House of Rain Page 5

  “After I badgered you and followed you around like a lost puppy for two hours.”

  A mischievous smile purses her lips. “Maybe I felt a bit sorry for you.”

  “But not sorry enough to go out with me. The first two times I called and asked you out you gave me excuses and said no.”

  “But eventually I said yes.”

  “What was it that finally changed your mind?”

  “Third time’s the charm?”

  “No, Katy, seriously.”

  “Maybe you wore me down. Then once I got to know you and saw how sweet you were, how could I not fall in love with you too?”

  “You saved my life,” he says, the words catching in his throat.

  “And you mine.”

  He shakes his head no. “You saved me, Katy. I was nothing before you.”

  “Gordon…”

  “Nothing. Nothing until I met you.”

  She pulls him closer, wrapping both arms around him. “Shhh.”

  “I love you so much.”

  “What’s gotten in to you tonight?” she asks, her breath hot on his neck. “You never talk like this.”

  “I’m sorry. I should tell you how much I love you every day.”

  “I know how much you love me, sweetheart.”

  “Do you?” he asks. “Do you really?”

  “Can anyone ever truly know how much someone else loves them?”

  No, he thinks, they can’t. And sometimes, they shouldn’t.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, holding her close.

  “Whatever for?”

  “Everything.”

  The train screeches, shattering Gordon’s memories. Still slumped against the door, he looks back. The businessman is out cold, but there is no one else in the car.

  With a hearty tug, he pulls open the door, slips into the next car and slams the door closed behind him.

  The train races on, hurtling through the dark tunnels beneath the city.

  FIVE

  Southeast Asia. Exhausted, battered and bloody, he clings to the trunk of a twisted and fallen tree, floats along the filthy river…drifting…toward what he doesn’t know. But he is in Hell. That much he knows. And he will not be leaving anytime soon. There is a good chance he will never leave, though he no longer much cares. It’s been a very long time since he’s given a damn one way or another. If he dies, so be it. If nothing else, it will end this horror, and whatever may or may not await him on the other side cannot be any worse. Of this he is certain, even as he clings to this dead floating thing, watching the jungle on either side drift past like a dream. So much black smoke rising and twisting from burning things and burning people, if only he could sleep for just a little while it would all go away. But if he does, he will slip from his tree and sink down into the filthy brown and bloody water, and he will never come back. Would it be so bad? Why doesn’t he just do it then and get it over with? Because he will not give Hell the satisfaction, and will not go willingly. If it wants him, it will have to take him, rip him away and carry him off to oblivion kicking and screaming.

  All around him, savaged bodies—some of them just pieces—bob about like demonic buoys. He used to see the dead in his nightmares, but they no longer afford him that, they come all the time now, as relentlessly as they did in life. But they belong to the river now. It has taken them just as it tries to take him, pulling at him, hoping to drag him deep beneath the surface. Everything smells of gasoline, fecal matter and urine, of charred and burning human flesh. Death.

  In the distance, he sees an assault boat headed toward him. A Rolling Stones tune blares from its speakers. Once again, he will survive and cheat death while others are slaughtered all around him. They will pluck him from this river of evil, but not before it baptizes him in its sins…and his own…leaving a part of him in this river forever. A part he can never regain. Like so many others, he is ghosted in this jungle, just another pale spirit far from home, watching from the muddy banks of the river, coated in its blood and cloaked in its lies.

  As Gordon walks along the sidewalk, his nightmares leave him, and he sees the cemetery in the distance, at the top of a hill. The rain has lessened but still falls in a heavy swirling mist. He pushes himself up the hill, stopping twice to catch his breath before reaching the gates. They stand open. He looks around. Here, at the outskirts of the city, there are far fewer buildings, less concrete, more trees and grass, fewer cars and fewer people. It is not as easy to hide here, and though he appears to be alone, he knows he’s not.

  He moves through the gates, his shoes squishing the muddy grass along the path to the first section of burial plots. An ocean of graves awaits him—crypts, tombs, headstones, mausoleums and angelic statues—stretching for far as the eye can see. And yet, ironically, Gordon feels nothing of the dead here, with its great corridors of meaningless stone and rotting flesh, its monuments to dust.

  It’s been a long while since Gordon has been here, so it takes him a moment to remember, but he eventually does, and he finds himself walking along the narrow paved paths between the graves. In time, he arrives at the one he has come to visit, a small headstone of dark gray granite. A cross is etched into the front, and beneath it is Katharina’s name, date of birth and date of death. Alongside hers is Gordon’s name and date of birth, followed by a dash, and then nothing. How strange it is to see one’s name already carved into a gravestone, awaiting one’s inevitable arrival. A cracked green plastic planter lies on its side in front of the stone, the bright flowers it had once been filled with long dead. Gordon remembers coming here the last time with Harry in tow, months ago now, and how they’d brought the planter. He does his best to ignore thoughts and visions of her body under his feet and encased in that horrible coffin. His eyes return to her name, and it quickly blurs through his tears. “Katy,” he whispers. “My Katy.”

  “Gordon…”

  The wind rustles the branches of a nearby tree, drawing his attention to it. He rubs his eyes until they clear, and then he looks again. But he was not mistaken. There is something in the tree…something that doesn’t belong, sitting there on a thick branch not too far from the ground. He takes a few steps toward the tree, which is still about thirty feet away, then squints through the misting rain.

  What the hell is that?

  Gordon takes another step, and then he sees. A man dressed in black sits on the branch, watching him with a wry smile, his legs dangling and swinging to and fro the way a child’s might. He knows what he’s seeing, but his mind can’t quite grasp it.

  “Hello, Gordon,” the man says. His voice is smooth and deep, almost musical, and he appears to be somewhere in his thirties. He is so good-looking he’s nearly pretty, with striking ice-blue eyes and thick dark hair that hangs to his shoulders combed straight back. His goatee is perfectly trimmed and accentuates his bright, perfectly white teeth. “I knew you’d come. I’ve been waiting.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “I know everyone’s name.” He slowly slides from the branch and drops to the ground, effortlessly landing on his feet. His long black leather coat flutters in the wind as he strolls closer. “But some better than others,” he adds, the same wry smile on his handsome face. “We’ve met before. Don’t tell me you can’t remember.”

  He does seem familiar, in a faraway sense, like a distant memory at the very edge of a long-ago dream. But he doesn’t want him to be familiar at all. He doesn’t want to know or be anywhere near this man. “I’ve lost my mind,” Gordon says. “That’s it, isn’t it? I’ve lost my mind.”

  The man arches an eyebrow. “What makes you think it’s yours to lose?” He delicately scratches at his chin with slightly long, tapered, manicured fingernails. There are rings on every finger of both hands. Silver, ornate rings that look like snakes and demons. He combs his hair back, hooking it behind his ears, and reveals silver dagger earrings dangling from each lobe. “Did you really think you’d find what you were looking for here? They’re all gone from thi
s place, Gordon. There’s nothing here but bones.”

  Disjointed flashes of horror blink across his mind’s eye like lightning, and he suddenly feels sick to his stomach. “Who are you?”

  “Who do you think I am?”

  “You’re not real.”

  The man grins and widens his brilliant blue eyes. “Neither are you.”

  “What do you want?”

  The man’s smile slowly fades but he offers no response.

  “Leave me alone.” Gordon moves back. “I’m just an old man.”

  The man motions to Katharina’s grave with a slow sweep of his hand. “But we have things to discuss, you and I.”

  “I don’t know you, we—I’ve never seen you before in my life. You’re lying.”

  “I’m the King of Lies, old friend.” The man’s smile returns. “But remember this. The damned burn not in hellfire, but the light of truth.”

  “It was just thoughts in my head,” Gordon mutters, a hand to his mouth as if this might somehow prevent him from saying anything more.

  “I’m the Rain Man, Gordon.” He looks to the sky. The rain picks up, changes from a mist to a steady drizzle. Not far away, thunder rumbles and rolls across the heavens. “Kneel before me.”

  Again, Gordon backs away, and this time he loses his balance, slips and nearly falls. “Stay away!”

  “You think some rotting bloodless mannequin in a box can save you?”

  “Katy was everything, I—she was all I had!”

  “No, Gordon, you had me too. You’ve always had me too.” The man opens his arms and spreads them wide like great black wings, his leather coat billowing in the wind. “And now I have you.”

  Gordon hobbles to Katy’s grave and drops to his knees. “Help me,” he gasps. “Help me, Katy. Tell me what to do, I—please—tell me what to do.”

  Behind him, Gordon hears the man coming closer, his boots squishing the wet earth with each step. No longer able to remain upright, Gordon slumps forward into the wet grass and mud, his muffled pleas deadened by the din of a suddenly pouring rain…

  Night, in the city…

  Gordon walks the streets for hours, as he often does when he’s troubled or needs to think or sort something out. On this night, after a couple hours wandering the city, he comes upon a small basement nightclub nestled between several quirky storefronts in an otherwise quiet neighborhood in the West Village. It is the small funky sign that first catches his attention. It reads: NIGHT-RAIN CLUB. He is tired from walking and needs a drink. Several drinks, actually, and this seems like a quiet little place where no one will bother him and he can drown his sorrows in peace.

  He descends the steps, slips through a black door painted to resemble a starry night sky, and finds himself in a small club. The modest space consists of a bar against one wall, tables and chairs scattered throughout, and a tiny high-gloss dance floor. A jazz trio plays a mellow tune from a corner stage, and everything is washed in a seductive blue hue from the neon track lighting that runs along the ceiling and walls and even outlines the front of the heavily backlit bar. Several tables are occupied but only one of the ten stools at the bar is in use. Gordon considers escaping to an empty table in the rear of the club, but at the last minute decides to sit at the bar instead.

  He can think of nothing but the woman he met at the New Year’s Eve ball.

  Katharina. Katy to her friends, she told him.

  He has been infatuated with her since he laid eyes on her weeks ago, and has been pursuing her ever since. But so far, nothing, she seems to have no interest in him whatsoever. Perhaps as friends, but Gordon wants more, needs more.

  “I’m in love with her,” he told his friend Harry.

  “You’re obsessed, mate. You can’t be in love, you barely know her.”

  “I know enough. I know I fell in love with her the moment I saw her.”

  He feels silly even thinking such things. It’s not like him, not his way, yet he cannot help himself. He’s been waiting all his life for this woman, he just didn’t know it…until he saw her…and then the realization hit him like an anvil.

  “Evening, welcome to the Night-Rain Club.” The bartender, a stocky, spike-haired man in a gold vest, black pants and a white shirt, greets him with something close to a smile.

  Gordon orders a scotch and soda on the rocks and does his best to relax and enjoy the music. But he has too much on his mind. Harry’s right, he thinks, he is obsessed. But there are worse things, aren’t there? For so long he has lived under a veil of darkness, of past horrors and a lonely life he has been unable to let anyone be a part of in any real way. And now, for the first time, he sees a chance—a real chance—to find happiness. If only he could convince her to spend some time with him, then she’d see…

  The bartender delivers his drink, then moves away.

  Gordon drinks awhile, listens to a set of particularly hypnotic jazz tunes as they drift soulfully through the small space. He closes his eyes, pictures Katy…

  “Is it a woman?”

  The sultry voice to Gordon’s left startles him. He turns to see that a beautiful woman in her midthirties has slid onto the stool next to his despite the fact that all the other spots at the bar remain vacant. “I’m sorry?” he asks.

  “You look troubled,” the woman says, smiling ever so slightly. “Is it a woman?”

  Gordon forces a grin. “Is it that obvious?”

  She shrugs playfully. “Isn’t it always a woman?”

  “You may have a point.”

  “Lucinda,” she says, extending a delicate hand with nails painted fire-red.

  He shakes her hand. It is warm and soft. “Gordon.”

  “Very nice to meet you, Gordon.” She brushes a strand of auburn hair from her beautiful blue eyes and smiles, this time revealing bright white teeth.

  “Pleasure.”

  She signals the bartender. “You don’t mind if I sit so close, do you? I was hoping for some conversation tonight.”

  “I’m not usually one for a lot of conversation, but be my guest.”

  The bartender arrives and gives Lucinda a knowing wink. “Looking gorgeous as ever this evening, Lucy.”

  “Careful, flattery might get you everything you ever wanted.”

  “If only,” he chuckles. “The usual?”

  “Let’s make it a Bloody Mary tonight, Bernie,” she says, and once he’s gone, returns her attention to Gordon. “So do tell, Gordon, why so gloomy?”

  “Nothing all that interesting, I’m afraid.”

  “Let me guess.” Lucinda looks into his eyes. “Love?”

  Gordon raises his glass to her. “You’re good.”

  “Hardly.” She laughs lightly, but it is a deep and bawdy laugh that doesn’t quite fit her otherwise delicate appearance. In a long, dangerously low-cut ruby red dress and black spike heels, she has a face and body that would turn any man’s head, and more than a few women’s. Her makeup is a bit heavy, especially her bold red lipstick and dark eye shadow, but she manages it without appearing cheap. Still, she practically drips sex, and carries herself like someone who knows what she’s got and how it affects other people, especially straight men, and is in no way shy about utilizing it. In fact, if anything, it appears to amuse her.

  Gordon can’t decide if this is because she considers herself superior, or if she simply doesn’t take herself all that seriously. He decides it’s the latter, but he can’t be entirely certain. Although talking about his troubles with this stranger is just about the last thing he wants to do, there is something so charming about her, so disarming, he already knows he will do just that, because she also seems harmless and genuine.

  “Troubles at home with the wife?” she asks.

  He holds his left hand up to show her the lack of a wedding ring. “Not married.”

  “Girlfriend then?”

  “No. Not yet anyway.”

  “Ah-hah. Hoping for love but not yet sure she feels the same?”

  “At this point, I’
m just hoping she’ll give me a chance.”

  “And if she does?”

  “That she’ll see we were meant to be.”

  “Mmm, fate.” She widens her eyes, his answer having noticeably aroused her. She leans closer, her ample breasts crushed against him as she whispers in his ear. “Are you a believer in such things?”

  The bartender delivers Lucinda’s drink. Gordon doesn’t answer until he’s gone and she sits back. “I’m not sure what I believe. I just want a chance.”

  She raises her glass. “To chances.”

  He lifts his glass and gently taps it against hers.

  “And to taking full advantage of them when they’re offered,” she adds.

  As they drink, Lucinda’s free hand drops beneath the bar, slides onto his knee and gives it a gentle squeeze. Gordon does not remove it.

  Neither does she.

  A church bell rings, breaking through the sound of the rain. Gordon pushes himself up. Still on his knees, he sways but catches himself on Katy’s stone. His face is wet and smeared with mud, his hat crushed down in front. He digs in his pocket for a handkerchief, finds it and wipes himself clean. For several moments he remains where he is, partly because he is afraid to look behind him, and partly because he isn’t sure if he yet has the strength to get himself back to his feet. But he knows he can’t stay out here forever. He’s soaked to the bone and freezing, a potentially lethal combination for someone his age.

  Finally, he looks behind him. The man is not there. He looks to the tree, where he’d first seen him. Nothing. Yet the fear, the terror, remains.

  Memories of long-lost nights cling to him, forcing him to remember things he has tried for years to forget, to convince himself are not true and never took place.

  I’m the King of Lies, old friend.

  Using the headstone for purchase, Gordon pushes himself up and onto his feet. The front of his raincoat is wet and stained with dirt and mud, but he doesn’t bother to clean it off, because things are moving inside him, slithering about, coming awake and creeping out from the darkest and most diseased corners of his mind. And he cannot escape them. Not anymore. Not ever again.