R. Stine - Red Rain

No. The man didn’t move.

Mark started to jog toward the car. But he stopped halfway. Hulenberger’s head. . it wasn’t right.

He spun away, his mind whirling. From the wine. From the headache. So hard to think clearly.

Oh my God. Oh my God.

What has happened here?

“Richard? Can you answer me?”

A tightness gripped Mark’s chest. A wave of cold washed over his body, a cold he’d never felt before.

He lurched to the car. What was splattered over the windshield? “Richard? Richard?” Breathing hard, he gazed into the open window. Grabbed the bottom of the window with both hands. Leaned toward the wheel.

And screamed. A long, shrill scream of horror from somewhere deep in his throat.

“No! Fucking no! Oh my God! Oh, shit. Oh my God!”

Dark blood splattered the windshield, as if someone had heaved a can of paint over the glass. And Hulenberger. . Hulenberger. . The blood had run down his shirt, his suit. .

Like a sweater. A sweater of blood.

His head tilted back. His throat. . it had been torn open. Ripped open?

“Oh my God. Oh my God. Fucking no!”

Fighting the tide of nausea, the drumming of his heart that made the blood pulse at his temples, Mark pushed himself back, away from the car. He turned to the house. He saw the twins standing at the top of the driveway.

“Get back! Go back! Don’t come down here! Go back!” He waved them away with both hands. They turned and ran.

Had they seen anything?

His hands felt wet. He raised them to his face. They were covered in blood. Hulenberger’s blood. He shook them hard as if trying to toss the blood away. Then he staggered into the house. Through the living room, to the kitchen where Roz was tilting the tomato sauce pan over a big bowl of spaghetti.

“Roz! Call the police.” So breathless she didn’t hear him.

He grabbed her shoulder, startling her. Her eyes locked on his hands. “Mark? Oh my God! Is that blood?”

“Roz-call the police! Hurry! Call the police! Call the police!”

“It’s a ten-eighty-four, Vince. We’re on the scene.”

“I gotta learn those numbers, Chaz. I never know what Vince is talking about.”

“Forgetaboutit, Andy. No one knows what Vince is talking about.”

Pavano peered out the window as his partner, Chaz Pinto, eased the car up the gravel driveway. “Where are we? Why does this look familiar?”

“John Street, dude. You took the call ten minutes ago, remember?”

A dark Audi stood in the drive. Chaz stopped the black-and-white a few feet behind it.

“It’s taking me awhile to get oriented, you know. We’re by the water, aren’t we?”

“Yeah. The bay is over there.” Pinto pointed out the side door. They both gazed at the car in front of them.

“The caller was a woman. She didn’t say what the problem was. Something about a car in the driveway. The driver. .”

“I see him. The back of his head. Not moving.”

“Heart attack?”

“Hope so. That would make it easy.” Pinto leaned toward the radio. “We’re going to check out the car, Vince. You there?”

“Of course I’m here. Where else would I be, Pinto? Don’t sit there holding hands, you two. Get out and take a look.”

“The driver appears to be in the car.”

The front door to the house swung open, and a dark-haired man in jeans and a white polo shirt stepped out.

Pavano’s eyes went wide. “Hey, I know that dude.” His breath caught in his throat. “Oh, wow. Oh no. I don’t believe this.”

“What’s your problem, Andy?”

Pavano pushed the car door open, flipped his half-smoked Camel to the driveway, and lowered his feet to the ground. “I’ve been here. That night. Remember? The rain? I had the wrong house. I told him his wife was dead!”

Pinto let out a hoarse wheeze of a laugh. “We’re still talking about that one. Behind your back, you know. It’s classic. We’ll be talking about that asshole move for a long time.”

“Thanks, partner.” Pavano stretched his lanky body, adjusted his black uniform cap lower over his eyes. Maybe the guy won’t remember me.

Yeah, sure. What are the chances?

Pinto was approaching the driver’s side of the Audi. Pavano followed, boots crunching on the gravel driveway, eyes on the man inside the car.

“Hello, sir? Sir? Are you all right?”

The man from inside the house came running down the driveway. “I’m Mark Sutter,” he shouted. “This is my house.”

Pavano waved him back. “Please stay there.”

The driver’s side window was down. “Hey, sir!” Pinto shouted loudly into the car even though he was just a few feet away. “Sir? Are you okay?”

“He’s not okay. He’s fucking dead!” Sutter cried. He didn’t heed Pavano’s instruction. He ran up beside them, breathing hard. “He’s dead. I saw him. It. . it’s horrible.”

Pinto and Pavano both stooped and leaned into the window at the same time.

“Oh, my God!”

“Oh, fuck no! Fuck no!”

“I. . can’t believe it,” Sutter stammered.

Pavano frantically waved him back. “Please stay back, sir. Let us do our job.”

A pair of blond boys were watching from the front door. “Get the kids away, sir. Please!”

The boys stepped out onto the stoop. “Is he sick?”

“Please, Mr. Sutter. Get those boys inside.”

“Oh, fuck. This is impossible!” Pinto gasped. “His whole throat. .”

“It. . it’s open. Opened up. Like ripped open.”

“No. It’s burned. Totally burned. See the black skin around the hole? The skin is charred. It’s flaking off.”

Pavano turned away, his stomach tightening into a knot. The man’s throat had been cut or ripped open. He shut his eyes and still pictured the dark red flesh inside, blackened. A hole, a gaping hole in the man’s neck. Thick, dark blood caked down the front of the man’s suit, puddled in his lap.

Someone opened his throat and let him bleed out.

“How did this happen? How could it happen? Here in my driveway,” Sutter said, shaking his head.

“Mr. Sutter, please go in your house. Wait for us. And keep those boys away from the window. You don’t want them to see this.”

Sutter started to turn away, then stopped. “Hey, I remember you!”

Pavano ignored him and turned back to his partner. Pinto reached for the door handle, then thought better of it. “Fingerprints. Look. There’s blood smeared on the door here. Might be good fingerprints. We need backup here. We need an ME. We need the crime scene guys.”

Pavano raced back to the patrol car, flung the door open, and grabbed the radio. “Vince, we have a homicide here. We need backup. We need someone with a strong stomach.”

“I take it you don’t need an ambulance?”

“No. We don’t need an ambulance. This is a murder scene. We need CS guys. We have a man with a giant hole in his neck and-”

“Save the details, Andy. I’m eating my dinner. Ten-four.”

“Just hurry, Vince. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“You haven’t seen much-have you, Andy?”

Who told him he always has to have the last word? And who told him he couldn’t be serious even for a crime this horrible?

Pavano slammed the patrol car door and made his way back to Pinto. The big, older cop leaned with his hands on his waist, peering into the victim’s window. Finally he turned, removed his cap, and scratched his thinning flattop.

“It’s like a horror movie, Andy. The skin is all scorched. The hole is as big as a grapefruit. And it looks empty inside. Just burned skin.” He swallowed. His teeth clicked.