Velvet Rain

~ what really happened

New York Times, April 16, 1912

RMS Titanic STRIKES BERG, THIRTY-TWO PERISH

Captain, Crew Of Carpathia Praised As Thousands Rescued

New York Times, October 2, 1927

BABE FALLS SHORT OF 60

Ruth’s Last At-Bat Ends In Strikeout, 4–2 Loss For Yanks

Detroit Free Press, May 4, 1930

MAN DROWNS WIFE, EIGHT CHILDREN, HANGS SELF

Battle Creek Teacher "Such a nice, quiet man"

Los Angeles Times, July 14, 1937

AROUND THE WORLD! EARHART TRIUMPHANT

Aviatrix Lands Electra In California Amid Wild Reception

Boston Globe, February 7, 1938

AUSTRALIAN WILDFIRES OUT OF CONTROL, 22 DEAD

Melbourne Hero Saves Twin Girls From Deadly Blaze

Washington Times-Herald, May 1, 1945

BERLIN FALLS

Third Reich Crumbles, Hitler Captured By Russians

Los Angeles Times, August 20, 1945

U.S. DROPS THIRD A-BOMB

Kokura Destroyed As Japan Remains Defiant

Montreal Gazette, October 14, 1946

HITLER EXECUTED, GOERING NEXT FOR NOOSE

I.M.T. Delivers Its Own ‘Final Solution’

San Francisco Chronicle, February 3, 1951

VIOLIN Wunderkind, 14, VANISHES AFTER PERFORMANCE

Gerhardt Schenck Abducted At War Memorial Opera House

New York Times, March 9, 1951

TIME GONE WRONG

What’s Happening In Newark?

New York Times, June 16, 1954

GRISLY MASS GRAVE FOUND IN NEVADA DESERT

Monkeys, Dogs Burned, Buried With Torched Human Remains

Chicago Daily Tribune, February 4, 1959

FLIGHT OF TERROR ENDS IN MIRACLE

Buddy Holly Survives Crash In Iowa Field

London Times, August 20, 1960

FIERY COLLISION CLAIMS LIVERPOOL MUSICIANS

Four Brits Perish In Hamburg

Drunk Driver, Son Of Titanic Survivor, In Coma

~ 1

Now the cheating prick had drawn a knife.

Probably shouldn’t have kicked him in the balls, Kain Richards thought. Especially since the fat man’s burly friend here had him tied up in a full nelson. It hurt like hell, but it was nothing compared to that spike of static driving right through that splitting headache he had. It felt as if it were cutting into his brain like some impossible electric blade.

"Hold him, Cal. Hold that goddamn drifter."

It wasn’t the fat man who spoke; he stood silently holding his balls, holding the knife. One of Cal’s buddies had piped up. All of a sudden, the bar was just crawling with rats.

The fat man eyed the drifter squarely, still wincing from the throb in his jewels. He seemed to hesitate, then drove his steel-toed boot into Kain’s groin.

Kain swallowed the agony. He’d endured far worse than these boys could dish out, and he wasn’t about to give them the satisfaction. His lips slid into a cockeyed grin.

Outside the packed roadhouse—this stinking pisshole that stank like all the others—the thunderstorm raged. Somewhere down that cold and lonely road that had brought them here, lightning struck a power line, and the lights flickered.

No more tricks, the fat man said. From the harried look on his chubby face, it was clear he was trying to get a grip on what the hell had happened here tonight. Trying not to lose that grip.

Kain glanced at the pretty redhead in the booth beside the coin-op pool table. Her face was ashen, her head down, a hand cupped to her abdomen. She’d been drinking heavily, and while it was possible her bouts of nausea were a result of overindulgence, he knew better. Like most of the others here, she was suffering from some of the side-effects of his magic—just a small part of the nastiness of the Turn.

A waitress was on her knees beside the woman, cleaning up the redhead’s vomit. The fat man had slipped in it, his cue almost breaking his fall, and when he had hit the floor in that little spiral the way he had, looking like some overweight stripper round a pole, half the place had exploded in drunken laughter.

Sweat beaded the fat man’s forehead. One tiny bead slipped along his sunburned skin, skin that had, until tonight, been utterly pasty. His puzzled eyes—yellowed and bloodshot, like so many of the others now—lingered on the strange thin scars on Kain’s temples.

Cut him, someone said. It wasn’t Cal, but what did it matter.

Kain studied the fat man. The guy didn’t look like he had it in him. No, he wasn’t really thinking about cutting him. The poor bastard was just messed up, wondering how things had gotten so crazy, so quickly. Wondering what was real anymore. What was real.

Do it, Cal said.

Despite the nelson driving his head down at an insufferable angle, Kain could see Cal’s bulging forearms plainly enough. Sunburned, just like the fat man’s face; like the fat man’s hands. Like most of the others. He supposed he should have been thankful for dim lights and drink. Either no one noticed, or no one cared.

Still … he knew better than to use the Turn. Turning back time was rarely a good idea, certainly not for something so frivolous as to give him second chances at shots he’d blown shooting stick. And as the lone long-haired freak in a joint full of stone-drunk hicks and big-boned bad asses, it probably wasn’t the brightest one.

Do it, goddamnit, Cal said.

The fat man drew closer and brought the tip of the blade to Kain’s chin. I want what’s mine, sir.

Sir, Kain thought. How down-home respectable. And here he was, shitting where the man ate.

He eyed the name tag stitched on the man’s wrinkled brown jacket. Owner-operator of Most Truck For Your Buck, Ron was a regular one-rig shipping magnate from Willow Springs, a lovely place Ron’d called the best of the best of this fine state of Missouri. The guy had been a pretty good egg, with an honest smile and an honest laugh; had been kind enough to pick him up in that miserable rain, even buy him the first round. But the fact was, a good dozen beers in and getting squeezed by his hustle, he had wanted to level the cheating prick.

Oh, yes. He’d been a mark from the get-go, the guy sharking him at just the right moments. A cough here, some chatter there, just enough to distract him. Before he knew it he’d fallen into a forty-dollar hole, and instead of taking it up the ass any deeper, he’d clawed his way back and was up twenty. But now the guy was on to him. Ol’ Ron knew he’d been hustled, and from the look on his sorry mug, probably had some crazy ideas on just how that had happened—ideas that were making him question his sanity.

Kain cursed himself. He should have bolted when he’d had the chance. How many times had he Turned? Small wonder his head was pounding. And what the hell was that damn static? It was coming in fits now, like a circling pack of wild, growling dogs.

Dizzied, he held dead still against the tip of the knife. The smoky air sickened, but didn’t he crave a cigarette, suddenly. Still, after all these years. He didn’t really want one, of course, but what he wouldn’t do to ease the agony in his head.

He looked to the barkeep in the slim hope of a hand. The man regarded the goings-on with but a cursory glance, clearly more concerned with that looker at the end of the bar, chatting her up the way he was. In fact, save this intimate little gathering near the pool table, most of this questionable clientele seemed entirely disinterested. Not good.

Come on, Cal said, pressing the nelson. Bleed this cheatin’ bastard.

Here we go, Kain thought. Over the edge. Over a couple of sawbucks.

The fat man seemed to panic, then slit him with a quick flick of the blade. It stung. Blood dribbled down his throat to his chest. The nelson tightened, that throb in his neck crushing like a boatload of bricks coming down on him. If the Turn had given Cal a case of the body aches, he sure wasn’t showing it. The man was a bull.

Kain shook it off. He looked up past the knife, past the looker, to the glowing GUYS AND DOLLS sign that led to the restrooms. There was a jukebox on the way, a big rounded Wurlitzer, Big Bad John blaring out of its speakers for what must have been the tenth time tonight. Jimmy Dean had been all over the radio these days, would likely hit the top of the charts, and while the man had undoubtedly penned a great song, by this—the twenty-seventh of October, 1961, the biting wind howling hell’s breath beyond the gloom of this place—Kain had pretty much had his fill. And more than enough of this night.

Twenty and we’re square, sir, the trucker said, politely as sin. His voice held a touch of that approachable Missouri, but that honest smile had long since fled. His searching eyes narrowed. "I figure it’s likely more. But we can’t know for sure now, can we. Can we?"

At this the man glanced about to garner agreement. Not a word was spoken, but some of the patrons, the rats, mostly, seemed to concur. The eyes—sickly or not—never lie.

Kain capitulated with a nod. His long chestnut hair, cradling the shoulders of his weathered denim jacket, slipped down in front of his face. He held a menacing bad-boy look, and the looker, long since bored with the barkeep, stirred on her high bar stool. She bit down teasingly on her lower lip, handing him a breathless gaze with those perfect green gems. She had no idea how lucky she was; the redhead’s eyes were creepy little pissholes now.

You win, Kain said, feigning exasperation.

No more tricks, the fat man snapped. He drew the knife back with a step. Nodded to Cal.

Cal let Kain go, giving him a mild shove. You’re one lucky fuck, drifter.

Kain gathered himself. He had one chance to get out of this. He just hoped he had the juice.

With a small smile to the looker, he reached for his breast pocket in an innocent gesture of settling up, figuring to give Cal an elbow to the gut before he snatched up his knapsack and bolted for the exit. He was just about to when thunder rumbled and the place went black. Mild chaos turned to utter chaos when the lights didn’t come, and amid the ruckus of shouting, shuffling, and confusion, like a finely tuned magician, the audience astir, he summoned the magic … and popped the rabbit out of the hat.

~ 2

Above the bar, the neon Budweiser clock ticked six minutes to one; give or take a few seconds, it had reversed three minutes. Jimmy Dean was just getting started (for what was in fact the ninth time), and when the looker crossed her legs the way she did, bouncing one upon the other so sexily, Kain Richards, not a scratch on his sculpted chin, called for another round.

He tried to tell himself that if the lights hadn’t failed when they had, he might have made it. But in all the confusion, stumbling through blackness and bodies, he hadn’t been able to find his knapsack. Some bastard had lifted it. He didn’t have much, nothing more than a few clothes, but there was his dark secret, tucked safely inside. He had had no choice, and now here he was—here they were—again.

He considered making a run for it right then and there, but the Ol’ Ron and Cal Show would be all over him the moment he went for his things. And once they discovered he only had three dollars and sixty-two cents in his pocket, wouldn’t there be fireworks then.

He prayed he could pull this off. As he slipped a coin into the steel slot of the pool table, Ron and Cal watched him like a hawk. Their new sunburns had deepened further, and their bloodshot eyes were the color of butter.

Before he racked the balls, he glanced at his weathered boots. A faint dusting of fine white powder clung to them. It hadn’t shown up in his earlier Turns, but this time it had. He had to wonder how many had seen the mist, too.

He studied the fat man carefully. Rather than drawing his cue as he had expected, ol’ Ron took a swig of his draft instead, deferring the break to him with a nod. It was a little thing, not taking his cue this time, but how well he knew how such a trivial change in the way of things could ripple into chaos. The good news was, the man hadn’t taken the break; he had feared that might happen, and his chance would be lost.

This would have to work. His mind was out of gas, sucked dry from his mental exertions. Another Turn would likely leave him unconscious. And with these boys, he’d likely find himself in a ditch wearing nothing but the clothes God gave him when he came to.

Kain chalked his cue. Then, before the fat man changed his mind, he stepped around the table and positioned himself for the break.

No tricks, sir, Ron said.

Kain looked up.

You calling ME a cheat? he’d snapped the last time, and hadn’t that worked out well. He kept his big mouth shut.

Kain watched carefully as Cal shifted from his perch at the bar and stood close to the table. So far, so good. But now that he knew Ronnie-boy had a knife, there was no telling what might happen this time around. If things got dicey again, a little slit on the chin could turn to a six-inch gash across the throat.

Tell you what, Kain said warmly. Double or nothing?

What’dya take him for? Cal barked. A goddamn fool?

Fine as a feather, Ron said after some deliberation. He was clearly intent on collecting, win or lose. His face was stone.

Maybe he knows, Kain thought. Maybe he knows, and his mind has finally snapped. It’s rare with the Turn, sure, but it’s not like it never happens. Look at him. Crazy bastard looks like he’s waiting for his chance—his chance to gut you.

Kain waited a moment, then slid his cue back. Ron moved up a step, and the nauseated redhead, already listing in her seat into the narrow aisle, bless her, gave it her all.

Too fat and too drunk, ol’ Ron stepped gamely, but not gamely enough. He slipped in the slick vomit, his big ass hitting the hardwood like a sack of cement, and Cal, laughing it up like most of the shit-faced others, didn’t notice a thing.

Kain snatched his knapsack and slipped away. He gave a wink to the looker as he passed her, and hurried to the restroom and nearly got stuck as he shimmied through the narrow back window.

Thunder cracked. He looked up from his knees into the driving rain and saw lightning strike a power line. The lights in the roadhouse failed, and by the time they returned, ol’ Ron bolting from the front door and into the storm with bloodshot eyes the size of golf balls, like that finely tuned magician, Kain had vanished.

~

It was in all the papers.

Well, just the local one, Kain knew, but one was enough. One was one too many.

He shouldered his knapsack and put up a hand to keep his newspaper clear of the spitting rain. Sheltered beneath the awning of a roadside diner, he had to abandon it as a family of four came out. The father, a large man, gave him a look that was none too friendly. The four hurried into their station wagon, and while it would be a squeeze, Kain wished he could hitch a ride. The rain was coming in buckets now.

He shook the water from his paper. The date read the twenty-ninth. Yesterday.

He skimmed the article again, his first read coming while perusing the paper over his greasy burger. It had been buried with the obits, which hadn’t surprised him; something as impossible as this was either front page or back page, depending on how it was perceived. An open-minded editor might have taken it as real news—despite their incredulity—but given the playful headline and its location in the paper, this particular one had clearly considered it nothing more than hokum, mere filler to amuse the readership.

After his initial shock of discovering the article, he had looked up from his burger, alarmed. Two booths down, the family man had been reading his own paper, had looked up at the same time, had given him that typical look of suspicion. The long hair? The scars? Usually, that’s what it was. But for all he knew, the man had been at the bar that night. Hell, it might have been his new buddy Cal, for the size of him.

A creeping chill ran the nape of his neck. He stood cold, half expecting the station wagon to come rolling into the lot, a highway patrol car racing close behind.

His head throbbed. The headaches were getting worse. They lasted days, now.

The good news: At least that crazy static was gone. It had been numbing.

His mind drifted back to the roadhouse. He could still hear Jimmy Dean.

What had he been thinking?

He’d thought that the trucker was a Stiff. Thought them all Stiffs. His first mistake.

The second—and it seemed he had been making more and more of them lately—was his stupidity. Drunk or not, cheated or not, you just didn’t Turn on a whim. Jesus.

He read the headline again. It was like a line from a children’s bedtime story. In another life, another time—ha—he might have laughed. Hell, even Brikker, that soulless freak, might have managed a grin. And if—no, when—the sadistic bastard discovered this, no doubt he would.

WILLOW SPRINGS MAN MEETS FATHER TIME

His heart sank. He looked up wistfully, his tired mind drawn north along that desolate road. It looked so cold and dark. So endless.

He slipped the newspaper into the receptacle near the door and turned back to check inside. The waitress was cleaning up, getting ready to close.

He glanced at the Halloween decoration that hung in the window. The jack-o’-lantern had sharp, angled eyes and held a sinister grin. It was twisted and evil.

All he saw was Brikker.

Three whole days, he sighed, weary of moving on so quickly.

The callous October wind slapped him in the face. He stood under the awning for another ten minutes, the downpour finally ebbing, falling to that maddening drizzle.

Kain Richards walked, into the rain.

~ 3

On the first of May, 1962, Kain stepped out of the pickup he’d hitched a ride with, finding himself outside a diner in Columbia, Missouri. Inside, he took the first booth at the windows, slipping his pack on the floor beneath the table. The attractive waitress caught him looking, and when she finished, she came over with a friendly smile he was certain wasn’t just job-related courtesy.

Just a burger, he said. Just ketchup. And a Coke.

She took his order and passed it on to the cook. A half hour later, as he came out of the restroom, she was standing in the lobby waiting for him.

… Can I help you? He didn’t know what else to say.

You look like you need a ride, she said. Saw you get dropped off.

Where you headed?

Rocheport.

When do you get off?

She held up her keys and smiled.

~

They took Sarah-Jane’s beat-up Plymouth on the interstate to Rocheport and stopped for a beer at Barry’s B&G.

The barkeep drew them two drafts. He had arms like tree trunks and narrow eyes of cinnamon that studied the drifter closely. You from around here?

Caught mid-sip, Kain stumbled. East, he said. Miami. Not a total lie. He had been there two years ago. Brikker had been close, too close, and it had been the last time he’d ventured anywhere within fifty miles of where the population outnumbered the livestock.

The barkeep smiled at the woman. How you been, S-J?

Still makin’ a livin’, darlin’.

I hear ya, the barkeep said. Danny-boy quit on me last week. Been busy as hell. He looked at Kain and measured him up. Interested?

Kain was about to say Just passing through, then considered the good woman beside him. She’d been eyeing him playfully, as if she wanted him. He wanted her, too, she was a real looker, but he had no intention of staying long—whatever long meant to other people—and he didn’t want to upset her. Still, right here and now, her company, just a warm voice to talk to, was something he needed. Something real.

Thanks, he said, as genuinely as he could. I’ll think about it.

You okay, buddy?

Kain had twinged a bit, as if stuck with a pin. Static. From the barkeep, suddenly. It had been dormant for months, rearing its ugly head about five weeks ago. Some kid in a corner store. He’d been feeling it on and off ever since, and while he didn’t know what it was, exactly, he had some ideas. He only prayed he was wrong.

You all right, Eddie? Sarah-Jane said.

Kain had told her his name was Eddie Lieberman. Giving his real name was rarely a good idea, not for him, not for them. She probably had enough problems in her life as it was, and she didn’t need Kain Richards or Brent Thompson or whoever the hell he was this week, piling it on. Just a little headache, he said. If only.

Ya know, you remind me a somebody, the barkeep said.

Kain pasted a grin. Cousin, maybe?

The big man chuckled in a half-assed sort of way. He gave a short shake of his head, then went about his business.

Miami? Sarah-Jane asked. What’s it like?

Almost as hot as Missouri.

Isn’t it awful? She stroked his arm. It’s usually pretty cool this time of year. They say it’s gonna break soon, though. More rain’ll help.

They talked for a time, the place growing half full by nine, that inexplicable static growing with it. By nine-thirty, four brews each into the evening, they were back at her apartment. She had wanted sex, he had wanted it too, more than ever, and of course he kept his distance. He slept on her sofa, his headache finally breaking, but as he started from a nightmare around one, he heard the rains. Not outside, but in his head.

~

He stayed a week in Rocheport and found it one of the most engaging places in the Midwest. Standing on the rising limestone cliffs of the Manitou Bluffs gazing out over the Missouri River, a gentle breeze kissed him. The sight was inspiring, and he tried to imagine the thrill for Lewis and Clark on discovering this place. They must have felt free. Alive. Something he hadn’t felt for a long time.

Sarah-Jane was fun, a little folksy, a whole lot horny, and each night he had taken matters into his own hand, so to speak, before she got home. She had taken his lack of erections as well as a woman could, but the hurt had been there, lurking beneath that playful exterior. He hated himself for it, but he wasn’t using her for her flat; his feelings were genuine. Even so—

He would tell her tonight.

She took it well, better than he expected. She understood passing through meant just that, and the next day he was riding the back of a flatbed, north, to Kirksville. Still, he had this gnawing desire to stop moving, to find a place to hang his hat for more than a couple of days. The road—the running—wore like a terminal disease.

He thanked the driver for the lift and walked into town. He took a room in a hotel for the night, and as he lay on the bed, found his mind turning to Sarah-Jane. She had asked about his life on the road, going on about how exciting it must be, about how someday soon she was going to hit the road too, finally free herself of her dead-end job, of dead-end Rocheport. She had also gone on about his scars, how he had identical ones on each temple, how they couldn’t possibly be birthmarks. He’d finally convinced her otherwise, or at least, had gotten her to change the subject. He wondered if he should have stayed longer, and decided he’d made the right choice.

He had liked her too much.

~ 4

Iowa beckoned, and by the third week in May, Kain crossed the state line. Des Moines he avoided—too many faces—and he worked his way west. He crossed the Little Sioux River, and by the time he arrived in the quaint town of Spencer, he was completely taken by the Hawkeye State. Iowa was like a slice of Heaven, its heart pulsing with gorgeous lakes and seas of fields. And now, climbing out of the back of the pickup he was riding in, the warm sun and the sweet breeze seduced him into thinking he might stay a while.

Don’t fall in love with it, he thought. Don’t you do that.

He spent the afternoon among the shops and the bustle. He would have killed for a cold beer, but as he’d quickly discovered weeks prior, a sobering fact of Iowa life was that you couldn’t get as much as a whiff of a Schlitz pull-tab—legally, that was—in a tavern in 1962. That particular treat was still a good year or so away for Iowans, or never, if you listened to the prohibitionists.

Foregoing the beer, his first order of business was to find a place to stay, and it wasn’t long before he found himself a few miles out of town, standing outside a run-down hotel called The Joker’s Wild. The gruff proprietor rented rooms by the day or the week—perfect—but even more perfect was that he served illicit drink to his patrons. Kain finished his cold one, and the aging barkeep showed him the rooms upstairs.

I live in Eight at the enda the hall, Henry Roberts coughed. Henry was skin and bones, smoked like a chimney, and to call him a crusty, thinning alcoholic was an insult to crusty, thinning alcoholics. "You can have Six as long as ya need it, so long as ya keep to yourself and don’t bring no whores up. Whores are trouble. And don’t get me started on that screamer, Marge Bonner. That one’s got a setta lungs on her, and I ain’t talkin’ about her jugs. Call her ‘Banshee Bonner,’ that’s a fact. Bitch still owes me eighty-five in back rent, not to mention a new setta eardrums. Now—you listen good. My old hearin’ ain’t as good as it was, but it’s damn good enough. If I so much as think you got a whore in there, you’re out on your ass, less deposit. And if I catch you with that ear-splittin’ tramp, Bonner, you’ll be out on your ass with buckshot. We clear on that?"

Kain paid the fee and found the next order of business had him looking for work. Henry Roberts passed a few names, but nothing came up, even after a week. Maybe it was the long hair. The scars. The stink of drifter on him.

The money was drying up. He managed some quick cash painting, enough to keep him going another week, but as the next wore on it was clear that Spencer was a bust. It was rare for him to stay in one place for so long, especially with work so scarce, but he had to admit, the area had taken hold of him. He wasn’t sure he liked that, not one bit.

~ 5

On a fine Sunday afternoon, Kain took a long walk along the Little Sioux River. A welcome breeze helped with the stifling heat, and as he crested a steep rise, he happened upon a county-league high school baseball game. He stood at the left-field fence to watch a few innings, but by the fifth he had made his way in to the stands. The small crowd, most of them hopeful parents, stirred over this pre-season nail-biter between the Spencer High Tigers and the Mason City Madness. The scoreboard read 7–6 for the Tigers.

The home-team pitcher, number 23, was a gangly sixteen-year-old named Ryan Bishop. He’d been in since the fourth inning, the coach giving the hook to the starter after some bruiser on the Madness team named Willie Jones cracked a three-run homer. There were two outs with runners on second and third, and when Jones stepped up to the plate again, Kain figured this was it.

The pitcher had a rocket for an arm, but little control—particularly over his emotions. He was constantly berating himself after a bad pitch, staring down into the dirt. As if that weren’t enough, he kept rolling the ball in his fingers just before he threw a fastball. Kain had played enough ball to know that for a natural hitter like Jones, it was a dead giveaway.

Jones was a monster, six-four, about two-twenty, with eyes of ebony. He settled into place, then brought his bat back, swirling it in a tight circle. It seemed to be his trademark, and in fact, the man sitting next to Kain had called it the Swirl. It seemed to distract the pitcher, throwing off his concentration.

After three bad pitches, the last one almost beaning the batter, Ryan Bishop backed off the mound. He was beating himself up, staring into the dirt again, mumbling to himself. The Tigers coach, a burly man named Sid Plummer, called time. He hustled out to the mound, talked with his pitcher, and headed back to the bench.

The umpire shouted Play ball, and Jones stepped up to the plate. From the first row in the stands, a man in a red ball cap, a man no stranger to size himself, yelled, Come on, Willie, come on, boy.

Ryan Bishop glanced at the scoreboard, clearly trying to get his mind off that swirling bat. He took a moment, caught the sign he wanted from his catcher and unloaded a bomb across the plate. Jones never blinked.

Steeeeerrrrike!

The umpire clicked his pitch counter, stabbing his fist to the right like a master swordsman. Someone forgot to tell him it was only a high school game.

Jones cast the pitcher a cocky smirk. He had let it slip by. When he let the next one by as well, the Madness coach exploded.

Don’t be stupid, Jones!

The batter waved him off. Just funnin’ around, Coach.

Yeah? You won’t think it’s so funny when you’re watchin’ the next three games from the bench.

Don’t blow it, Willie. This had come from someone on the Madness side.

Eat me, Hudson. And your mother.

That’s enough, Jones, the Madness coach shouted. The umpire agreed and directed the batter to the plate. Jones took up his spot, then readied his weapon with that mesmerizing swirl.

Come on, Rye, the shortstop, Ben Caldwell, said to the pitcher. Get this jerk out.

Ryan Bishop raised his head on the mound. Some of the players on the Madness bench were chuckling, some snickering. One even mocked his mumbling.

Jones settled in and readied his bat with the Swirl. He nailed the pitch, and the Madness bench exploded in cheers as the ball sailed out of the park.

Jones trotted past second and headed for third. He turned at third with a swagger, and as he made his way toward home, threw a taunting laugh to that shaken face on the mound.

Ryan Bishop charged from the mound, eyes aflame, trying to fling his glove off. His cap flew off, and as he beelined for Jones, he growled.

Halfway to the plate Jones sped up, but Ryan was on him before he made it to home plate. Ryan dove into him, knocking him off stride, but it was barely enough to slow him down. Jones turned around and kept on, walking backwards at a brisk pace. The hulking ballplayer egged Ryan on with his hands.

Come on, dickwad. Ya fight better than ya pitch?

Both benches cleared. A handful of fans left their seats and made their way down to the field.

Ryan was fuming, standing there with his glove still caught on his wrist. His brown hair was a mess. He struggled to catch his breath, and just when it looked like he might back off, he charged again.

Coach Plummer blindsided him, bowling him over. They hit the dirt hard, dust flying up. Jones started laughing; some of the others did, too. The infield and outfield had come in, most of them shaking their heads. The umpire and the catcher both stood with their masks up, agape.

Enough, Plummer shouted, his big body pinning the boy. When Ryan finally capitulated, Plummer got to his feet and started dusting himself off.

All eyes were on Ryan Bishop now. He wasn’t a pitcher, suddenly; wasn’t Number 23, wasn’t a ballplayer anymore. He was just a boy, a bad one at that, a troubled one with a chip on his shoulder. He lay there unmoving, his grim expression spilling with anger and embarrassment. Awkward silence engulfed him like cold rain.

Ben Caldwell, the shortstop, made a move toward his teammate, but the coach waved him off.

No, son. No. Just give him space. Everybody just give him space.

Willie Jones chuckled, and with a satisfied grin, stamped on home plate to make it official. Game over. I win. Technically the game wasn’t over, the Tigers had last at-bat, but it was clear that no one wanted to play. Some of the players had already started packing up.

Damn you, Jones, wipe that smirk off your face, the Madness coach said. He rounded up his team, most of them moving through the gate and into the parking lot with their heads low. A few of them straggled behind to watch the show, then followed the handful of disappointed parents who’d made the trip from Mason City. Jones’ father—the man in the red ball cap—threw his arm round his son and congratulated him on a great game, going on about how proud he was, how damn proud.

The field emptied as Coach Plummer asked his team to clear out. He reminded them of the next practice in two days, told everyone to be on time. Ben Caldwell said he’d wait for Ryan in his pickup; he was giving him a ride home. Plummer waited for the shortstop to leave them.

Ryan Bishop was sitting up now. Stewing.

You okay, son?

Ryan nodded. Yeah. No sweat.

Plummer helped him up. I gotta be honest with you, Bishop. It’s been two weeks now and—

Save it, Coach. I’ll save you the trouble.

You got an arm, son. Lots of it.

Tell someone who cares.

Ryan walked away, and the coach called after him.

Come on, Ryan. What’s the matter with you?

Ryan stopped at the fence just before the exit. He turned suddenly, to the lone spectator still in the stands.

"What’s your problem?"

Kain said nothing. He realized he’d been staring like an old street hen spying on the neighbors. It was useless to look away. Useless not to.

And then the static struck him. Knifed him right between the eyes.

Go home, Ryan said, boiling. Show’s over.

~ 6

Kain exhausted the week in search of work, his fruitless mornings turning to rejuvenating walks along the Little Sioux in the afternoons. He had missed any ballgames that might have been scheduled, but today he’d caught the last hour of a Tigers practice. All in all, the team looked pretty good. They were a little weak in the batting department, their first baseman a real strikeout king, but they had a solid, fast defense, and from what he saw, a real pitching ace in Number 29, a tall Sioux. Not surprisingly, Ryan Bishop hadn’t shown, invited or not.

The ballpark emptied by sundown, and he made his way back by nine. He supped at Rosa’s Roadside on meatloaf and scalloped potatoes, and as he sat in his booth by the window letting the evening slip by with a Coke, that stubborn restlessness began to inch its way through his mind like some crawling insect.

Living down the hall from Henry Roberts had been fine. Until last night. The bar had been hopping, even for a Wednesday, and he had had no trouble sleeping through the din below; he’d slept in far noisier places. The road taught you how. But then, around eleven by his figure, someone in Five brought up the screamer. Jesus. They weren’t at it five minutes when the wailing started. Unbelievable. Like some kind of wild, shrieking cat or something. Old Henry, his old hearing as good as his word, staggered upstairs half-cut and blew off the lock with his .30-.30. Like the rube in Three, Kain had stuck his head out into the corridor for a look, catching the tail end of two naked bodies scampering down the stairs. They were screaming bloody murder, but not nearly as loud as Henry was, shouting after them that they owed him a goddamn lock.

But was that the reason he felt so miserable? The noise?

The fact was, Spencer just wasn’t working out. He wanted to stay—God he did—and didn’t that stick in his craw. Even Brikker might have liked Iowa. The son of a bitch might have even loved it.

~

Kain was drifting north by sunup. He had made three miles toward Spirit Lake (a place with a name like that just had to be salt for the soul) when a dusty brown flatbed rolled up beside him.

The passenger window was halfway down, and you could hear It’s Only Make Believe by Conway Twitty on the radio. He wasn’t a big country fan, but some of it was all right. Elvis. Don Gibson.

Not goin’ far, the driver said, in a deep warm voice that seemed a full octave lower than the drifter’s. But you’re welcome to take a load off just the same.

Every bit helps, Kain said, climbing in. Thanks.

Al Hembruff. The big man offered his hand. His tanned down-home face had a double chin, and a smallish nose that didn’t seem to match his ample size. He held a farmer’s scruff, and bold, honest eyes that must have guided a combine through a couple of world wars and countless harvests.

Kain. Kain Richards, Kain said. He figured giving his real name wouldn’t hurt—he wasn’t sticking around.

They shook, and the man’s hand nearly swallowed his.

So where you headed so bright and early? Al Hembruff said. Spirit?

"Wisconsin, actually …