a ton.”
We’ll see, Kain thought. We’ll see.
The pitcher kept his head up. Stared right at the batter. Never flinched.
The umpire told the batter to hurry up. Jones stepped up. He made a last-second adjustment, waggled a bit, then gave the pitcher a single swing.
Ryan waited for the sign from his catcher. Rudy Burridge was giving fastball, fastball, fastball. He kept shaking it off.
“What’s he doing?” Lynn said.
Kain looked to the Tigers bench. Coach Plummer was watching his reliever with a fine eye. Kain turned back to the mound.
“He knows what he’s doing.”
“Cripes, I hope so.”
“Don’t worry … he’ll be fine.”
The catcher finally capitulated, and the pitcher fell into his delivery. It was smooth and graceful, a solid pitch. And when William Jones stepped into it, swinging at the breaking-ball and missing it wildly, the stands erupted.
“Steeeeerike!”
Lynn went into a fit with the rest of the crowd, leaping to her feet. “Way to go, Ryan!”
“Easy, darlin’,” Big Al said, sipping his Coke. She sat back down, smiling.
Usually unshakable as granite, William Jones grunted. He spat in the dirt. He made his usual Hollywood moves, adjusting this, tapping that. He stepped back into the batter’s box. He pitched the pitcher a rather nasty glare, then set him straight with a single swing that said, I dare you, kid.
The kid dared.
He shook off his catcher again, but this time it took just the once. Rudy Burridge gave him the sign.
Ryan slipped into his wind-up and let fly. The ball sailed straight toward the plate, and just as the behemoth with the big bat and the bigger attitude stepped into it, the ball broke and slipped past the bat. Phoooomp. Steeeeerike.
Jones nearly fell over, swinging so hard. He lost his footing and struggled as he regained his balance. He looked behind him, saw the catcher holding the ball—you could see Rudy Burridge grinning behind the mask, even from the stands—and then he whipped round and glared at the mound. He thrust up the bat like a club, taunting Number 23.
The cheers quickly soured to boos.
“Big dope can’t hit a curveball,” Big Al chuckled.
“Not a chance,” Kain agreed, raising his voice to compete with the boisterous fans. “Had a little chat with Coach Plummer a while back. About the time I was teaching Ryan, if I remember.” He winked with a knowing grin, and the big farmer laughed.
The din subsided as the pitcher took the throw from the catcher. Ryan adjusted the brim of his cap. Kept his eyes glued to the batter.
The Madness coach snapped at Jones, and the big bruiser backed off, calling time. The boo-birds came out. Jones stood there defiantly, brooding, and then, only when the umpire prodded him, took up his stance. He cast the pitcher that cocky single swing, drew the bat back … and delivered the Swirl.
“I can’t look,” Lynn said, covering her eyes. She slid her fingers open, just enough to see.
Ryan stepped up and set himself into position. The sign came quickly from his catcher, and like a man on a mission, he delivered the perfect pitch.
The big bruiser had lost all grace in his naturally gifted swing, flailing wildly at the breaker. Jones spun out and slipped to the ground unceremoniously. He hit the dirt on his side and rolled onto his back, his right ankle twisted. He cried out in anguish, but the roar of the crowd, hearing that final pop from the catcher’s mitt and that hammy Steeeeerike! that sent them into bedlam, drowned him out. The Tigers bench went wild, second- and third-stringers leaping to their feet. Ben Caldwell was jumping up and down like a fool, hammering a fist in the air, screaming his happy head off. The fielders bolted to the mound from all directions, swarming their hero; a few of their caps blew off in their celebration. Coach Plummer, despite his less-than-nimble body, joined the fray, his flood pants rising higher and higher with each quick step of his chubby legs. The crowd stormed the field cheering and hollering, running wildly toward the ballplayers, a few of them tripping over themselves. The players along the Madness bench sat subdued and dejected, most of them with their heads in their hands. None of them went to console their fallen leader, not even their coach. The man in the red ball cap headed for the parking lot in disgust.
Despite the bedlam, all Kain could think about—besides the relentless throbbing in his brain—was Jimmy Long. His heart sank. Still, he followed Lynn gamely down to the field. They made their way through the thick sea of bodies, Big Al doing all he could to keep up and managing pretty well. When they finally reached the mound, they saw Ryan rising above them, sailing on a sea of hands. No longer was he that gangly, uncertain boy filled with anger and distrust: he was beaming, he was laughing, he was grinning and bursting—the real Ryan Bishop, for what was, most certainly, the very first time in his life. He was high-fiving Ben when a small hand poked up and snatched his ball cap. He turned quickly, saw his mother wearing it, and smiled wider; saw his grandfather and let out a triumphant woo-hoo as he beat a fist into the air. Someone set off some firecrackers and the din grew, but above it all, someone called out Ryan, and when the young man turned to its source, when he sa
w just who it was that had said it, his eyes lit up … and then he reached down, man to man, and took Kain Richards’ hand.
~ 29
Kain was still playing with his scrambled eggs when they heard the knock at the front door. Lynn, who had been quite preoccupied with her own thoughts this morning, looked up with unease. Their conversation had been minimal, more akin to that of pleasant strangers; she had been too polite to press him, he too disconcerted to discuss his post-game meltdown. She got up to greet her father—he heard her kiss him on the cheek—and the big farmer followed her into the kitchen. He stood in the doorway, his morning paper tucked neatly under his arm.
“Beaks?”
“Out back,” she said. “Did I hear thunder?”
“Sure did,” the farmer said. “Been watchin’ those clouds since I got up. Cripes, I’d take a single drop right about now.”
“How you feelin’, old-timer?”
“I should be asking you that, son.”
“Bit of a headache,” Kain said, and that was the truth. “I’ll hitch a ride back if that’s okay.”
Lynn gave him a look.
“Well … Nate could use a hand,” Big Al said. “You sure you’re up to it? You look a little ragged.”
“I’m fine … really.”
Lynn gave him another look.
Big Al took up a chair.
“You want something, Dad? Eggs?”
“Maybe some juice, thanks.”
She fixed him a glass with some ice and sat down.
“Any word?” Kain asked.
“Not a peep,” Big Al said. “Just got off the blower with that idiot, Berridge. Told me to stop calling.”
“My God,” Lynn said. “They don’t even care about that boy. This whole thing makes me sick. And Lee, she … I just don’t understand any of this.”
Big Al calmed her with a fatherly glance, yet his usual steadiness seemed to falter. He placed his paper on the table. He paused, then looked to the drifter soberly. “This might not be the right time,” he said. “Not with Jimmy and all. Fact is … you need to see this, son.”
Velvet Rain - A Dark Thriller Page 39