R. Stine: Red Rain

A jumbled text message from Lea had made him think the kids were being held in the school. It read: Kids school help . Her second text was just as frantic: Twins evil dangruss.

When Mark sneaked in through the basement entrance, he nearly fell over the charred body of Mrs. Maloney. The sight of her corpse, burned black and tossed on the basement floor near the furnace room, sent him into a breathless panic. Ira? Elena? Are the kids being burned, too?

Now he tore into the classroom, intent on saving his children. He had seen the cop go down. Saw the tear in the cop’s scalp and the blood flowing down both sides of his face. Saw the cop thrashing on his back in pain.

Mark roared down the aisle and heaved himself over the teacher’s desk. Eggs and potatoes went flying, and the plates crashed to the floor.

Startled, the twins froze.

Sliding over the desk on his stomach, Mark shot out both arms in a desperate grab for the two boys. He tightened his fingers in their hair and smacked their heads together as hard as he could.

The collision made a clonnnk sound like wood smashing against wood.

Samuel grunted in pain, as the fire in his eyes dimmed like a car cigarette lighter dying.

Cursing, Daniel squirmed and tried to spin away.

Hold on. Hold on. You can do it.

Mark squeezed his fingers into their hair, and with a grunt of effort, smashed their heads together again with all his strength.

Without even a groan, their jaws went slack and their eyes rolled up. Mark loosened his grip on their heads, and they slumped to the floor behind the desk.

Gasping for breath, he lowered himself to the floor, then turned and motioned frantically to Elena and Ira, frozen in the aisle, gaping at him in shock. “Dad! How did you get in here?” Ira cried.

“Hurry! Out of here!” He hurried over to them and wrapped them in a tight hug. “You’re okay? You’re not hurt?” They nodded. Mark glanced at the twins, still unconscious, piled on top of each other on the floor. He knew they wouldn’t be out for long.

“No time! No time! I have to get everyone out.” He guided them urgently toward the open window and watched as they eased their legs over the ledge and disappeared over the side.

“I’ll be back!” he called to the cop thrashing in pain on the floor. “I’ll come back for you.”

He sucked in a deep breath, coughing from the smoke-filled air, and took off running down the long hall to the front doors, shoes skidding on the tiles. He grabbed the door handles, fumbled with the bolt that held them locked, shoved it aside, and flung the doors open wide.

Then he turned and tore back down the hall-all a blur of shadows, the walls, the rows of dark lockers, the classroom doors.

You can do this. Keep going. You can do this.

“Out! Everybody out!” His hoarse screams rang off the walls. “Everybody outside!”

Flinging open doors, he shouted at the kids sitting at the tables, on the floor, on window ledges. “Out the front door! Your parents are waiting! Out! Get moving!”

The halls were suddenly alive with jubilant shouts and excited kids stampeding to the doors. Whatever hold the twins had over these kids had ended, and they rushed to celebrate their freedom.

Heart pounding, Mark remembered the wounded cop. He dove into a classroom, careened off a wooden table, bounced to the window, and threw it open. Through billowing curtains of black smoke, he saw cops and feds in several windows down the row.

“Cop down!” he screamed. “There’s a cop down inside! He needs help.”

FBI agents and uniform cops swarmed to the window, and then black jackets were everywhere, in his window and at the door. They didn’t seem to recognize him or remember that he was a fugitive.

“It’s the twins! I knocked them out. But the cop was hurt. The twins did it. You have to take them.” Mark realized he must sound crazy.

A stern-faced cop grabbed Mark’s arm. “Just take us to the cop, okay?”

He led them into the hall, nearly silent and empty now. Trotted toward the classroom. Was this the right room? Yes. He saw the poster of the president with the blue arrow on his cheek. Black smoke billowed into the room from outside.

Pavano had pulled himself to a sitting position and was gripping his head with both hands to stanch the flow of blood. Two cops rushed to his side, one of them shouting into a radio-phone for help.

Mark waved the FBI agents to the front of the room. “The twins. It’s the twins. They’re the killers! I’ll explain later. Just grab the twins!”

He saw their skeptical looks. They hesitated, then moved toward him, suspicious. “Who are you, mister? How’d you get in here?”

Mark shook his head. “I’ll explain everything. But you’ve got to get these twins. I knocked them out. Get them. Behind the desk. Watch out. . Watch out for the eyes.”

The agents drew their weapons and he stood back. He watched them go into a stalking stance as they approached the desk.

“The twins. They’re on the floor. I. . I knocked them out. We got them. We got them!”

Two agents lurched behind the desk. They appeared to freeze, as if someone had pushed a pause button. Slowly, one of them raised his gaze to Mark. “No one here. No one.” He glanced at the open window. “We’re too late, I think. They got away.”

Mark saw Lea walking determinedly down the middle of the Sag Harbor pier, eyes searching for him among the two rows of parked cars. He could see her distress from her body language, arms tensed at her sides, hands balled into fists, shoulders slumped, strides clipped and rapid.

He waited at the far end of the pier, the meeting place he had suggested that morning. Behind him, the water of the bay lapped darkly against the pilings below. The white yachts lining both sides of the pier stood as still as if on land, too big to be rocked by the gentle waves. One enormous yacht had a red Porsche parked on its wide stern and white-uniformed staff carrying breakfast trays to the main cabin.

Mark stepped out from behind a black Mercedes SUV, watching the pier behind Lea, making sure she hadn’t been followed.

The morning had started out cloudless and bright, but now the sky was leaden with acrid smoke. Mark glanced at his watch. Not quite eleven o’clock, and the pier was pretty empty. In an hour or so, as lunchtime approached, the parking spaces would all be filled. He watched men unload shrimp and lobsters from the back of a white panel truck and carry them across the pier into the small, shingled Dock House clam bar.

He took a deep breath, expecting to smell salt water. But sour smoke burned his nose. That fire must still be out of control.

A man and a teenage boy walked past carrying fishing rods. The boy pointed to a spot on the side of the pier, but the man waved him off, and they kept walking. No one else in sight. Mark slid out from the SUV and called to Lea.

She stopped short, as if surprised to see him there. Then she came running, dark hair bobbing at the sides of her face, no smile for him.

“Lea-”

“Oh, Mark, here you are.”

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against him. He wanted to squeeze her tight, hold her there for a long time. She was his old life, his good life, and he desperately wanted to hold on to her. He kissed her, then pressed his stubbly cheek against her face.

“Mark.” She pulled away, out of his arms. “I got your text. You’re okay? How did you get away from the school?”

“The FBI agents didn’t recognize me. I slipped out while they were searching the classrooms.” He held onto her. “Thank God the kids are okay.”