Ten.

He stood at the storm door. The gla.s.s had been pulled up so the middle of it was just a screen. It would probably only be that way for a couple more weeks so they could suck in the last remaining smells of autumn before the wind became cold and they would finally have to shut the gla.s.s against the chill in a vain attempt to conserve electricity.

He smelled the rain even before he saw the black clouds plastered across the sky.

These clouds went beyond storm clouds. The last time he could recall seeing clouds like that was when he was sixteen, newly licensed, driving along the back roads of Glowers Hook, his hometown. He had looked into the rearview mirror and seen only blackness until lightning came and slit its fat belly. That was the first time he had opened up his car. He never understood reckless speeding before, never understood why that held so much appeal for kids his age. It seemed stupid, unthinking and uncaring. Needlessly placing yourself and others in danger for a momentary blast of adrenaline. But he had sped then. He was only a couple miles from his house, had never even driven in a rainstorm, and knew he did not want to be caught out in that.

Looking back at that storm, he remembered the strange things accompanying it. Reality mixed with town folklore, undoubtedly, but some things couldn't be denied.

People said all the animals left the Hook that day, running off to somewhere safe. Others said they saw no fewer than three tornadoes. Still others reported a strange purple glow over a section of the reserve and outlying areas. All of that could have been mere hearsay but the one thing that couldn't be denied was the ruination of the Turner property. One minute the house was standing and the next minute it had collapsed. Stranger still, no one noticed it for a few days, like something just caused the eye to glance right over it. And when they did finally notice it, they also noticed the mother and father were missing, along with a couple of other people from the town. The boy, Jack couldn't quite think of his name, was suspected, but nothing was ever proven because, try as they might, no one could find any motive whatsoever. It was written off to the storm.

An act of G.o.d.

G.o.d and his f.u.c.king acts, Jack thought. Yeah, he had had just about enough of G.o.d and his stupid f.u.c.king acts and tests- if that was what they were.

Standing there at the screen door, an overwhelming sense of awe swept down his spine. He couldn't let the storm hold him back, couldn't let it stop him.

When the first boom of thunder hit, he nearly jumped out of his shoes. His heart, which had been racing ever since he took the ring out of its secret hiding spot, now threatened to punch out of his chest. The thunder brought with it a sudden and harsh downpour of hail.

And it had been sunny only moments before.

He knew these were the worst storms. The ones that just blew up from nothing.

He would definitely have to let the storm pa.s.s before heading to his car. He had no intention whatsoever of getting out into that. It wouldn't be good for anyone if he was collapsed in the middle of the yard, bludgeoned by hail. He glanced over toward Moran's place and noticed the old man was still out there. Only now, the storm seemed to have taken his attention away from the tree. He held his arms out to the hail, his face raised to the heavens.

Jesus, Jack thought, that has to be pulverizing him.

He opened the screen door, forcing it against the wind.

"Mr. Moran!" he called.

But the old man was oblivious. He just stood there, holding his arms out as if to catch the hail, looking like a strange Jesus. He started moving around in a rapturous circle. Jack couldn't just stand there and watch him get blown to pieces by this storm. What if there was a tornado? What if lightning severed one of those branches from his beloved tree and it came down on his head?

Bracing himself, he grabbed a throw pillow from the couch, held it over his head, and stepped out into the storm. It was nearly as dark as night outside and it wasn't even noon yet.

"Mr. Moran!" he called again.

Walking quickly, he entered Moran's yard and put his free hand on the old man's arm. The saggy, paper thin skin was ice cold. The tree kept some of the hail away but he could still hear the pellets beating a strange tattoo on the pillow.

"Let's go inside, huh, Mr. Moran? d.i.c.k?" he said gently.

"No," the old man murmured.

"We have to. It's not safe out here."

"No." It seemed a struggle just for Moran to talk. Jack wondered if he'd had a stroke or something.

"Nowhere," Moran muttered. "Nowhere with you."

"No, it's okay. It's just Jack... Jack from next door?"

Now he tried to lead Moran toward his door.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n you," Moran muttered.

"Come on, you'll thank me later." Jack thought that last part sounded lame but he couldn't think of anything else to say.

He walked Mr. Moran up the three concrete steps to his front door and pulled it open. Inside was dark. It smelled like burnt coffee and toast with a faint gaseous hint of that morning's scrambled eggs.

"Come on, let's just get you over to the couch."

"Get your f.u.c.king hands off me," Moran sneered this time.

Jack didn't know why his att.i.tude had turned to such vehemence but he was now quite certain the man hadn't had a stroke. He tore himself away from Jack, turning around in his living room (the same size and shape as Jack and Gina's) to face him.

"You get the h.e.l.l out of here."

"I was just trying to help."

"Call this help!?"

The old man stuck out his flappy, wrinkled left arm and pointed to a mark there.

"That ain't no help at all," he nearly cried.

Jack couldn't get close enough to him to tell what the mark was. It looked like a fresh tattoo, the way it was all puckered and red around the edges. Maybe even a branding. It was a rectangle, the short sides on the wrist and elbow ends, at the direct center of the inside of his forearm. There was another line through the middle of the rectangle so that it was divided into two squares.

"I don't understand what you mean," Jack said.

"The f.u.c.k you don't!" Moran snorted. "Ain't no coincidence. Your p.u.s.s.y goes missin and then I get this."

Now Jack was really confused.

"I'm afraid I don't understand. Do you need me to call an ambulance for you? Do you need me to take you someplace? Are you hurting? Are you okay?" At this point, he was just throwing things out. He didn't really know what he was saying.

"I just want you to get the f.u.c.k away."

"Who did that to you?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Yes. You're right. I would like to know. It could be really important to me right now. Did someone hurt you?"

"G.o.d hurt me. G.o.d hurt me cuzza you."

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Lettin you two live over there in sin. I didn't do right by G.o.d by lettin that go on. I should uh been over there ev'ry day, lettin you know the wages of that sin. Now I'm the one who pays."

Why did everyone's accent get worse when they were either drunk or talking about G.o.d?

"That's... crazy, d.i.c.k."

"Get the f.u.c.k outta my house. You ain't got no right to stand there and call me crazy."

"I just want to know who did that to you."

Mr. Moran grabbed a heavy plaster candlestick from the top of his floor model television and held it up in his right arm. Jack couldn't stop staring at the mark on his left.

"Get the f.u.c.k out," Moran spoke lowly, slowly, murderously.

"Who?" Jack said.

Moran let loose with the candleholder and it drilled Jack in the right shoulder, despite his attempt to fend it off with the pillow, and then the man lunged at him. Jack didn't think now was the time to probe him any further. Now was also not the time to beat up an old man, candleholder throwing or not. Moran was not very fast. Jack hurled the pillow at him and jerked to his right, plowing through the screen door and nearly unhinging it.

Moran stood in the doorway and shouted at him.

"You'll see! This is your mark, Jack! Your mark! You'll see!"

The hail had stopped but the rain was still p.i.s.sing and Jack planned on going straight for his car. He just wanted to be away from here. Halfway across his lawn, he seized up.

A large limb, h.e.l.l, half the s.h.i.tty silver maple tree in front of his house, had split and crushed the top of his car.

Standing there in the rain, the lightning dancing in the heavens above, he slapped his soaked thigh and said, "f.u.c.k me."

Behind him, Mr. Moran slammed his door, opened his door, slammed his door, and opened his door only to slam it again.

Jack was very worried and very scared.

He turned in the direction of the cafe.

Eleven.

He had to fight the urge to run to the cafe. Suddenly, it felt like his whole life had been thrust into some kind of terrifying fast forward. But if his body went as fast as his mind wanted it to go, he would be dead by afternoon. He was slothful by nature. If it wasn't for his current predicament he would probably be sprawled out in the recliner, enjoying a nice little nap. That was what his Sundays were for. Laze. There were some Sundays he and Gina only left the bed to eat and use the bathroom. Those were beautiful, glorious days. If the whole world had more of those days, there would be a lot less hate. A lot less destruction. Forget about war. Stay home and f.u.c.k.

He walked quickly, taking measured breaths.

His phone rang, chiming from the left pocket of his jeans. Quickly, he pulled it out, noting the call came from an unknown number, and snapped it open.

"Yeah," he said.

"Some men are born to shake the walls of temples. Other men are meant to crawl through s.h.i.t. Some men aren't men at all."

He recognized that voice. Imagined those jowls pulled back tight.

"Where are you?"

"I am the one who shakes the walls of the temple. You are a s.h.i.t crawler. Or maybe you're not a man at all. Listen to this..."

He heard a scream pierce through his phone. Loud enough to cause him to hold it away from his ear.

"You f.u.c.king b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"Careful, s.h.i.t crawler," Mr. Grin said. "I think your little b.i.t.c.h has a lot more screams left. Bye now."

And then he was gone, leaving Jack with the emptiness Gina's scream caused. What could he have possibly done to make her scream like that? Visions of burning cigarettes on perfect pale skin screamed through his head. Other things... Fingernails pulled out. Nipples clamped. Arches jabbed.

He tried to shake them away.

Those visions were not helping. Those visions couldn't help him. They could only cause the hate to rise a little closer to the surface, clouding the mystery, muddling the game.

Grimacing at the brutal day spreading out before him, the brutal morning already buried in the past, shivering in his thin soaked t-shirt and soaked jeans, sagging low around his hips, he trudged onto Corner Street, bringing the cafe into view. The rain continued to pour down, adding to the overall grayness now cloaking the neighborhood. His breath plumed out of his mouth and he found himself craving a cigarette, really craving one, for the first time in three years.

Very few cars were on the road. Obviously, no one was out playing in their yard. He felt like the most alone person on the planet. Except he wasn't. He knew, somewhere, Gina felt much more alone than he did. If he could only find her. That was all he had to do. Every second, his anger toward Mr. Grin doubled and trebled and he thought that, by the time he actually found him, he would probably be able to tear him apart with his bare hands.

He nearly skipped across the parking lot to the cafe, eager for the warmth and its connection to people. People who were not crazy. People who didn't slam doors.

He pulled open the steamed-over gla.s.s door, immediately melting with the comforting scent of strong dark coffee. Maria was behind the counter, making some sort of frothy drink for a middle-aged woman. She noticed Jack. He noticed the curious look that crossed her eyes, probably wondering why he had chosen to walk here now, of all times, before she raised her head in a slight greeting.

He watched her go about her business, standing quietly and rubbing his bare arms for warmth. Maria took art cla.s.ses at the community college. One of her parents was Filipino, Jack couldn't remember which one, and her thick black hair hung down to the middle of her back in perfect dreadlocks. This, of course, meant she had gone to great lengths in order to give herself dreads. Both ears were more gleaming white metal than flesh and other small hoops adorned her left eyebrow, her right nostril and the left side of her lower lip. Never minding how cliched it all was, it managed to work on her.

She sat the cup in front of the woman. The woman asked for whipped cream. Maria rolled her eyes, pulled the aerosol can out of the refrigerator and sprayed some on top of the beverage, giving the woman a completely sarcastic grin. Jack noticed the woman's face as she turned away with her drink and thought she looked scared. Probably hoping her daughter never grew up to look like Maria.

"What's up?" Maria asked.

"Are you the only one here?" he asked, suddenly aware of how crazy and paranoid that sounded.

"No, Joey's in back. Why?"

"Do you think you could talk to me for a few minutes?"

"Sure. Are you okay? Is it about Gina? Is Gina okay?"

"I just want to talk."

"Sure. Hang on." She turned around and took a couple steps until she was in between the back counters, cracking the door leading to the back room and saying, "Hey, Joey, can you watch the counter for a bit?"

Jack heard a distant "Yeah" come from the back room.