Red Rain

59

The morning went by in a blur, and even two cups of strong black coffee at eleven didn’t wake Mark’s mind. Half an hour earlier, he had lifted his head, not recognizing where he was.

It took him a few seconds to remember he had fallen asleep after five in the morning on the couch in the den, the soft couch, his favorite napping couch, in the clothes he had worn to Nestor Bridger’s house.

The police. The angry, frightened parents. They hadn’t left till five. And then, his head throbbing, he had collapsed on the couch.

But who could sleep with Ira and Elena and the twins gone-missing-and at least seventy other children, and after an endless night of the phone ringing nonstop with frantic parents at the other end, and police and FBI and who-knows-what invading every corner of his house. And the questions. . the accusing stares.

Could they possibly think he had kidnapped seventy kids? Where would he keep them? In the basement? In an upstairs closet?

Somewhere around three in the morning, they asked if he wanted a lawyer. He’d gone into a long rant-he should have held it in-but the wine and the exhaustion, not to mention the anxiety, made him open up and tell them how stupid they were to think he had any answers or anything helpful to say or anything to do with the disappearance of the kids.

Maybe his rant encouraged them to leave. No. Now he remembered. More angry, frightened parents showed up at the door, and the round of questions grew even more intense.

He pictured the two Sag Harbor officers he’d become very acquainted with, Pavano and Pinto. They’d been pushed to the back. Too low on the ladder to speak, they watched the whole thing, leaning against the living room wall, occasionally muttering among themselves as their superiors-who was that big guy, Franks, who paraded back and forth with his Glock hanging out of its holster? — asked all the questions.

The officers and agents didn’t leave until after five. Mark sprawled fitfully on the worn-soft couch, the questions tumbling through his mind, struggling to think clearly about a theory of his own. It wasn’t forthcoming. He didn’t have a clue.

He was just as puzzled upon waking up. And where was Lea? A glance at the clock. Ten-thirty. This is Saturday, right?

She must be up in our room. Can she sleep? This is late for her not to be downstairs.

Rubbing the dark stubble on his cheeks, he shuffled into the kitchen for coffee, feeling stiff and not at all rested and in need of a shower. He squinted at a note in Roz’s handwriting: Axl upset by all the noise last night. Took him to the beach. Home after lunch. Have my phone. Call with any news.

“No news, Roz.”

He peered through the kitchen window at the guesthouse. Dark and silent.

His eyes burned. He suddenly craved a cigarette. Crazy. He hadn’t smoked since college.

Don’t be crazy. Don’t give in. You have to be the sane one.

Lea printed out the three photos and sat at her desk gazing at them over and over. The first two-the twelve-year-old twins in 1935-came as a frightening shock.

The twins were twelve in 1935 and twelve today. Cape Le Chat Noir. . It’s the island where the living coexist with the living dead.

“It can’t be! Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Please. It can’t be true!”

She sat in the glare of the monitor, gazing from one photo to the other, screaming at them without even hearing herself. Screaming at the beautiful twelve-year-old twins. Beautiful more than seventy-five years ago. Beautiful today.

“Oh, shit. Oh, shit. I brought them here. Martha warned me. Mark warned me. Oh, shit. It’s all my fault.” And then: “But I care about them. They made me care about them.”

She slammed the two printouts onto the desk and gazed at the third one. This photo was not a surprise. She had suspected it. She prayed and prayed it wasn’t true. But somehow, all along, Lea knew.

Martha had signed off, and her apologies reverberated in Lea’s mind.

“So sorry. Really so sorry. I think I warned you not to rush into adopting those boys. I just had the feeling there was something off about them.”

Not much of an apology, really. Of course, Martha was sorry for the way things turned out-not sorry for providing Lea with the truth.

And what did she mean by something off about them? Martha said she would send an email-immediately-with all the information she had been able to dig up about the boys. “It’s not good news, Lea. I’m so sorry. I wish it weren’t true. I’ll send it right now.”

And as for the third photo, Lea could see even on the grainy Skype image how uncomfortable it made Martha and how reluctant she was to discuss it at all.

“James and I hoped we were doing the right thing.”

After that, Martha made an excuse to end the conversation. And repeated her apology, sounding a little more heartfelt this time. “I only wish. .” No finish to that sentence. And then she was gone, and Lea sat in front of the screen, her eyes shut tight, but not tight enough to keep the pictures from her mind.

And things began to come clear, began to connect, starting with the twins, and moving to the murder in the driveway and the murder of Derek Saltzman and the disappearance of Ira and Elena and some seventy other kids.

Starting with the twins, who weren’t really twelve. The twins, who had to be ungodly evil creatures she had brought home with her.

Was it coming clear? Did she have the connections right? It wasn’t like she was blaming two innocent, adorable boys with such glowing blond hair and twinkling blue eyes. She wasn’t condemning angels. She was starting to see demons.

But I care about them. I have such strong feelings for them.

And then Martha’s email arrived, confirming her worst, most terrifying fears.

She couldn’t read it all. Her eyes blurred the words. She didn’t want to know the truth. Not this truth. She scanned through it, catching phrases that made her heart skip.

. . Both died in the hurricane. The priest was summoned to perform the Revenir rite.

. . The priest came too late. They’d been dead too long. He should never have revived them.

. . They brought the evil of the grave back with them.

. . They can kill. They can hypnotize. Like their bodies, their minds never advanced. They are still twelve.

. . They lived in isolation on the island. People were afraid of them. They lived by stealing. No one was brave enough to stop them. They waited all these years for someone to take them away.

. . They hate adults. They only care about controlling other children. They never got to be real children. So now they want to be leaders of children. . To hold power over children. . The only thing they care about. .

Lea shut her eyes. “Oh, shit. Oh, shit. It’s too much. It’s all too horrifying. What will happen to Ira and Elena? How can I face Mark? How?”

Martha’s words brought another revelation. The thought had been lurking in her mind. The email suddenly forced it to her consciousness. The twins hypnotized me. They used their powers on me. They made me care about them. My connection to them. . that feeling of love I thought I felt. . it wasn’t real. They used me. Used me to get here. No wonder I’ve agreed to their every wish. No wonder I never opposed them. .

She opened her eyes and shuffled through the three printouts again, as if hoping to see something she missed. Something redeeming. But there was no reassurance here. The past-and her future-held only horror.

Oh, poor Ira and Elena. Maybe there was time to rescue them. She had to try.

Carefully, she folded the three photos in half. She tucked them into the big pocket of her silky blue robe.

She heard a cough. Was that Mark stirring downstairs? The aroma of coffee made her stand up. She stretched her arms over her head.

Yes, she could feel her heart like a hummingbird in her chest. And the coffee aroma suddenly nauseated her.

Mark has to know.

She glanced at the clock on the bed table. Just past eleven. The morning had slipped past. But so what? What did a few hours matter when there was nothing to look forward to but more tears and grief and disbelief and anger and regret.

She moved to the dresser, adjusting the robe and tying it more securely, and picked up her hairbrush. She swept it back slowly through her straight black hair. It felt real. The touch of the bristles through her hair, the scrape against her scalp.

She brushed for a long time, leaning her head back, appreciating each stroke with a soft sigh. This was real. Nothing else in her life felt as real. Nothing else could be as real.

Oh, poor Elena. Poor Ira. What has Mommy done to you?

She forced herself to set the hairbrush down. Then she took a long, shuddering breath. She fingered the folded-up photos in her robe pocket and murmured out loud, “I’m going to tell Mark now.”

Face the music, Lea.

Isn’t that what her dad always said every time she had to be punished for some crime large or small?

You did the dance. Now face the music.

Did that make any sense at all?

The punishment was always the same: Go to your room and stay there till I tell you to come out.

She pictured her brothers smirking as she trudged off to her room, red-faced, fists swinging at her sides, ready to face the music.

Well, after all the years, now she was really facing the music.

She started to the stairs but stopped at the bedroom door when she heard the sirens. Approaching sirens, and there seemed to be a lot of them, a blaring concert of sirens, warring with each other.

Lea spun around and trotted to the bedroom window.

Several dark vehicles squealed up the gravel driveway. She saw the yellow letters FBI stenciled on one SUV. Two Sag Harbor black-and-whites, two unmarked SUVs, windows blackened, heavy like armored cars.

She gripped the windowsill and stared down at them all, her mouth hanging open, uttering small cries of shock.

Four or five dark-uniformed policemen lined up in front of the house, standing stiffly a few feet abreast of each other, weapons tensed in front of them. Were those automatic rifles?

She recognized the big black state police captain from the night before as he came roaring out of the backseat of an SUV. Was his name Franks? Yes. He had a pistol in one hand and motioned to the others leaping from their vehicles to follow him to the house.

They all had guns raised. All of them.

Do they plan to kill us?

“Mark?” Lea screamed, squeezing the wooden windowsill. “Mark! Do you hear them?”

Finally, she forced herself away from the window. She spun to the doorway, her robe tangling around her. And went running to the stairs.

“Mark! Can you hear me? Mark? What do they want?”