Velvet Rain - A Dark Thriller by David C. Cassidy

sweat.”
    Coach 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.”
    The kid walked away, and the coach called after him.
    “Come on, Ryan. What’s the matter with you?”
    The kid 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,” the kid said, boiling. “Show’s over.”

~ 5
    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 ace in Number 29, the tall Sioux. Not surprisingly, 23 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 sonofabitch might have even loved it.
    ~
    He was drifting north by sunup. A crisp morning sky greeted him, a soft breeze easing the stifling heat. 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. He owned a tanned, down-home face with 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.” They shook, and the man’s hand nearly swallowed his.
    “So where you headed so bright and early? Spirit?”
    “Wisconsin, actually … the long way.” The man laughed, and Kain could only be impressed at how genuine that sound