Rain Rain Go Away 06

When Albarino Bacchus furiously rushed into the crime lab, Bates still felt a little bewildered.

At the time, Bates was standing in front of a table in a white lab coat, holding a blowtorch and a skull; no one knew what he was holding this combination for. As Albarino hurtled towards him with astonishing big dark circles under his eyes, he could only make a doubting sound, "Uh, Al?"

"We've brought you something that can be called evidence." Albarino came to a halt in front of him, then pulled something out of his pocket: a broken piece of porcelain wrapped in a latex glove. It probably once belonged to a mug or something; on the sharp edge of the piece, there was a hint of dried blood on the edge.

"If the DNA belonging to Johnny the Killer or Herstal Armalight can be detected on it, the case will be solved." Lavazza Mercader said, standing behind Albarino. Yet, looking at his stance with his arms crossed, it felt like he wasn't in a very good mood.

"But, can one of you explain to me what happened from start to finish?" Bates, who was bafflingly stuffed with a piece of porcelain into his hand, was still in confusion.

"Here's what happened: we visited a possible suspect named Elliot Evans." Albarino said briskly, "While Agent Mercader stalled him, I searched through it as much as I could – there were no other suspicious bloodstains except this little bit on the pile of porcelain shards he put in his trash can. By the way, the house he rents has a basement, and it's locked right now."

"So either this is Armalight's blood or this is Johnny the Killer's blood, is that what you think?" Bates' eyes widened. Without thinking, he squeezed the porcelain piece tighter and gestured for the two men to follow him in the direction of another lab.

"I hope so; Elliot Evans fits Molozer's criminal profile of Johnny the Killer. Not to mention, he has some suspicious bruises on his hands." Mercader nodded, sounding certain.

They followed Bates through the long hallway, their footsteps quick enough to the point where a number of scientists looked at them with flabbergasted looks. They had called Officer Hardy just as they left Elliot's house, so there must be a lot of people who were waiting for news from here.

Bates stared at the porcelain tile in his hand, then suddenly pointed out, "Albarino, you know that this evidence was illegally obtained. Legally speaking –"

"It's illegal evidence, of course. But it's still enough for a search warrant." Albarino's voice was gloomy. "If – I'm saying, if – he has hostages under house arrest in his basement, I think the prosecutor wouldn't really care that a small piece of porcelain wasn't presented in front of the jury."

"But, Dr. Bacchus, he's your friend." Mercader said suddenly.

The corners of Albarino's mouth tensed. After a moment, he replied, "He's a friend of mine whom I don't know very well yet... After I found out that he had a locked basement in his house, I feel like I know him even less than before."

"How did you get to know him?" Mercader asked again.

"A small accident, some sudden impulses," Albarino shrugged, his eyes staring calmly ahead, "You see, I still think he has a pretty face."

Dr. Albarino Bacchus's promiscuous nature was widely known in the industry – even being exaggeratedly reported by many internet media. Clearly, Mercader knew about this too. However, some indirect implications from this answer still made Mercader's eyebrow jump. Olga had kept complaining how her former boss was an overly conservative person, so it was no wonder he disapproved of this kind of action.

They stopped at the door of the DNA testing center, and Bates rushed in alone. When the door was closed again, Albarino let out a slow sigh.

"I hope it's all over soon. After all, I don't know exactly how Armalight will treat Johnny the Killer, and from what I know about him, he's the most annoying type of lawyer. If he unfortunately enrages the killer..." Albarino said, giving Mercader a thoughtful look. "Look, it looks like it's even going to rain today."

Hearing what he said, Mercader also turned his head to look out the window – the skies weren't clear this morning, and now there were already low lead-gray clouds approaching the city from above. Cold wind started to blow.

Albarino was right; it might rain again very soon.

Mercader almost briefly fell into contemplation, but then he heard Albarino say, "Well, you stay here and wait for the DNA test results. I have to go out; have something to do."

Mercader glanced at him, condensing his questions into that brief look.

Albarino shrugged and smiled. Many would say his smile was overflowing with gentleness and enthusiasm, but Mercader really didn't feel that way. The chief forensic pathologist said profoundly, "I'm a bit worried – after all, little Johnny wants to go out and play, doesn't he?"

Herstal wasn't shy on admitting that he had cursed at Albarino using every language he knew; the other was indeed such a bastard who liked to hit a person when they were already down. When Albarino had come in, he was coming close to cutting the rope around his wrists, but now there were still two exceptionally tough strands left. There was nothing Herstal could do about it.

He could already hear Elliot's footsteps sounding from the stairs.

In fact, Elliot only came down when the police and that damned Albarino Bacchus had left for a very, very long time. Of course, this extra time still didn't help Herstal find anything which can be used to grind against the rope.

When Elliot appeared, his face seemed to be a little paler. He walked with quick steps towards him, tore off the tape off Herstal's lips, and then embraced him.

Within the past two days, Herstal had quickly adapted to the serial killer who had a clingy habit of throwing himself onto him at the drop of a hat. Restraining the reflex of turning his head to the side, Herstal calmly asked, "What's wrong?"

Elliot smelled like choking smoke. He had clearly smoked in place after the police questioning, taking a long time to calm down. He smelled like he had smoked at least half a pack of cigarettes upstairs, which was not an exaggeration. It was only afterwards that Albarino learned that there was another reason why it took him more than an hour to go downstairs: after Albarino and others finished questioning Elliot's boss, that guy made a long phone call to interrogate Elliot on whether he had committed anything.

Unfortunately, Herstal didn't know this, otherwise he would have at least understood why Elliot had such a stormy expression on his face.

"I'm not going to let them take you away from me!" Elliot proclaimed, outright ignoring Herstal's question. He was still licking and kissing Herstal's lips like a small animal, his fingers carelessly grabbing Herstal's hair.

There was a heavy smell of smoke between the man's lips that nearly made Herstal frown, but he still replied in a soft whisper, "Yes, where else would I go if I left?"

In reply, Elliot inhaled sharply. Then he suddenly bit Herstal on the neck with great force, ignoring Herstal's sharp inhale. He pinned Herstal's entire body to the mattress – which made a really not encouraging creek – and Herstal could feel a tongue damply licking across his stinging skin.

That man's lips lifted up from his throat, with droplets of blood dripping bloodily in between his sharp teeth. His fingers firmly grasped the tablecloth on the altar table, white – purity, joy. The victory of piety.

"All who have been cleansed by this water," the man said, his voice repressed to a whisper, "have been saved."

Elliot's ice-cold, uninjured hand reached under his shirt and touched on top of his skin. The chill made Herstal's skin tremble uncontrollably.

"Herstal," Elliot said lowly into his ear, blowing hot air onto his earlobe; the young man knelt whole on him, and a moment later, Elliot's jacket was thrown on top of the mattress, "I want–"

"– Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child; but the rod of correction shall drive it far from him."

The other man ran his fingers slowly over the scar on his throat.

"You yourself know that too; you are gradually becoming more perfect."

Herstal struggled very slightly, pressing his body on top of that jacket. His actions seemed to have enraged Elliot, who abruptly clutched Herstal's neck, sinking his fingers into the soft skin.

"Don't leave," Elliot whispered, his voice trembling. "If you leave no one can take care of you, don't –"

Elliot's eyes were wide open, his pupils dilated, looking really like a waveless black swamp. Then he abruptly jerked his head down, his teeth painfully hitting Herstal's lips.

"Can't I?" Herstal asked rhetorically without changing his expression. He had said a lot more things that went against his convictions when defending members of the gang than this, so this was nothing. "After all, I have nowhere else to go now. Shouldn't I care about such problems?" "Oh!" Elliot whispered, fumbling to put the paper pail on the folding table by the side, then quickly pounced over and threw his arms around Herstal's shoulders. Those dry, cracked lips landed passionately on his lower jaw and neck, bringing an unpleasant touch. Herstal took a deep breath, knowing that the last thing he should do now was to provoke the other, to see how the other cut his victim's necks. Slowly, slowly, he tilted his head back, exposing his throat, carefully calculating the angle to show submission – if you see this you're probably reading from a pirate site.

Albarino's red Chevrolet was parked on a corner of the street. He drove around a lot today: he had gone with Mercader to find Elliot Evans in the morning, then back to the criminal evidence lab. At this time, Mercader and the others were probably still in the forensic lab waiting for the lab test for the DNA to come out. And while they were waiting, Albarino went back to WLPD to drive the car he had left in the police station's parking lot.

Now he circled back to Elliot's neighborhood, guarding the only exit from Elliot's apartment, the red body looking like a drop of blood under a leaden gray sky. It was darker now, and tiny drizzles of rain began to fall on the windshield. Albarino stared at the gloomy sky, still appearing calm – he was waiting for a phone call.

— He didn't have to wait long.

The caller ID marked the caller as Olga. When Albarino picked up the phone, the person on the other end said, straight to the point, "I'm at WLPD, and the officers over here pulled Elliot Evans' previous file for me."

"Have you found anything in particular?" Albarino asked, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the steering wheel: he didn't want to linger here for too long. The red Chevrolet was still a little too conspicuous for the street; at this rate he was either going to get the body of the car scratched or get robbed.

"Evans dropped out of high school because of psychological problems, partly because of his hereditary genetic disorder, and partly because one of his teachers treated him abnormally cruelly. Obvious discrimination." Olga's voice was so calm that Albarino could hear the rustle of her turning pages through the electromagnetic waves. "I just contacted his principal in high school and she pointed out to me that Evans liked that teacher so much that, at the time, even when he treated him cruelly, he didn't put up any resistance. Until finally, his classmates and other teachers realized something was wrong. "

Albarino hummed, "Let me guess, the teacher was a tall, handsome male around forty years old?"

"He was a bit younger when it happened, but he died when he was forty-four, which was about six years ago." Olga answered unhurriedly.

"After a rain?" Albarino asked. He was keeping up with the whole story of this incident.

"After a rain, his throat was slit." Olga affirmed. "Of course, because the killer at the time climbed into his house through a window, so the local police defined that case as an attempted robbery. The DNA results are still pending, but the findings may now be enough to convince a judge – oh. "

There was a cacophony of voices on her end. Olga seemed to cover the microphone to say something to the person next to her, before she picked the phone back up a few seconds later. "News came in from Bates. The stain of blood is Herstal's."

Albarino took half a second to think about whether he should pretend to be shocked, but thought it was unnecessary to spend time beating around the bush with Olga. He asked immediately, "Did Bart go and get a search warrant?"

"He's waiting for news from the judge. I'll be rushing to the scene with the SWAT team right away, Bart will join us near Evans' house with a search warrant... Where are you now?" Olga suddenly lowered her voice, forming a skeptical question.

"Uh," Albarino nearly couldn't hold back his laugh; he couldn't let Olga hear anything wrong from his voice. He looked at the drops of rain, increasing in size, falling onto the glass and tried his best to keep his voice genuine, "I'm near Elliot Evans' house right now."

"... You're not." Olga couldn't help but raise her voice.

"I am. Someone has to worry before the evidence is confirmed. What if Elliot really is Johnny the Killer and he absconds from the crime, right?" Albarino asked back in reply. "Look, right now I'm pretty sure that he indeed didn't abscond."

He seemed to hear Olga suppress a line of indecent cursing, and then she said in that clearly disapproving tone, "In any case, now you're not allowed to act on your own, just stay where you are and wait for the SWAT team to arrive, okay?"

What else could Albarino say? He answered "okay" many times, just to keep Olga from nagging like a chicken hen, as if she were possessed by Bart. He hung up the phone after repeated reassurances, watching the rain fall outside as a dull clap of thunder rolled across the sky.

Perhaps it was on days like this that Elliot would uncontrollably think back to his past, to a man whom he loved but hurt him. No matter what, the huge wound across the dead man's neck was his answer to everything.

Herstal must have gotten a glimpse of it, too. He would have acted like he was lovable in front of Elliot – because he was such a clever guy. The only pity is that now was not the time for Herstal to make the rules.

Humming the nursery rhyme "come again another day" vaguely, Albarino pulled a burner phone out from a storage box on the side of the Chevelot's driver's seat and, without hesitation, dialed a number.

The call was answered immediately; he immediately changed his tone of voice to an urgent one, sounding genuinely sincere. He lowered his voice and said, "Elliot, I shouldn't be calling you, but – they found out and they're coming for you."

He heard the light, rapid breathing of the person on the other side of the phone, but he didn't have any intention of waiting anymore. He hung up sharply, then sat down to dismantle the burner phone, snapping the calling card in half.

When Albarino was done, he stuffed the pieces of the phone card and the burner phone into a Ziploc bag and put them back in the bottom of the storage box. By then it was raining heavily, as Westland always did in fall. The outside of the rainshield had already become a blurry curtain of water.

Albarino glimpsed at his surroundings, then pushed the door open and jumped out of the car.

Herstal felt himself running out of oxygen just by being choked; black spots started to appear in his vision. They were both aware of how quickly the process of a heart stopping due to lack of oxygen could be. It was at this moment that Elliot's cell phone rang from somewhere near Herstal's spine, a sound that startled them both.

Eliott jumped off him like a frightened animal and extracted the phone from underneath Herstal – it had been in Elliot's jacket pocket and must have fallen out when he had casually thrown the jacket onto the mattress just now.

Herstal breathed heavily to endure through this crucial moment, waiting for the black spots to be gone from his vision. While over there, Elliot took that call and his expression changed rapidly, the last bit of color disappearing from his face. Elliot couldn't even say a word because the caller had already hung up.

Elliot blankly lowered his raised hand, the phone slipping from between his stiff knuckles and hitting the dusty floor with a bang.

Then he looked slowly, slowly towards Herstal. The moment he saw the expression on his face, Herstal suddenly understood.

Panting, Herstal propped himself up on his upper body, his shirt half unbuttoned, exposing his heaving chest and bleeding lips. But when he looked over at Elliot, somehow Elliot saw a hint of iciness in his eyes which he had never seen before.

"What's wrong?" Herstal asked, cocking his head to the side as if truly confused. His blond hair he had always kept clean fell loose from his forehead, the edges messily brushing over his eyelashes. "They found you?"

Now, Herstal was very certain that the person who made the call was Albarino Bacchus. Of course he could do this kind of thing, since–

"I wish to see you burn."

That bastard.

"I can't–" Elliot muttered, his voice suddenly rising up at his next words, "Herstal, we can leave. I'm not going to let..."

"Yes, yes, of course we can." Herstal replied, adjusting his posture with difficulty. He knelt on the mattress, his gaze calm and sharp, "But why should I go with you?"

Elliot stared at him in bewilderment.

"Just like those people you killed before, did any one of them want to leave with you?" Herstal asked, engrossed. "Because of their endless repulsive attitude, you had no choice but to kill them in the end – Perhaps, for you, that doesn't count as killing, but as a failed romance, isn't it? Just like each and every of your failed relationships?"

Elliot's breathing became faster. He was at a loss for words, "Herstal, you–"

"Or perhaps it was the same as your first love? Elliot, during which rain did you kill the person you actually love?" Herstal sneered, "Because you love him, even worship him, but he treated you like roadside trash. You imagine an impossible dependence on him, but know in your heart that it will never happen. When you simulate the feelings onto your victims, but they result in failure..."

Elliot stared at him intently, his face malevolent and his teeth clacking in anger. At the same time, a bolt of lightning pierced the night sky, shining in through the narrow window some way above the floor of this basement, illuminating the miserable white faces of both people.

Herstal's last sentences were spit out softly from his mouth, sounding like a curse or an enticement.

"... It's raining."

A furious groan erupted from Elliot's throat as he rushed towards Herstal, stepping on the sound of thunder from the edge of the horizon. He pulled out a knife from a scabbard somewhere on the back of his waist–

Time seemed to freeze as he rushed to Herstal, who was half-kneeling on the mattress. Incredulously, he held that position and lowered his head – blood was gushing from his abdomen, with a butterfly knife stuck deep inside. Herstal's fingers were firmly clenched on the handle, his wrist red and swollen from being tightly bound by rope just before.

The knife had belonged to Herstal, who had plunged it into Elliot's palm when they had encountered each other on the highway. Later, Elliot stowed the knife in the inside pocket of his jacket. In the tens of hours after that, he had forgotten about it and left it where it was.

That jacket now lay wrinkled on the mattress; Herstal had accidentally laid on it just now.

"You know what, Elliot." Herstal said quietly, in an almost casual tone, "You're not particularly competent as a serial killer."

He excreted force with his hand, forcefully using the butterfly knife, which wasn't easy to handle and stuck inside of Elliot's flesh, to slowly cut open his stomach. Blood spurted out and landed on the back of his hand.

Elliot's body shuddered violently. His throat was making unbelievable whimpering sounds, but only froths of blood gushed out from between his lips.

Herstal looked up at the other. He was still kneeling because the rope on his ankles had not been cut. Besides, he probably couldn't stand up at all because of the numbness at the ends of his limbs. But his eyes were terrifyingly bright, his pupils dilated with excitement, squeezing the bright blue of his irises into a narrow circle – and the corners of his mouth twisted into a cold smile.

"Unfortunately," he said quietly, "I'm afraid I'm better at this art than you are."

Albarino's entire body was drenched in rain when he walked up to Elliot's door.

Without any intention of opening the door, he kicked it open – with the sound of the low quality latch breaking apart, the forensic pathologist invaded someone's residence. This wasn't something that people in his line of work should experience.

Inside the house, the smell of dust and cigarettes still lingered; the air was unpleasantly choking. Albarino drew his pistol from the holster on his shoulder: a Colt M2000. Although he preferred the feel of a knife in his hand to a firearm, he wouldn't refuse to increase the efficiency of his work, and also wouldn't be willing to leave too much info to be used against him with an FBI agent in Westland.

He quickly traversed the living room, which was extremely dim because the lights were not on. As soon as he walked down the stairs leading to the basement, the smell of blood assaulted him in the face. Albarino raised the corner of his lips slightly and slowly pushed open the basement door, which was left ajar.

Then, he saw Herstal Armalight half-lying on the floor in the middle of the basement, the blood pooling in a river beneath him. Lying in front of him was the body of Elliot Evans, his empty eyes staring unbelievably at the ceiling, the entire upper half of his body covered in traces of blood – Undoubtedly, the Westland Pianist had cut the body so many times it was a mess. The numerous non-fatal, yet deep wounds accumulated together would be enough to make him bleed out all the blood from his arteries.

"The young man was embracing him tightly, recklessly thrusting his crotch, rubbing his dripping wet pre-ejaculate fluid onto his leg, his lips brushing past the corner of his mouth. Someone who closely faced him – against his will – and mastrubated with his hand would just bring him a familiar, retching sensation; at this kind of moment he would much rather put his thoughts elsewhere. This lamentable delusional disorder patient, he thought. Subtle hints were clearly everywhere, right before his eyes; for this kind of person, they would clearly believe that the golden-haired prey they picked was deeply in love with him now. "

Herstal slowly, slowly straightened up his body. His hair was disheveled, pupils were dilated, a long spattering of blood was on his cheek, and his lower lip was covered with traces of blood still damp from being bitten into. Part of his shirt was messily pulled out of his belt with three or four buttons below the collar unbuttoned. And all of this – his suit and his shirt's expensive black and white fabric, and sparkling skin, were all covered in fresh blood, messily blooming on the clothing, spreading threateningly.

The butterfly knife in his hand was still dripping blood. The lack of a handguard did cause his fingers to be cut, causing the blood on his own index finger to slide down the metal and drip silently together into the pool of blood at his feet.

Herstal looked over to Albarino – this was it, this was the moment when monster and monster looked at each other face to face; their innocent, broken prey lay at their feet. Herstal was still panting fiercely, his raspy voice running past between the rumbling thunder, itchily grazing against Albarino's bare fingers exposed in the smell of blood.

And Albarino praised, cheerfully and sincerely –

"Verweile doch, du bist so schön.[1]"

[1]German: Stay a while, you are so beautiful)

Author's Note:

1. Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child; but the rod of correction shall drive it far from him.

The Bible, Proverbs 22:15

2. SWAT: abbreviation for Special Weapons and Tactics, basically a kind of specialized tactical unit.

3. The German Quote at the end comes from Goethe's Faust. To put it simply: Faust signed an agreement with the demon Mephistopheles. As long as Faust said this sentence, Mephistopheles could get his soul