R. Stine - Red Rain

The light faded. The room came back into focus. And Mark, startled, found himself shouting, “But I’m innocent!”

“Wow. No one ever told us that before,” Franks said.

Maybe it was Franks’s sarcasm that set him off. Or maybe it was the frightening images of the future that flashed before him, almost like something in a science-fiction movie. Or maybe it was the burning outrage that was making it impossible for him to breathe.

This isn’t right. I didn’t murder anyone.

I couldn’t murder anyone. I couldn’t murder Hulenberger. I couldn’t murder Autumn.

My kids are missing. My kids are in terrible danger.

Why are they arresting me? Why aren’t they finding my kids?

Something clicked in his mind. He thought he heard the snap . It was too much. Too much. Without thinking, he started to move.

He saw Lea push her way past the cops in the doorway. And he heard her sharp cry: “It wasn’t Mark! It was the twins !”

He heard her blame the twins. Yes, he heard her shout to the officers: “It was the twins.” And he saw Lea pull some papers from her robe pocket.

But he couldn’t stop himself to hear more. He was already moving. He already had the back of the desk chair gripped in both hands.

With an animal grunt, he gave the chair a hard shove. Thrust it forward on its metal wheels. Sent it skidding into the cop with the handcuffs.

He saw the seat cushion bounce into the cop’s midsection. Heard the unsuspecting guy utter a startled groan and saw him toss his hands up, off-balance.

And then Mark dove to the open window. Both hands on the sill, he flung himself out, swung himself like some kind of circus acrobat.

Surprise, everyone!

He dropped onto his back on the hedge beneath the window. Scrambled like a turtle to right himself, arms and legs spiraling at once.

And yes, the element of surprise had helped him. No one was staring out of the window yet. As he forced himself to his feet, ignoring the bramble scratches on his back, his eyes gazed around the backyard. No cops back here. The idiots thought he would submit without any trouble to them.

He heard shouts and angry cries. Heard Franks’s deep voice booming from the window. “Sutter-stop. Are you crazy ? Stop or we’ll shoot!”

But he was already around the side of the guesthouse, his sneakers pounding the hard ground, into the cluster of trees that bordered the yard. The ground sloped down, leading him into woods thick with ancient oak and sassafras trees, their fat trunks tilted and tangled and hugged by fat evergreen pines.

Every sense alert, his eyes darting to find a path through the thickening underbrush, Mark heard no shots. The shouts had faded far behind.

He couldn’t think clearly. The rush of adrenaline and the blood pulsing so furiously at his temples kept his mind from focusing. He was an animal. An animal running to safety.

He leaped over a fallen trunk covered in green and yellow lichen. Pushed through two pine bushes, stumbled on the thick carpet of dead leaves under his shoes, caught his balance and kept running.

Small creatures scuttled out of his way. Chipmunks? Moles? Over the rushing in his ears, he heard the loud caw of birds high in the trees, and he imagined them calling to the police, reporting his location.

He realized he had never ventured into these woods behind his house. This was nature, the uncivilized world, and he was civilized. An author. A father. A husband.

But what was he now?

Running for his life, his freedom, what was he now?

And where was he going?

“Ithink we have a gang or something,” Pavano said, chewing the end of his breakfast burrito. “I mean, something organized, don’t you think?”

Pinto nodded. He drove past the middle school and turned the patrol car onto Ackerly Street, his eyes surveying the suburban-style houses, the neat lawns and paved driveways.

“Two burglaries on a Monday morning, and it isn’t even eight yet,” Pinto agreed. “I’d say it was the same guy.”

“Couldn’t be just one guy.” Pavano wiped cheese off his chin with the back of his hand. His eyes were on the sidewalks. Perhaps they could catch them red-handed.

That would feel like an achievement. So far, my life here has been total frustration.

“Look at what they took, Pinto. Flat-screen TVs, desktop computers, phones, handheld video games. One guy by himself couldn’t boost-”

“It’s the food I don’t get.” Pinto burped loudly. He’d already finished his burrito. “I mean, emptying the fucking refrigerators? What kind of thief takes all the food, too?”

“A hungry one?”

“Ha-ha. Don’t try to be funny, Pavano. You know what you are? You are antifunny.”

“I’m not a fucking riot like you, Pinto. True. Let’s try to think about this.” He pushed a chunk of scrambled egg into his mouth. “This town has gone crazy, Pinto. Three fucking ugly murders. All those kids kidnapped. Now we got houses robbed and-”

The radio beeped. “Where are you girls?” Vince, able to sound harassed in only four words.

“We’re on Ackerly near the school,” Pinto answered.

“Good. I got another break-in for you. This one’s on Clinton. Woman just got home. Thinks she saw the thieves running off. Maybe you can catch them. How fast can they run with computers and TVs?”

“Maybe they have a truck,” Pavano offered.

“Maybe they have a flying saucer. Get over there.”

The patrol car squealed like in the movies as Pinto made a high-speed U-turn, the car rolling over the curb, spinning up grass, then bumping back to the street.

“Vince, you sending backup?” Pinto, leaning over the wheel, eyes on both sides of the street at once.

“You’re joking, right? Every other guy I got is with the feds and the state clowns, searching for Sutter. They’re all over Sag Harbor yesterday and no one comes up with a footprint or a trace of the guy.”

“You see the Post this morning?” Pinto slowed the car down as they approached the house on Clinton. “‘Psycho Psychologist’?”

“Pretty good,” Vince replied. “Hey, don’t expect backup for anything. I got twenty more missing kids. The parents are out in front of the station banging on the door. Like a lynch mob or something. Where are you? You see any kids?”

“Of course I see kids,” Pinto said. “We just passed the middle school. I see kids going in.”

“School’s gonna be a little weird,” Vince said. “We got at least a hundred kids gone missing.”

“Maybe there is a flying saucer,” Pavano said.

Silence on Vince’s end. The radio squealed, then cut off.

“There’s the woman, waving to us on the porch,” Pinto said. “Like we couldn’t read her fucking address.”

“People get upset when their house is robbed,” Pavano murmured.

“Hey, you know what? You’re a fucking genius.”

“And how come you’re in a total shit mood this morning?”

Pinto grunted. “I guess cuz everything is going so well in this town.”

Pavano shoved the last chunk of burrito into his mouth. The car turned into the driveway. “You know, I don’t think Sutter is guilty.”

Pinto scowled at him. “Maybe I agree. But no one is asking us, Andy. Franks and the feds got their mind made up. They got the dude’s wallet. They got the other two murders. And the fucking guy ran.”

“It’s not much when you think about it.” Pavano reached for the door handle. The woman was running down the driveway toward them. “He just doesn’t seem the type, you know.”

“I don’t know,” Pinto said. “He seems pretty squirrely to me. That wallet thing. Does he ever look like he’s telling the truth? No. And why did he run?”