Red Rain

  The priest, still expressionless, turned to face the crowd. His blond caterpillar eyebrows had gone stiff and still.

  He clasped both hands in front of him. Lea noticed for the first time that his fingernails were painted black. He began to chant: “Revenir . . . Revenir . . . Revenir . . .” Softly at first, then louder, urging the audience to join in.

  “Revenir . . . Revenir . . . Revenir . . .”

  The chanting voices echoed off the trees of the rain forest. The chant continued for two minutes . . . three . . .

  Lea screamed when she saw a hand move. On the ground. Fingers twitched.

  “Revenir . . . Revenir . . . Revenir . . .”

  The chant continued, no longer a word, just a low, breathy sound.

  Another dead man blinked his eyes. Another raised his head an inch off the ground. A short groan escaped his throat. More hands twitched. Like crabs testing the sand.

  “Revenir . . . Revenir . . . Revenir . . .”

  As Lea stared in disbelief, the six dead men sat up. They blinked rapidly and shook their heads, tested their jaws, squinted at the chanting crowd.

  The chant ended suddenly. People rushed forward to help the men to their feet. In seconds, they were all standing, taking small steps, still looking dazed, wiping chunks of vomit off their shirts and shorts and robes.

  The priest raised his hands high above his tattooed head. “Les hommes sont revenus,” he announced. “The men have returned.”

  The six men were walking steadily now, making their way to the path. The circle of onlookers broke up, people heading in all directions. Lea listened to the excited conversations. Some people were laughing. The ceremony was over.

  Lea shut her eyes. Again she pictured those men bent over, their streams of vomit splashing onto the grass. Their gasping, terrified faces. Their bodies coiled lifelessly on the ground in front of her.

  And as rain began to patter down, she thought of the 1935 hurricane and the story of the dead returning to life to repair the devastating damage. The living sharing their space with the unliving.

  Huge raindrops rattled on the palm leaves, like assault rifles. Loud as thunder. The wind swirled around Lea, pushed her right, then left. She planted her feet, determined not to be blown over. A suffocating wind rushed over her face, made her gasp for breath.

  It came on so suddenly. I thought we had time.

  Hugging herself again, she ducked her head and searched for Jean-Carl. Nowhere in sight. Perhaps he had run to the jeep.

  A strong blast of wind bent the palm trees till they were nearly horizontal. Lea’s shoes sank into the mud as she stepped onto the path.

  She felt a hand on her shoulder. Gasping in surprise, she spun around. “Martha?”

  Martha had a canvas tennis hat pulled down tight over her hair. Her sweater was already soaked through, matted to her body. “Better come home with me.” She had to scream over the roar of the wind.

  Lea blinked through the sheets of rain that swept over her. “No. My stuff—”

  “Better come with me, Lea. This is going to be bad. It’s going to be real bad.”

  6

  As Hurricane Ernesto slowly made its way north, Mark Sutter was ending his book tour close to home at HamptonBooks in Easthampton, Long Island.

  The store occupied a gray shingle building near one end of the long row of shops on Main Street, a few doors down from the Ralph Lauren store, a country antiques store, an old-fashioned toy store, and the Hamptons’ branch of Tiffany’s, all closed and deserted on this rain-tossed April night, before the summer people had arrived.

  Mark arrived early, shaking out his umbrella and squirming out of the Burberry trench coat that no longer seemed to be waterproof. He liked to watch his audience come in, liked to size up the crowd before he spoke to them.

  Crowd. Would there be a crowd on a night like this? He saw a few rain-bedraggled people in one of the long, narrow store aisles. A good sign.

  A smiling, middle-aged woman hurried out from behind the front counter to greet him. “Hi, Mr. Sutter. I’m Jo-Ann, the manager. Welcome. You’re early.”

  She was a mouse of a woman, small and gray, with lips the same color as her skin. She was probably forty, but she looked ten years older. She wore a loose-fitting gray turtleneck over black corduroy slacks.

  “I like to come early and hang out a bit,” Mark said. “You know. Chat with people. Kind of size up the crowd.”

  “Well, make yourself at home. We’ve already sold several books, and we got a lot of phone calls. I think there’ll be a crowd.” She squinted at him. “How does it feel to be controversial?”

  Mark laughed. “I’m enjoying it, actually.”

  She nodded solemnly. “Of course you are.”

  Mark wondered exactly what she meant.

  “Sometimes it’s good to stir people up,” she said. And then quickly changed gears: “Can I get you a bottle of water?”

  “No. I’m fine.”

  “Sure? I have plenty of water.”

  “No. Really. I saw enough water driving here.”

  His joke fell flat. He knew it wasn’t much of a joke. He shouldn’t try to be funny. No one expected it of him. But what was this obsession with water? In every city at every bookstore, they tried to shove bottle after bottle of water at him.

  “The rain is from the hurricane,” she said, “but we’re lucky. I have the radio on. They said it’s veering out into the ocean. We’ll just get the rain.”

  “Hurricane?”

  She squinted at him. “You didn’t hear? It’s a big one. Down South.”

  Mark felt his throat tighten. “My wife is down South. On an island. I didn’t know. I had my iPod in the car. I—”

  “Maybe you should try to call her.” She turned and saw the line of customers at the front counter. “I’d better get back.” She gave his wrist a quick squeeze. Like saying Good luck. Then she turned and made her way back to the other two clerks at the counter.

  She stepped behind one of the cash registers and pulled on a pair of tight white rubber gloves. To protect herself from money germs?

  Mark slid his BlackBerry from the pocket of his jeans, raised it to push Lea’s number. Then stopped. No bars.

  I’m sure she’s okay. I’ll phone her after the book signing.

  He stepped toward the back and leaned against a bookshelf where he could watch customers enter. He could see a gauzy reflection of himself in the front window, floating over the pyramid of display copies of his book. A gust of wind rattled the window and sent rivulets of rainwater streaking down the glass.

  “Where do I put this?” A man in a brown rain slicker and canvas tennis hat shook his umbrella in a red-haired store clerk’s face, sending a spray of rainwater over the front counter. The young man pointed to the tall can by the door, already jammed with wet umbrellas.

  The store was small, narrow and deep with two aisles leading back through tall wooden bookshelves. Rows of low-hanging fluorescent lights sent down a pale glare, making everyone look a little green. At the back, a steep stairway led upstairs to the author event area.

  Mark felt his skin prickle. He rubbed his stubbled cheeks. The air in the store felt hot and damp despite the cold blasts every time the door opened. He could smell the ocean.

  In a few hours I’ll be home.

  He could hear a low mumble of voices from upstairs. A respectable crowd on a stormy Wednesday night in Easthampton. Please—let there be fifty people. That’s all an author cares about. A crowd big enough not to be embarrassing. Please—not four people who all choose to sit in the back row.

  To his relief, he saw several couples lined up at the cash register. They all had his book in their hands. Did they look happy? No.

  They’ve all come for a fight.

  He turned back toward the front door and felt his stomach rumble. Not from stage fright. He looked forward to another confrontation. If only he could keep them from shouting this time.

  He suddenly picture
d the young woman in Boston who turned purple and started to tremble. That was awkward. And the angry couple who followed him to the parking lot and refused to let him get into the car until they had their say.

  His stomach churned again from the bacon cheeseburger he had eaten too fast at Rowdy Hall, the noisy, crowded hamburger joint across the street. He always ate too fast when he was alone.

  I’ll be home tonight.

  His house in Sag Harbor was twenty minutes away, maybe a little longer if the storm continued. He had driven to the bookstore directly from MacArthur Airport in Ronkonkoma. He hadn’t had even two seconds to stop at home and say hi.

  Ira and Elena. When did he see them last? Two weeks ago? He talked to them on the phone every night, and he Skyped them when he could. But the conversations were always forced and hurried.

  Elena was okay. Even at the gawky age of fourteen, she bobbed merrily through life like a kite in a strong wind. Ira was the sensitive one, always overthinking everything, so shy and serious. Poor guy. Sixth grade. His first year in middle school.

  Mark should have been there to help him get through it. Or Lea. But she was away, too. He hated it when they were both away at the same time.

  “When you write a travel blog, you kind of have to travel,” Lea had said.

  “I’m not accusing you of anything,” he had countered. “I’m just saying . . .”

  “That one of us should stay home.”

  “No. I’m just saying it’s a shame that one of us isn’t staying home.”

  That made her laugh. “I love your subtle distinctions. I wasn’t a psych major like you, darling, but I know when I’m being guilted.”

  Guilted?

  No way he could convince her to stay home till he got back. Travel & Leisure had let her go. Budget cutbacks. The usual thing. Now Lea was determined to produce the best adventure-travel blog in the universe, build a huge audience, collect millions in advertising, and show her old bosses what a mistake they had made.

  She was ambitious. And she was a fighter. The youngest of seven, with four brothers and two sisters, Lea was used to fighting for what she wanted.

  And so . . . they went their separate ways, and Mark’s sister, Roz, stayed with the kids.

  Mark had to admit, the ten-city book tour was not as glamorous as he had imagined. And he was taken by surprise by all the anger waiting for him at every bookstore. After all, he’d only written a book. He hadn’t murdered anyone.

  He wasn’t naïve. He knew his book would spark controversy. But he never dreamed that parents would react with such alarm, as if he were threatening parenthood itself.

  Which maybe he was.

  Because of all the controversy, Kids Will Be Kids was at the top of the nonfiction bestseller list. Exactly what he had strived for. He wanted to reach as many parents as possible.

  He wasn’t trying to become famous by stirring things up. He believed his studies of his young patients validated his parenting theories.

  He glanced at the clock, then watched more rain-soaked stragglers push into the bookstore. Someone tapped his shoulder. The red-haired store clerk—Adam, it said on his ID badge. “Mr. Sutter, can I get you some water?”

  “No thanks. I’m good.”

  “You sure?”

  He turned to the steep wooden staircase. He could hear the crowd up there shifting, folding chairs squeaking, the mumble of voices. Someone laughed loudly.

  Showtime.

  7

  Not quite ready. He made his way toward the bathroom behind the office in back. A large man in a gray hoodie and faded jeans blocked the aisle. He was scanning a shelf of fiction, but turned as Mark approached.

  “Hi. Are you here for my book talk?”

  The man shook his head. “No. I’m not much of a reader. I’m here for my wife.”

  “Your wife?”

  “Yeah. She heard there’s a new James Patterson.” He swung back to the bookshelf. “You’re not him, are you?”

  “No. No, I’m not. Sorry.”

  Sorry? Why did I say sorry?

  Mark edged past him into the phone-booth-size bathroom and checked the mirror. Brought his face close and grinned. He rubbed his front teeth with one finger. No hamburger or lettuce there. Nothing hanging from his nose.

  He smoothed a hand over the stubble on his cheeks and brushed back his short hair, his hazel eyes dark in the dim light from the ceiling. He wasn’t admiring himself. He was preparing himself.

  Lea called him Gyllenhaal. She said he was a dead ringer for the actor. Flattering? Yes. A two-day stubble, short, dark hair and big eyes, and he was Jake Gyllenhaal to her.

  I love you, Lea.

  Only thirty-nine but even in this bad light, he could see patches of gray spreading over the sides of his hair. No problem. A psychologist doesn’t want to be too good-looking. He needs some maturity. Some authority.

  He wore a trim black suit jacket over dark, straight-legged denim jeans. His white shirt was open at the collar. Not too formal. He wanted to appear open and friendly. They would see he wasn’t a stuffed shirt. He was a young father. A child psychologist with a serious point of view. But casual. Even likable?

  He grinned. He should wear a suit of armor. The lions were waiting upstairs to rip him to shreds and devour the remains.

  His stomach churned again. Maybe it wasn’t the cheeseburger. Maybe it was the two Heinekens.

  Up the stairs, Mark. Go get ’em.

  He used the wooden banister to pull himself. The steps creaked beneath him. He practiced a smile. It didn’t feel right. Tried a smaller one. Above the mumbling of the crowd, he could hear rain pattering against the sloped skylight window in the ceiling.

  The stage area came into view as he reached the top. A good crowd. The folding chairs were all filled. And a row of people stood behind them. Some leaned against the bookshelf walls. Two young women had made cushions of their coats and sat cross-legged on the floor to the side of the podium.

  At least a hundred people. No. More like one fifty.

  So far, a success. Jo-Ann flashed him a smile from beside the podium. Good. The store manager was pleased.

  He surveyed the crowd. Mostly couples. Parents. Some gripped his book in their laps. To have it signed or to throw at him? They watched him warily as he moved toward the podium.

  “He’s young,” someone whispered, just loudly enough to be heard.

  “Does he have kids?”

  “If he does, can you imagine what they’re like?”

  A cell phone erupted and was quickly cut off. He saw three very old people, frail, hunkered in the front row, still in their raincoats, shopping bags on the floor in front of them. Regulars, probably. Lonely people who come to every bookstore event.

  Jo-Ann started to introduce him. There were hurried footsteps on the stairs. More arrivals. She wrapped her hand around the microphone as she talked, and it made an annoying scraping sound.

  “—already seem to be familiar with our guest author and his book, so I expect a lively discussion tonight.”

  Mark heard a few people snicker at that.

  “Some things you may not know about Mark Sutter,” Jo-Ann continued. “He’s a Sag Harbor resident, not a summer person. He and his wife live here year-round with their two children.”

  She read from a handwritten index card. One hand held the card. The other squeezed the microphone as if trying to get juice from it.

  “Mr. Sutter was born on Long Island in 1973. He grew up in Great Neck. He has a BS in Child Psychology from the University of Wisconsin. Mr. Sutter has a national reputation. He has contributed to many major psychology and science journals. Kids Will Be Kids is his first book, based on studies he made over the past five years observing his own juvenile patients and their parents.”

  She finally let go of the microphone and motioned to Mark with a tight smile. “Let’s all welcome tonight’s author, Mark Sutter.”

  Tepid applause. Mark forced the practiced smile to his face and too
k two steps toward the podium.

  Jo-Ann turned and wrapped her hand around the microphone again. The applause died quickly. She waved Mark back. “Oh, I almost forgot,” she said, “while I have you all here. Such a nice crowd. It’s so wonderful to see people come out on a rainy night to discuss books.”

  Mark shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and waited. He studied the crowd. A twentysomething couple in the second row had their heads down, tapping away on their phones. Behind them, a large man in a Yankees cap and blue-and-white Yankees jacket had the Daily News open in front of him.

  Rain pattered the skylight window. Mark glimpsed a flicker of lightning high in the green-black sky. He blinked—and saw someone he recognized in the third row. A young woman in a short blue skirt over black tights and a white tube top.

  His eyes took in the gleaming white-blond hair. Blue eyes. High cheekbones. Red-lipped smile.

  She didn’t register at first. Mainly because she didn’t tell him she’d be there. The improbably named Autumn Holliday, his assistant. She realized he had finally spotted her. She smiled and her eyes went wide. She gave him an excited wave.

  Why did she get all dolled up for this?

  Autumn always showed up at his office in jeans and oversize rock-band T-shirts, her hair tied carelessly back in a ponytail. Now he couldn’t help but stare. She looked like one of those stunning Nordic ice-queen fashion models.

  “Autumn? What are you doing here?” He mouthed the words silently.

  “—Thriller Night here at HamptonBooks,” Jo-Ann was saying. “I think you’ll all want to be here. Our guest author will be Harlan Coben, and if you were here last year, I’m sure you will remember how funny and charming Mr. Coben can be. So . . . don’t forget next Saturday night.”

  Mark forced himself to turn away from Autumn. Jo-Ann was waving him back. This time there was no applause. He could feel the tension in the room.

  Lightning flickered in the skylight above. People shifted their weight, sat up straighter, squeezed the books in their laps. The couple in the second row tucked their phones away.

  Somewhere in the back, a baby cried. Mark suddenly realized there were several babies on laps, swaddled like tiny mummies.