Skeletons in the Rain

By Christian Nava

In this fast-paced, pulse-pounding thriller, a former priest has to uncover the secret identity of a deadly gang leader while confronting his own dark past.

After the death of someone he loved very much, local priest Ismael Niebuhr has vowed to leave the accursed town of San Isidro for good. But the Skulls, a dangerous gang, and their leader the Mime King have other plans for him.

They stalk him day and night, asking the same terrifying question: "Who?"

Desperate to escape, the priest soon realizes he needs the help of an old friend who he hasn't spoken to in years, Abraham Pérez, the chief of police. 

The problem is that Ismael and Abe share more than a broken friendship. A dark secret lies between them, a secret that can get everyone they care about killed.

This page-turner, filled with twists and turns, mixes the constant tension of modern psychological thrillers like THE GIRL ON THE TRAIN with a writing style akin to Miguel Otero Silva's early work. SKELETONS IN THE RAIN is a novel brimming with suspense that you won't be able to put down.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Nava
• Release date: Oct 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9798201279349

Christian Nava

Christian Nava is a bestselling author and an award-winning advertising writer with over ten years of experience in online marketing. In 2017, he published his first novel, SKELETONS IN THE RAIN, which became the #1 Best Seller in Mysteries and & Thrillers in Spanish for several weeks. His novel, THE CRACKS IN THE LABYRINTH, has been in the Top 10 Hottest Thriller Stories for over 16 months.  All the usual suspects, like Mr. Potter, Mr. Wayne, and very likable serial killer called Kira, live in his bookshelf. Squall and Rinoa are his favorite couple. He may or may not have attended Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

NOW

The priest is afraid to pass out from the pain.

I’m going to die down here, he thinks, feeling his grip on the gun slip slightly from his bloody fingers. No, I can’t die. Not again.

Then, everything blurs. Black spots appear in front of his eyes, blacker than the night itself, forcing him to stop. He can’t hear anything over the storm raging above, and the priest glances over his shoulder to make sure the chief of police is still chasing him through the maze of dim, underground corridors. Come on! Where are you, compadre? A deafening clap of thunder shakes the wall where he’s leaning, as if to remind him to keep running. If he doesn’t hurry, the person responsible for the death of dozens of people in San Isidro will get away—the one responsible for his own personal hell over the last few months will slip through his grasp. And all will be for naught.

There’s no lawgiver, the priest mutters, teeth gritted as he ignores the pulsing stigmata-like wound in his hand. No judge. No God.

And even if there is a God, He doesn’t care about anything but himself. An arrogant bastard much like—There you are! The priest sees the masked figure before him, and in spite of himself, he freezes for an instant, wondering one last time how it came to this. How is it possible that mere weeks ago he was officiating mass at the smallest church in town, and now he was ready to kill a person? He knows the answer to that, and the irony does not escape him. After all, this all started when he failed to answer a simple question that two Skulls asked him the night of the fire: Who?

PART ONE

CHAPTER 1

47 YEARS AGO

Ismael stared out the window as the sun died on the horizon. In his little hand, he held the last piece of the puzzle he’d been assembling with his mother. The boy was waiting for her to wake up, still hoping they would complete it together.

Are you alone? her voice was like sandpaper rubbing against a stone.

He turned to his mom. After being bedridden for weeks in this hospital room, she looked pale and withered. There were dark circles around her eyes.

Everyone’s gone now, he said.

A weak smile crossed her parched lips.

But you’re not everyone, right?

No. The boy smiled back, though he did not feel like it.

How did you do on your exam?

Nineteen points. Ismael dropped his gaze, embarrassed. He squeezed the puzzle piece of the monarch butterfly in his hand.

Why not twenty? She gestured him to come closer. I’m sure it’s your teacher’s fault. She’s jealous of how smart you are. A brief coughing fit interrupted her. You are my special angel. Never settle for less than you deserve.

Mother, I’ve saved the last piece for you.

Ismael? She reached for her son but missed him. And Ismael knew she couldn’t see anymore. Promise me you will be great.

Mom?

Promise me, Ismael. Promise me!

Mama, are you okay?

CHAPTER 2

OVER A MONTH AGO: GOLGOTHA

Jesus Christ’s face was as white as a ghost. His features were distorted: two hollow aces of diamonds instead of eyes. A carved, black smile twisting his elongated lips.

That image of the Savior of Mankind transformed into a crucified mime haunted Father Ismael’s every waking moment.

Someone in the front row cleared his throat, urging him to compose himself. Mass was not over. What was I saying? The priest raised his sweaty hands and dropped his head, struggling to concentrate. Even with his eyes closed, there was no escaping them. Like a flash of lightning, he saw in his mind the desecrated figure of the Virgin Mary in tattered rags. Her face—a smiling skull.

Ismael hoped the microphone would not pick up the sound of his heart pounding as he fluttered the pages of the Bible. Unsure of what his sermon had been about, he closed the venerable book with a thud. He makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good... The nervous glances and murmurs multiplied among the few parishioners sitting in the old wooden pews. And sends rain on the just and on the unjust.

The stench of myrrh made him dizzy and the bright light, cast by the lamps hanging from the vaulted ceiling above, hurt his eyes. If he wanted to maintain a facade of normality, the service needed to end now.

And may the blessing of Almighty God, the Father, and the Son and the Holy Spirit descend upon you and remain with you forever.

Amen, the congregation half-heartedly answered.

The priest’s tongue was arid.

Go in peace.

The words had just left his mouth when half of the people there rushed out of the church. Although this would often upset him, tonight Ismael prayed that everyone would follow their example and return as fast as possible to their mundane, little lives.

God, however, didn’t seem to be listening to him. A few people were staying behind.

Besides the crucified mimes appearing, as if by magic, every day before dawn throughout the church (something that was becoming increasingly difficult to keep a secret), the last couple of days he’d also been struggling with a nagging, burning sensation in his chest that refused to go away, much like Doña Josefa and the rest of the elderly women surrounding him now.

Isn’t it enough to invoke the sign of the cross in front of them all? Why must they always ask for a ‘personalized’ blessing?

Ismael gave a friendly pat to Pedro, his altar boy, and nudged his head toward the sacristy, hoping the kid would understand what this meant. He needed him to put everything in order while he herded the old ladies outside.

The priest knew if he avoided any conversation about the political corruption that had bled Venezuela dry, and limited himself to polite nods, he could get rid of them fast. And his plan would have worked, if Pedro hadn’t screamed from the sacristy door a moment later.

Father, come quick!

Doña Josefa stopped dead in the middle of the central nave and anchored her cane to the floor. The petite lady, toothless and sunburned, cast a curious glance toward the back of the church.

Is everything alright, Father?

Ismael raised an eyebrow. What now? Perhaps the bastards who had been vandalizing the church had replaced the white dove painted by the lectern with a dick with wings or graffitied an asshole over the Sacred Heart.

Don’t worry, ladies, Ismael replied. Whatever it is, I’ll take care of it.

Father, please, insisted the altar boy.

We’re coming, Pedrito. Doña Josefa gestured to the others to follow her. With a stubborn stride, she picked up the pace until the priest grabbed her by the arm, drawing her to a halt.

No need to do that.

Father? Doña Josefa frowned when he didn’t release his grip on her.

I said I would take care of it.

But we want to help you.

"Me? You can’t even help yourself!"

Ismael felt a sharp pang of regret as the dismay written on Doña Josefa’s face changed to indignation. She stared up at him, wide-eyed, then turned on her heels and marched for the exit. Making sure everyone noticed her angry stride, the octogenarian and her entourage muttered under their breaths that they felt too insulted to stay there for another second.

I’m so very sorry, the priest said, without conviction.

Before rushing out the main doors, Doña Josefa turned to Ismael one last time and pointed her cane at him.

Proverbs 11:2, Father. Remember?

He knew all too well what she meant by that: the sin of pride. It was not the first time he’d been the target of the town’s criticisms, and it wouldn’t be the last either. Like it matters what they think, he reminded himself. Besides, I have more important things to worry about than her.

Without giving it much thought, he locked the padlock on the door and put the key in the pocket of his priestly robes. Little did he know this decision would cost him his life a few minutes later.

CHAPTER 3

13 YEARS AGO

Even in normal circumstances, Marcelo didn’t like to speak to anyone, let alone a stranger. It made him nervous, and nervousness tied his tongue in a knot that would astound the most accomplished sailor.

But she was crying.

It was the first day of school, the recess bell had rung not ten minutes ago, and this poor girl was weeping. Something terrible must have happened to her.

Why is she so sad? he wondered. She’s all alone and hiding.

Marcelo looked at the thick row of trees that separated the school buses from the small soccer field, and after drawing a deep breath, he summoned all his courage to walk towards her. No one was around. It was up to him to help her.

However, he hadn’t taken two steps forward when the sobbing stopped altogether. He had seen nothing like it before, not even on TV. It was as if she had turned a faucet off. Is she okay? Rooted to the spot, he hesitated. Should I get a teacher?

Take a picture. It will last longer, the girl said, looking over her shoulder at him. There was an air of strength about her that didn’t match her small frame.

Marcelo’s heart went cold in his chest, freezing any words he could muster.

Do you enjoy watching girls cry?

N-no. I heard you and— When Marcelo noticed the motionless cat lying by her feet, his belly sank. Their teacher had just told him and his classmates about Benny the Ball, a friendly stray that had been roaming around the school grounds for so many years that it had become the unofficial mascot of every classroom. He’d always purr and rub against your legs if you had any food, but now he wasn’t moving, and his neck looked funny. Oh, no! Is he hurt?

Dead, the girl replied.

The day was sunny, but Marcelo shuddered. The giggling of some girls running nearby, perhaps playing hide-and-seek, felt wrong. Out of place.

H-how?

Are you a stutterer or something? the girl asked, studying him with her big brown eyes.

I’m s-sorry, Marcelo turned around, ready to run away. This had to be the worst first day of school in history.

Don’t go, she said. Wait!

W-why?

I’m not insulting you. I was curious.

Once their eyes met, he realized she wasn’t lying.

Okay, he came closer to her, not sure why. Were you crying because of Benny?

She looked at the dead cat, unfazed.

In a way.

I wish I had a time machine to s-save him, said Marcelo.

Can’t change the past.

Poor Benny. This is so sad.

Yes. There’s always so much sadness.

After a moment of silence, he asked her if she’d seen what happened. He wondered if it had been an accident.

It’s my fault. She teared up again. Will you tell on me?

M-me? No! S-snitches get stitches. He wasn’t convincing her, and this was killing him. I s-swear. Cross my heart and hope to die.

Why won’t you tell on me?

Recess is almost over. We should go.

Mrs. Arruza can’t teach me anything I don’t already know. Don’t avoid the question. Why won’t you tell on me?

Marcelo thought about it for a moment. The bell rang as he shook his head, not knowing what to say. Soon, the kids from the soccer field scattered. Some packed up their breakfast, and all the rest who were playing and chatting with their friends rushed back to their classrooms.

I’m not special, she said.

I know.

Surprise raised her brows. You do?

Papa takes me to church every week. Last Sunday, Father Rodriguez said we are all made in God’s image. I didn’t understand him, so I made my papa ask him what he meant after mass. He explained that it means everyone’s the same.

Which means no one is special. Her half-smile brought a full grin to Marcelo’s lips. Shouldn’t you be heading back to class?

Only if you come with me. The murmurs in the classrooms grew softer as the wind blew, rustling the tree leaves above them. Right then, they might as well have been the only two kids in the entire world. What’s your name?

CHAPTER 4

OVER A MONTH AGO: GOLGOTHA

The altar boy ran toward the priest.

Ismael couldn’t tell if the kid was out of breath due to exertion or fear, but Pedro had seen something bad enough to drain the color from his face. Poor child! This is torture, he said to himself. While opinionated for a ten-year-old, Pedrito was discreet and, especially over the past few weeks, he’d shown it took a lot to scare him. This is getting out of control. He shouldn’t be here anymore. With each passing minute, the secret they’d kept for weeks was becoming an impossible burden to bear. But I can’t afford people finding out about this. Ismael drew in his breath. Whatever new atrocities await me there, I have to take care of them on my own.

The priest put his hands on Pedro’s shoulders and lowered his voice, trying to calm him. Listen—

All at once, the lights died out and with them any chance of reassuring the kid.

F-fa-father...

He grimaced. The fear made his altar boy stutter. Just like Marcelo. Ismael shook his head, refusing to let bitter memories cloud his mind.

Stay here, boy.

It took the priest’s eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness. The echo of his footsteps was the only sound in the church until the door in the eastern wall of the transept creaked open. As he drew closer, the first thing he noticed was the pungent odor of gasoline coming from the sacristy.

Father, said an electric, inhuman voice as Ismael walked in the room. You have sinned.

He could not believe his eyes. Two people were waiting for him inside. Both wore identical black clothes and skull masks in slightly different hues. From their physiques and their posture, he assumed one was a man and the other was a woman. The priest would later refer to them as Dark Skull and Light Skull.

While Dark Skull recorded everything with his phone, Light Skull held a tablet