R. Stine - Red Rain

“Just wait. I’m sending them now. There are three JPEGs in all.”

Lea watched Martha’s fingers move over her keyboard. Her expression was tense, almost bitter.

“I’m really sorry to burden you with this, Lea. Especially with the hell you’re going through. I hate being the messenger, really. James and I care about you. We think you did such a brave thing. I mean, adopting those boys. But you need to see these photos.”

Martha blinked and typed some more. “Also, James and I. . we kept something from you. We kept a big secret. We thought you’d be better off not knowing. We did it for your happiness, Lea. But the secret. . I guess I just have to come out and say it. It’s making us feel too guilty.”

“What the hell, Martha? What are you talking about? Such a big fucking mystery? Maybe this isn’t the best time. I-”

“Did you get the photos, Lea? You should have gotten them by now. Check your email. I’ll just wait.”

Lea slid the mouse and opened her in-box. Yes. There was the email from Martha.

Lea clicked twice to open the attachments. She waited for them to download, watching the little line slide across the screen. Her heart started to pound.

She clicked again, the Picasa program came to life, and a thumbnail photo appeared on the screen. She clicked it. And watched as it sprang up full-size.

A black-and-white photo. A beach scene? No. “Is it Cape Le Chat Noir?”

“Yes.” Martha’s reply in a soft voice.

“Oh, wow. I see. It’s after the hurricane. All the houses are down. And the trees. I see.”

She saw several forlorn people huddled in the background, fuzzy and out of focus. And near the camera. . Standing together, one with his hand around the other’s shoulder. . Yes. The twins.

No mistaking them. Daniel and Samuel standing close together, surrounded by the hurricane’s destruction.

“Martha, I see the twins.”

“Take a good look, Lea.”

“I am taking a good look. The twins are standing there together after the hurricane. They’re holding on to each other and looking very alone and forlorn.”

Her eyes scanned the photo. “I don’t see anything else, Martha. Am I missing something? Why is this photo interesting?”

“Well, do you notice the photo is in black-and-white?”

“Yes. So?”

“It wasn’t taken after the hurricane here last month, Lea.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The photo was taken in 1935. The day after the hurricane of 1935.”

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.