Velvet Rain - A Dark Thriller (6 page)

The young pitcher ran a long look along the troubled faces on the bench. He avoided the Madness bench, which had fallen as silent as the crowd had. He tipped his head down, his eyes searching for the courage to swallow his anger.

Easy kid,
Kain thought.
Easy.

Number 23 must have heard his thoughts. He took a small step back. He raised his head slowly, and pitched a curt,
Sorry, Coach.
It didn’t look sincere.

Coach Plummer looked as if he was about to yank him off the mound by the scruff of the neck, but then his scowl turned. It was almost comical. He rubbed his chin with a slick grin, nodded smugly—
Hang yourself, kid
—and headed off the field. The players on the Tigers bench traded shocked glances between themselves, and the man they called Coach. The stands were silent, save the guy in the red ball cap. He called Plummer a bum. Some of the fielders shook their heads. The runners on second and third did, too. The Madness coach stood in disbelief at this unpunished defiance, his jaw threatening to hit the ground. Legend had it he had once cut a player for missing practice because of a funeral.

The umpire shouted
Play ball,
and the tension seemed to melt away as the players and spectators settled in. The batter stepped up. The pitcher glanced at the scoreboard, just to get his eyes off that swirling bat. He took a moment, caught the sign he wanted from his catcher and unloaded a bomb across the plate. Jones never blinked.

“
Steeeeerrrrike!
”

The umpire clicked his pitch counter, stabbing his fist to the right like a master swordsman. Someone forgot to tell him it was only a high school game.

The call should have settled the pitcher. It didn’t. He glared at the batter now; you could see the anger welling up in him. Jones cast him a cocky smirk. He had
let
it slip by.

Still down 2–1 in the count, 23 dropped his glove to his side and started rolling the hardball. He was definitely mumbling something, beating himself up. The catcher signaled, but he shook him off. He shook him off again, and this time the batter called time, breaking his rhythm.

“
Awww, come onnn, Jones.
”

Someone on the Tigers bench had groaned it, and when Kain looked over, saw it was the starting pitcher. The tall teen, a senior on the team, was unmistakably Indian—a Sioux. He’d been pulled in the fourth after surrendering that home run, but from what Kain had seen prior, the kid was definitely a pitcher. Smooth delivery. Great control.

Jones took his time, dragging it out as to be insufferable. He was a Hollywood, a jock who thought he’d look great on a baseball card. The umpire told him to step it up, and he offered the same smart smirk he had given the pitcher. He dug his spikes in at the plate and served up one short swing. Served up the Swirl.

Twenty-three started into his wind-up. The ball came blazing, an uncontrolled rocket that barely made it into the strike zone. There was a solid
poomp
from the catcher’s mitt, capped by that animated
Steeeeerrrrike!

Jones hadn’t swung, had let it rip by, ball or strike. He stepped back with that knowing sneer.

“
Don’t be stupid, Jones!
” the Madness coach bellowed.

The batter waved him off. “Just funnin’ around, Coach.”

“Yeah? You won’t think it’s so funny when you’re watchin’ the next three games from the bench.”

“Don’t blow it, Willie.” This had come from someone on the Madness side.

“Eat me, Hudson. And your mother.”

“That’s enough, Jones,” the Madness coach told him. The umpire agreed and directed the batter to the plate. Jones grimaced and spat out his gum. He took up his spot, then readied his weapon with that mesmerizing twirl.

“Come on, Rye,” the second baseman, Ricky McKay, said supportively. “Get this jerk out.”

The pitcher stood with his head down. He was mumbling. His eyes were burning. The ball rolled in his fingers as he waited for the sign, and when the one he wanted came, he stepped hard into the pitch. He held nothing back; he was lucky he didn’t blow his arm out of its socket. The ball was low, a bullet into the dirt a foot ahead of the plate. It bounced up high, just missing Jones in the shoulder as he backed off with a twist of his torso. It shot past the catcher’s extended arm, struck the cage and bounded about. The catcher, a second-year teen named Rudy Burridge who couldn’t bunt if his life depended on it, nailed it with his throwing hand. He tried to throw some reassurance his pitcher’s way, rambling,
It’s okay, no problem, all right,
but it wasn’t all right, none of it was. The kid on the mound was sinking like a stone.

Ryan Bishop raised his head on the mound. Just enough to let his helpless stare shift to the Madness bench. Some of the boys there were chuckling, some snickering, a few of them doing a pretty poor job of pretending they weren’t. One even mocked his mumbling.

Jones tapped his shoes and settled in with a swing. His eyes never left the pitcher. He was dead serious now, no clowning around. He readied the bat and gave it some swirl.

Twenty-three raised his glove, eased into his wind-up, paused—and fired a cannon. He stumbled on his follow-through, slipping on the mound, but he’d managed to put the ball low and away. He kept his eye on it. Everyone did.

Jones stepped into the pitch, unleashing a cannon of his own. There was a moment, as if the breath of everyone there had been stolen by some great ghost, where time stood still as he brought the bat down and then up in a perfect arc, a swing that God had bestowed upon him at birth. It held the classic grace of a Bobby Jones tee shot. A thing of beauty.

Still … time stands for no hardball; waits for no bat. When contact was made, and Good Lord it was, the sound—the explosive
crakkkk
—sent the Madness bench into, well, madness. The ball took off like a streak of light, a test for the best eyes to follow. Lost in the sun’s glare as the crowd rose, it must have been a good five seconds before someone yelled,
Holy, it’s gone, it’s freakin’ gone, no wait, there it is,
before the ball sailed past the outfield, past the warning track, past the fence, past the picnickers in the hollow there, past the footpath along the river, and then fell from orbit and into the Little Sioux with a
sploop,
that no one was close enough to hear.

Jones stepped lively to first, rounded second, and headed for third. He’d known, maybe even when he was on-deck, he was going to hit a homer, he’d just known. He turned at third with a swagger, the ball long since bobbing for breath in the Sioux, and as he made his way toward home, corked a taunting laugh to that shaken face on the mound.

That was it. The gangly kid had taken all he could take and wasn’t going to take any more. He charged from the mound, eyes aflame, trying to fling his glove off. He was moving so fast his cap blew up and off. He let out a horrible growl, something akin to the sound one might hear when a bear has taken enough of the smartass kid at the zoo who’s been rattling the bars of his cage.

Halfway to the plate the runner sped up, but the pitcher was on him before he made it home. The kid dove into him, knocking him off stride, but it was only enough to slow him. Jones kept on, turning round, walking backwards at a brisk pace. He was egging the kid on with his hands.

“
Come on, dickwad. Ya fight better than ya pitch?
”

Both benches cleared. It looked like the mayhem after the final out in the World Series. Teenage boys standing and watching, some yelling for Jones to drop dead, some for the pitcher to, pockets of boisterous fans rising from their seats. The pitcher was fuming, standing there with his glove still caught on his wrist, his brown hair all over the place. He struggled to catch his breath, and just when you thought he might not charge the batter, he did. He bolted hard and was met broadside by Coach Plummer. The man threw his arms round the boy, his high pants riding up even higher. His weight bowled them over. They hit the dirt hard, dust flying up like ghosts from their graves. Jones started laughing; some of the others did, too. The infield and outfield had come in, most of them shaking their heads. The umpire and the catcher both stood with their masks up, agog.

“
Enough,
” the coach said, his big body pinning the boy. “
ENOUGH.
” He waited for a sign of capitulation, and finally received it in a dour nod. The man got to his knees, rose, and started dusting himself off.

All eyes were on Ryan Bishop now. He wasn’t a pitcher, suddenly; wasn’t Number 23, wasn’t a ballplayer anymore. He was just a boy, a bad one at that, a troubled one with a chip on his shoulder. He lay there unmoving, spilling with anger and embarrassment. Awkward silence engulfed him like cold rain.

Benny the shortstop made a move toward his teammate, but the coach waved him off.

“No, son. No. Just give him space. Everybody just give him space.”

William Jones chuckled, and with a satisfied grin, stamped on home plate to make it official.
Game over. I win.
Technically the game wasn’t over, the Tigers had last at-bat, but no one wanted to play. Some of the players had already started packing up.

“Damn you, Jones, wipe that smirk off your face.” It was the Madness coach. He rounded up the rest of his team, most of them moving through the gate and into the parking lot with their heads low. A few of them straggled behind to watch the show, then followed the handful of disappointed parents who’d made the trip from Mason City. Jones’ dad—the man in the red ball cap—threw his arm round his son and congratulated him on a great game, going on about how proud he was, how damn proud.

The field emptied as Coach Plummer asked his team to clear out. He reminded them of the next practice two days from now, told everyone to be on time. Ben Caldwell said he’d wait for Ryan in his pickup; he was giving him a ride home. Plummer waited for the shortstop to leave them.

Ryan Bishop was sitting up now. Stewing.

“You okay, son?”

The kid nodded. “Yeah. No sweat.”

Coach Plummer helped him up. “I gotta be honest with you, Bishop. It’s been two weeks now and—”

“Save it, Coach. I’ll save you the trouble.”

“You got an arm, son. Lots of it.”

“Tell someone who cares.”

The kid walked away, and the coach called after him.

“Come on, Ryan. What’s the matter with you?”

The kid stopped at the fence just before the exit. He turned suddenly, to the lone spectator still in the stands.

“What’s
your
problem?”

Kain said nothing. He realized he’d been staring like an old street hen spying on the neighbors. It was useless to look away. Useless not to.

And then the static struck him. Knifed him right between the eyes.

“Go home,” the kid said, boiling. “Show’s over.”

~ 5

Kain exhausted the week in search of work, his fruitless mornings turning to rejuvenating walks along the Little Sioux in the afternoons. He had missed any ballgames that might have been scheduled, but today he’d caught the last hour of a Tigers practice. All in all, the team looked pretty good. They were a little weak in the batting department, their first baseman a real strikeout king, but they had a solid, fast defense, and from what he saw, a real ace in Number 29, the tall Sioux. Not surprisingly, 23 hadn’t shown, invited or not.

The ballpark emptied by sundown, and he made his way back by nine. He supped at Rosa’s Roadside on meatloaf and scalloped potatoes, and as he sat in his booth by the window letting the evening slip by with a Coke, that stubborn restlessness began to inch its way through his mind like some crawling insect.

Living down the hall from Henry Roberts had been fine. Until last night. The bar had been hopping, even for a Wednesday, and he had had no trouble sleeping through the din below; he’d slept in far noisier places. The road taught you how. But then, around eleven by his figure, someone in Five brought up the screamer. Jesus. They weren’t at it five minutes when the wailing started. Unbelievable. Like some kind of wild, shrieking cat or something. Old Henry, his old hearing as good as his word, staggered upstairs half-cut and blew off the lock with his .30-.30. Like the rube in Three, Kain had stuck his head out into the corridor for a look, catching the tail end of two naked bodies scampering down the stairs. They were screaming bloody murder, but not nearly as loud as Henry was, shouting after them that they owed him a goddamn lock.

But was that the reason he felt so miserable? The noise?

The fact was, Spencer just wasn’t working out. He wanted to stay—God he did—and didn’t that stick in his craw. Even Brikker might have liked Iowa. The sonofabitch might have even loved it.

~

He was drifting north by sunup. A crisp morning sky greeted him, a soft breeze easing the stifling heat. He had made three miles toward Spirit Lake (a place with a name like that just had to be salt for the soul) when a dusty brown flatbed rolled up beside him.

The passenger window was halfway down, and you could hear “It’s Only Make Believe” by Conway Twitty on the radio. He wasn’t a big country fan, but some of it was all right. Elvis. Don Gibson.

“Not goin’ far,” the driver said, in a deep, warm voice that seemed a full octave lower than the drifter’s. “But you’re welcome to take a load off just the same.”

“Every bit helps,” Kain said, climbing in. “Thanks.”

“Al Hembruff.” The big man offered his hand. He owned a tanned, down-home face with a double chin, and a smallish nose that didn’t seem to match his ample size. He held a farmer’s scruff, and bold, honest eyes that must have guided a combine through a couple of world wars and countless harvests.

“Kain. Kain Richards.” They shook, and the man’s hand nearly swallowed his.

“So where you headed so bright and early? Spirit?”

“Wisconsin, actually … the long way.” The man laughed, and Kain could only be impressed at how genuine that sound was. Sweet and sincere. A good laugh.