Velvet Rain - A Dark Thriller

by David C. Cassidy

  She sipped her hot drink, glancing again at the nondescript package on the coffee table. It had come only yesterday, just as she was leaving for work. Just hours before the storm.

  The storm—

  She had not thought of it—or that night—for so long. She had tried to push it all away. Tried to bury it.

  She closed her eyes, still trying to drive it back. But it did no good. It all came back to her in a ruthless wave.

  Ray … the fire … the Turn.

  And Brikker.

  ~

  It had been Kain’s idea—his solution, more precisely—but the fact was, it was she who had planted the seed in his mind in the first place. The seed of her own fear.

  After he had dragged Brikker’s body into the fire (Kain was a wreck, how he had managed was a miracle in itself), he had settled in beside her. Taking her hand in his, he had told her it was the only way … the only way to be sure.

  They won’t be coming, he had told her. Not for me … not for Brikker. I promise.

  Eventually the firemen came; the police and the ambulance shortly thereafter. All they found were three bodies, one with both arms missing, blown off in the explosion. All of them burned beyond recognition.

  And only three survivors.

  She had told Officer Berridge that her husband had set the blaze, that he and two of his drunken friends had attacked them. She never flinched. Not with Kain hiding in the loft.

  As far as she knew, the bodies were buried in a cemetery just past the town limits, barely a mile from the diner. As for that man in the black car, the car that Ben Caldwell had struck trying to save them, she had never heard what had happened to him. She supposed someone had claimed him, someone from some secret government agency, and like all of the dark truths that had been buried that night, he had been buried right along with them.

  ~

  “’Night, Ma.”

  “Goodnight, honey.” Her heart sank as she watched the girl limp up the stairs. They would never be able to bury the past … not entirely.

  She set her cup down. The cat meowed its disapproval as she shifted her leg, and she shooed it off of her. Big Al looked up at her with big green eyes and a yawn as big as her furry face, and then, without further ado, turned about and nestled in by the fire.

  Lynn turned up the oil lamp. She would have to fill it again if the power was out much longer. She set the package along her lap. It was thick and substantially weighty, a simple affair of dark brown paper, neatly wrapped. It was addressed only to OCCUPANT, the printing scribbled in black. No return address.

  She opened it carefully and set the wrappings at her feet. The contents had been wrapped in still more of that thick paper, and when she removed it, her heart stirred.

  Kain’s diary.

  It felt strange in her hands … as if she held no business holding it. The thick leather binding, worn about its edges but solid as stone, betrayed its warm heart. She wasn’t sure she could, or even if she should, read it again. But she knew.

  He had sent it for that very reason.

  She spent the rest of the evening falling inside of it, from beginning to end; it seemed the right thing to do. The stories it kept were not merely random thoughts or impressions; they were dreams, they were nightmares, and for better and for worse, they were the sum of his life, and she owed him that. She did.

  The clock on the mantel struck eleven. She should have turned in, but she couldn’t. Not now. She soothed her cramped legs in a long stretch, the kitten following her lead. She fixed herself a new cup of cocoa and returned to the sofa. She took a small sip and took up the book, and settled in for the final entry.

  ~

  Dear Lynn,

  There is so much I want to say to you. So much … and so little time. It has always been my curse.

  By now it should be late November, maybe December. I can’t know how long this will take to get to you. I only pray that it does. I pray a lot these days.

  I hope you are well. I hope your children are blessed.

  I miss your father; I miss his wisdom. Tell Georgia I miss her … and her fantastic casserole.

  You must have so many questions. I can only try to answer them, but I’ll do my best.

  I made it to Canada. British Columbia. Big Al was right, cripes, it’s beautiful here (sorry, couldn’t resist). But seriously, it really is gorgeous.

  I live in a small place by the water, with tall trees at my door. The mountains would take your breath away. I walk a lot, mostly at night by the ocean, and the air is as fresh as it is in Iowa; a man could spread his wings here. Jimmy called me winagi cikala kin (I hope I spelled it right, but I doubt it), and sometimes, I do feel like a little ghost, moving on the way I do. But I have to tell you, Lynn … I like this place. I really do.

  ~

  The words stopped there. Just like that, in the middle of the page. What followed immediately below was scribble, scratched out so as to make it entirely unreadable. But then the writing carried on, on the very next page.

  ~

  I took some air for a couple of hours. I had to. I didn’t know what to say. I still don’t. So I’ll just say it. I left because I had to, Lynn.

  You once wondered if your son was making the right choices. Choosing the right path. Life is never that easy.

  For a long time now, as long as I can remember, I have been on a path—right or wrong, who is to judge—but everything in me tells me it’s right. It has to be right. Your father, God rest him, said I was looking for something … but in truth, I think it found me.

  You see, my grandfather was wrong. All these years, all those lessons … and he was wrong. It is our place. It is our world. I’m not a religious man, by any stretch, and I know how this might sound … but God put us here for a reason. For Gramps, it was that ship. Or maybe that was just a smaller part of a bigger plan … just so an old man could die, to bring a little boy back from the dead.

  Still, it’s a debt I could never repay … but the truth is, I’ve got so many debts, Lynn. So much to repay.

  My life has been so dark. I’ve seen so many horrible things. But I imagine that the darkest thing a person can endure is to live a life without purpose. Our souls deserve better.

  I think it was Emerson who said that the surest poison is time. But da Vinci did him one better: Time stays long enough for anyone who will use it.

  I have no illusions. The Turn is a dark sword. But I know now that it serves a far greater purpose. Men like Brikker would twist it, to be sure; it’s in their blood. But men like Brikker are right. The Turn is a channel, a road to a future unwritten. A means to an end.

  An end of my journey.

  Do you remember your dreams these last few weeks? I’m betting that you do; at least, I’m betting you wake up in a cold sweat, night after night, wondering just what it is that has happened. And I’m betting you know. Deep down, we always know.

  Not now—but after you finish reading—that is, when you feel you can—take a look inside the back of the diary. Take a good look. I think the nightmares will stop.

  I’ve rambled on far too long, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry for a lot of things … things that no apology could ever make right. But this time has served me. It gave me the chance to thank you. For everything. To write you a “real” letter this time. I know it’s not a kiss … but with you, nothing could come close.

  I’m tired, Lynn. I sleep and I dream. I used to dream of baseball … now I try to dream of you. The road has been long, and I can count the days I have left. But I need you to know that the pain is gone. My head is clear. No more static, no more blackouts. I can walk down the street with a smile. Everyone I meet is a mystery to me now. For the first time in my life, I feel free. I feel normal.

  It’s raining now. It never breaks for very long. The rain out here is as soft as velvet, and when it sweeps in from the ocean and throws a blanket over the mountains, it has a misty quality that I swear is almost musical; if you crack the window and list
en closely, it’s like a whisper in your ear. Like a best friend … like a lover. Still, sometimes, when it comes at night, pitter-pattering on the roof like old bones, I wake from my dreams in a shiver, and I lie in the dark and I wonder where I am … but I don’t fear it any longer.

  ~

  No goodbye; no valediction of any kind.

  Lynn set the diary in her lap. She felt numb. The book slipped to her side.

  She wept.

  ~

  A bitter wind rattled the windows, and she woke in a start. The oil had long since burned away, the room barely aglow from the coals in the hearth. She moved from her chair to the warmth of the fire, and the cat, its slumber disturbed, stretched its legs and clawed at the rug beneath it. It rubbed against her, its back arcing, and when it looked up at her with deep dozy eyes the way it did, she paused, thinking of Pep. She scratched its fur and stroked it behind an ear, and the purring kitten began to drool.

  “Ma?”

  “Honey?”

  “It’s so cold up here.”

  Lynn fetched her daughter another blanket and brought it up to her room. Her old room. She had forgotten how cold it got when the north wind blew.

  “Better?”

  The girl nodded. “Thanks, Ma.”

  Lynn kissed her on the forehead.

  “Why you still up?” Lee said. “You look so tired.”

  Still up, Lynn thought, and it was sadly amusing in its way. I haven’t slept in weeks. If she only knew.

  “Sweet dreams,” she said, forcing a smile as she tucked her in. She closed the door behind her.

  She filled the lamp with oil, relit the wick, and then curled up with the kitten near the fire. It was late now, nearly midnight. She stared at the diary.

  You already know, she thought. You’ve always known.

  She supposed Ryan did, too … and Ben Caldwell. How many others? How many were sitting up right now, thinking these very thoughts?

  She sighed deeply and closed her eyes. She held them that way for the longest time, almost certain she couldn’t do this.

  But she had to. She had to be sure.

  She opened the back of the diary. A small envelope, pressed and folded flat, had been taped inside. The book’s cover was so thick she had never even noticed it.

  With a trembling hand, Lynn Bishop opened the envelope.

  ~

  Vancouver Sun, October 29, 1962

  U.S. AIR STRIKES TARGET CUBAN MISSILE BASES

  Moscow Threatens Retaliation

  Vancouver Sun, November 1, 1962

  U.S. CONTINUES TO POUND CUBA

  Castro Requests Aid From Khrushchev

  Vancouver Sun, November 2, 1962

  U.S. DEMANDS IMMEDIATE WITHDRAWAL OF SOVIET MISSILES

  Khrushchev To Kennedy: “We will defend Cuba”

  Vancouver Sun, November 3, 1962

  SOVIETS FIRE ON U.S. BLOCKADE

  USS Grand Canyon Sunk By Russian Sub

  Vancouver Sun, November 4, 1962

  U.S. TARGETS HAVANA, HUNDREDS KILLED

  American Warships Engage Russian Destroyers

  Vancouver Sun, November 6, 1962

  CUBA STRIKES UNITED STATES

  Cape Canaveral Destroyed In “Unprovoked” Nuclear Attack

  Vancouver Sun, November 8, 1962

  SANTA CLARA DESTROYED IN NUCLEAR RESPONSE

  U.S. Calls For Unconditional Cuban Surrender

  Vancouver Sun, November 11, 1962

  SOVIETS INVADE BERLIN

  Russian Air Strikes Kill Hundreds, Tanks Roll In

  ~

  There had been no eleventh-hour heroics; no happy ending.

  Only death.

  There were twenty-two clippings, each more chilling than the one before. She read in disbelief as a holocaust had escalated to America and Europe, and even to Asia. Havana had claimed it was only defending itself from overtly punishing American aggression, striking Cape Canaveral with a tactical nuclear weapon on the sixth of November. On the eighth, Washington responded by leveling Santa Clara—the provincial capital of Las Villas—calling for total and unconditional surrender. The Soviets, already engaged in heavy fighting with American warships over the naval blockade of Cuba, invaded Berlin as retribution. They took the city in hours, and within days, the Cold War had become the latest war to end all wars. In the end, it mattered little who bore the burden of blame; the madness had consumed the Northern Hemisphere, in one nuclear strike after another. New York and Washington had been reduced to cinders, along with scores of other U.S. cities. Europe had fallen to a new breed of Blitz, had become a graveyard of ashes. In a single week of war, the estimated dead topped one hundred and forty-two million.

  ~

  Lynn was dumbstruck. She felt sick to her stomach and nearly doubled. She had known … hadn’t she. To be sure, in her mind there had been nothing concrete, nothing so sobering, for her nightmares had filled her with so much terror she had forgotten almost all of them upon waking. The real terrors had come in her day; a moment here, a sensation there. In the diner, she had overheard a conversation about a car accident where a young woman had been killed. For some reason, it had struck a chord in her, so much so she had dropped the three plates she’d been carrying. Gabe Milton had made a simple gesture with his hand (rather, his missing one), and that had been enough; she had fled the store in a panic. More than once a song on the radio had brought her to tears, and for the life of her, she had not known why. Still—what had struck her most dearly—was that long, thin scar on her left hand.

  It was the twenty-eighth of October. She had been in the kitchen slicing an onion for the dinner salad, listening to the radio—listening so very closely, like the rest of America—when the dark news had come. The Russians weren’t backing down. The newsman had said it would likely mean war, possibly nuclear war, and she had been so distraught she had sliced right into her palm. She had bled so severely that Lee had had to bandage her hand for her.

  But she had no scar.

  Not in this timeline.

  The second October the twenty-eighth had been vastly different. Just before the news came, she had remembered, the knife in her hand jarring her memory deeply. And at that moment, she had set the blade down.

  That’s when she knew. Really knew. She just didn’t want to believe it.

  She read the last clipping again. Just to be sure.

  To be sure that it was real.

  ~

  Vancouver Sun, October 29, 1962

  KHRUSHCHEV BLINKS

  Soviets To Dismantle Missile Bases In Cuba

  She wept until dawn.

  ~

  “Ma … Ma.”

  Lynn sat up, groggy, her weary eyes half open. She drew her blanket around her. It took her a moment to realize where she was.

  Ryan was kneeling beside her. Lee was sitting in her grandfather’s old chair with her feet up on the ottoman, stirring a bowl of oatmeal she had warmed up on the woodstove.

  “You slept here all night?”

  “… Looks that way. I—”

  She checked the coffee table, then the sofa, and felt a gush of relief as she remembered. Just before she’d dozed off, she’d cradled the diary under her blanket. Thank God she’d gathered the clippings, and set them back in the envelope.

  The clippings. There were no other copies, of course. All of the others had vanished, to wherever—rather, whenever—they had come from. During the Turn, Kain had kept them safe to preserve their existence; in his pocket, she supposed, just as he’d done with that article of his mother’s death. But now, in this here and now, they were no more than fiction. The world was new again.

  She considered how far. It had been several weeks, she now understood, and despite her denial during that time, the reach—the ripples—had been felt round the world. She and her children had suffered the usual effects, of course, but had thought nothing of it; at least, they had silently agreed not to discuss it. Spencer and the surrounding area had not been spared, for ther
e had been more than a few of the townsfolk complaining of a variety of conditions; minor aches and pains, sudden muted suntans, nausea, the occasional bout of vomiting and diarrhea … hints of déjà vu. Just three days ago in the diner, one of the locals had gone on about how two of his horses kept running in circles as if they were crazy, running themselves ragged until they collapsed; another had been forced to put down a bull with some buckshot, to stop it from trying to hump every cow in sight. These were all minor occurrences, certainly, and yes, some of them could bring a smile, but they were not isolated in the bigger scheme of things. They were indicative of a much larger issue—a larger danger—a danger she had simply chosen to ignore. Indeed, a Canadian woman had insisted she had been transported from Boston to Montreal; in fact, such an incredible event had been reported on at least four continents. She recalled the news of how a British tourist in Paris had leapt to his death from the Eiffel Tower … how the man’s wife and three children had been found poisoned in their hotel room, how the man had been carrying a placard declaring, BEWARE THE END OF DAYS. Curiously, there had been no reports of mass hysteria or suicide, and she reasoned that those who knew—or imagined they knew something—had, in the vast majority of cases, kept their mouths shut, their insanity to themselves. She had.

  When she considered further, the relative global calm made perfect sense. There were no Newark, New Jerseys, out there, out of sync, out of time, with the rest of the world. Kain had Turned so far back that everything—and everyone on the planet—had turned back with him.

  Still … why had there been no disastrous side effects? As far as she knew, there had been no earthquakes, no tornadoes or hurricanes, no natural disasters of any kind. No fields of dust … no sickly air or spoiled food … no dead roses. What she measured had to be right; there was no other explanation. Kain had been steadily—decaying, came to mind—for months before that night. Things had gone deeply awry, the world inside the bubble transforming into something ill. But the Turn itself had delivered a more profound effect. It had purged him in one massive cleansing, like a drug addict finally coming clean. In the subsequent months he had fully recovered, his abilities restored, possibly to the point of his days before the Project. His mind had been cleared. Purified, perhaps.