The Scream Catcher Read online

  When Jack smiles, Jude knows what’s coming.

  “Shit yeah,” the boy laughs.

  “Jack Parish.”

  “Oops, I goofed.”

  “You go tell Grandpa I’m just getting out of the shower,” Jude insists, barreling out of the study. “Tell him I’m getting dressed.”

  “You want me to lie?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Awesome,” says the boy.

  Lake George Village

  Wednesday, 6:50 A.M.

  The single window inside Lennox’s studio apartment is covered over with a thick, black shade. The shade blocks out all natural light; all hope for anyone on the outside to see in. It allows the house-arrested beast to sit naked at his computer table. Clothing feels binding and obtrusive when one is trying to think.

  Placed before him is a keyboard and an LCD monitor. Plugged into the back of the monitor is a mainframe outfitted with a backup port, surge protector, and wireless modem. Placed beside the monitor is a Kindle E-Reader which contains an E-Book edition of Jude Parish’s memoir, Cop Job. Beside that, a small pile of blood red capsules to keep the video game designer energized throughout the day, into the early evening.

  Although he’s positioned long fingers steadily over the wireless keyboard, he does not type. Not yet. But in his head he transports himself to creative mode. Popping a capsule into his mouth, he dry swallows. In his imagination, he begins to finger off a series of commands that will initiate the beginning of a viral sequence.

  By definition, Lennox is a militarily trained computer technician or “hacker.”

  The beast knows how to build a virus from scratch—from incubation stage to infection. Not too long ago, a great American President paid him to become an expert hacker in the name of national security. In the years following 9/11 and the Iraq War, he’s taken full advantage of his computer training to become the pseudonymous developer/designer of two highly successful first-person kill games. But since his arrest (as house painter “Christian Barter”), he is about to make a return trip back to his military roots by creating an exceptional new virus.

  Well, perhaps not an exceptional virus.

  He can certainly do better, given more time than the allotted seventy-two hours between arraignment and preliminary hearing. But in consideration of the time constraint, he is about to create a virus strong enough to attack the Adirondack Power Company at its computer controlled core generator…put the lights out on Lake George proper for a while.

  Would you like to know what it takes to build a simple virus, Mr. Parish?

  First things first: a computer virus requires portability.

  The viral “grub” must be architecturally independent, able to operate on any and all systems known to God or artificial intelligence including, but not limited to Windows, X98, Linux-II and, as in the case of Adirondack Power, Solaris.

  Second: in order to sustain and replicate life, a virus requires invisibility.

  The grub has got to implement stealth and masquerading techniques when it invades the generator’s computer at its binary core. Like a caterpillar protected inside a cocoon, it must have the talent for hiding out inside its own code, remaining undetected and impenetrable for any required length of time. The sneaky little bugger has got to be impossible to track down once its discovered by a power company employee that the email he or she just inadvertently opened has unleashed all hell upon the entire physical plant.

  Third: autonomy.

  Like any living, breathing, hunting organism, strength and resiliency will be the hallmarks of its function. Because a grub operates on an invaded network, it will bait and lure other fat grubs in order to munch on their rich and nutritious compiled binaries. In the end, this cyber feasting will mean a stronger, longer lasting, more impenetrable “crypted” virus. A monster virus.

  Fourth: the grub has to be a real fast learner, able to absorb new complicated exploits and complex techniques in a matter of milliseconds, not hours or minutes. Because in computer binary time, the present is gone-baby-gone and the future is in your face. By launching one instance of an updated grub into the power company’s system, all other grubs that will follow must have the savvy for updating and revising their own codes by utilizing the grub net. No one grub should be set in stone. It’s got to be able to mutate, polymorph, evolve, grow stronger and stronger so that no one anti-viral venom can penetrate the infected matrix grid and kill it.

  Finally: once the Adirondack power grid systems are infected and the grub net instructions downloaded, the virus must appear to disappear. Nothing left behind to trace or route. Just a mean clean scene.

  In forty-eight hours, Lennox, acting as his Black Dragon alter ego, will initiate the seven-step computer code which, in turn, will awaken the grub net. He’ll call for it to rise up and enter into its “transfer state” or “state of ready.” Once fully uploaded, it will take no more than thirty minutes for it to infect the local power grid so that by nightfall the entire town of Lake George will not only know absolute darkness, it will know chaos.

  I know what frightens you Mr. Parish . . . I read your book.

  Removing his hand from the keyboard, Lennox stands, brushes back long blond locks. Blue eyes planted on the bare wall, he catches site of the electronic GPS Surveillance Bracelet that, up until last evening, had been attached to his ankle. Like a little child’s crucifix, it now hangs on the wall by a six-penny nail. It is the perfect place for the bracelet. Because later on, when T-Bred comes to escort him on a clandestine shopping spree up in Plattsburgh, he will slip on out into the night without the L.G.P.D. being the wiser.

  Sweeney’s Boxing and Fitness

  Wednesday, 7:55 A.M.

  The kill scene has been cordoned off with plastic yellow crime scene ribbon. Ribbon extends from the back door, out beyond the parking lot to the edge of the gravel pit. From there it makes a ninety-degree turn to the south, then follows the perimeter of the lot until it wraps its way back towards the rear block wall of the gym.

  They stand inside this “circle” of yellow tape: Jude, Mack, P.J. Blanchfield, and the mustached Lt. Lino who, with digital video camera in hand, has been delegated to record the proceedings.

  The rain has stopped.

  It’s been replaced by a partly cloudy sky. But the blacktop is still damp. The rapidly rising temperature causes a steamy mist to rise up from it.

  There is a chalk outline where Lennox’s victim rested face down immediately after taking two bullets to the back of the head. Even after the rain, the blood stains remain. Along with the heat is the welcome clean-smelling breeze that blows off the lake.

  But Jude is not able to enjoy it.

  He stands outside the gym’s back door, beside the blue dumpster. Per Blanchfield’s request, he’s physically pointing out the place where Manion made his way over the gravel pit embankment, down through the small wood. It’s the same spot at the edge of the parking lot in which Lennox caught up to him only seconds before forcing the man down onto his knees and recording his screams. Jude further reveals how Lennox pressed a silenced pistol barrel against the back of his head. Jude speaks of the darkness, the heavy rain, the victim’s shrieks of despair, and the words Lennox shouted out before twice pulling the trigger: “Scream. For. Me.”

  He recounts how two silenced muzzle blasts lit up the rainy darkness. In his ex-cop mind, he overlooks no detail, no matter how small. In doing so, he begins to feel the warmth of renewed confidence.

  But that’s when something strange happens.

  Instead of showing her faith in him—her eyewitness—Blanchfield’s face takes on an expression of disbelief. Dressed for “the field” in a gray sweatshirt and blue jeans, her shoulder-length strawberry blond hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, she purses her lips, shakes her head with reluctance.

  Facing Jude, she says, “How is it possible that you identified two men from a distance of sixty feet in the pitch dark and the pouring rain?”

  An electri
c jolt shocks his heart. He feels the edge of a cold blade run down his spine.

  “The exterior spotlight was lit up.”

  But the prosecutor grabs hold of Jude’s hand, leads him back across the lot to the gym’s back door. She raises her head up to face the spotlight, points out that its bulb is no more than a common sixty watt household model.

  The spotlight isn’t a spotlight at all.

  It’s a common interior light bulb that hardly illuminates the immediate area surrounding the dumpster, much less the far edge of the gym’s property.

  “Here’s what I have to be sure of, Mr. Parish,” Blanchfield presses. “Is it not at least possible that someone other than Hector Lennox might have run out of those woods in pursuit of that convenient store owner? Someone who happens to have long blond hair and blue eyes?”

  Jude swallows something dry and bitter. Blanchfield is beginning to sound just like Judge Mann.

  “A man killed another man in this very spot,” he says, patting the clean bandage on his head. “I witnessed the event with my own two eyes. He made a getaway in a silver sedan after taking a shot at me. He is the same man who was arraigned yesterday in the county court.”

  Now growing dizzy, lightheaded, the demon is snaking its way into Jude’s blood and bones.

  Blanchfield throws him a glare, dark eyes open, unblinking.

  “We based our arraignment on the argument that the man who calls himself Barter is truly Lennox in disguise. Regardless of physical characteristics that prove otherwise, regardless of a solid alibi, regardless of an obit that records his death.”

  “I know what I saw.”

  “You know what you saw but you were knocked unconscious by a bullet that grazed your head. You were also hampered by a very black, very stormy environment. Listen, this long-haired man, whoever he is, fully cooperated with us and the court. It’s important that the genuine truth be revealed before we prosecute. We go into court in two days convinced that the man we detained is Hector Lennox and it turns out he’s just some wrongly accused schmuck from nowhere, then this case is closed before it even begins, and a killer will have gotten away.”

  The two turn.

  Lino uses the lull to pull the video camera from his face, give his eyes a break. Mack laser beams a look in his son’s direction. He pulls a smoke from his jacket, lights it.

  “She’s right, kid. We go in there on Friday with a flaky testimony, Mann will see that our suspect walks. At least until we’ve collected all the physical evidence. By then, it could be too late.”

  “We’ve got to be one-hundred-ten percent accurate with our information,” Blanchfield attests. “The testimony must be considered reliable. That’s why we’re here now.”

  The blood rushes to Jude’s head. It’s a frigid cocktail spiked with fear and adrenalin. He feels trapped between the law and his own memories.

  “I know what I saw,” he repeats like a mantra. “The killer has a black dragon tattooed to the interior of his right forearm. He catches the screams of his victims with an iPhone.”

  “Yes, the young man arrested inside that video arcade has a black dragon tattooed to his right forearm,” Blanchfield responds. “But, according to your testimony of yesterday morning, the gunman you witnessed outside the gym was wearing a long sleeved shirt or body suit. The black dragon tattoo or any other identifying mark for that matter would have been completely concealed.”

  I know what I saw . . .

  Or does he?

  “In the end, Mr. Parish, all you can really be sure about is that you froze up, hid yourself behind a dumpster. And you lost consciousness seconds before the perp made his escape. Not because of a misguided bullet, but because of your emotional condition. The defendant knows this. If he is in fact Hector Lennox, he will bring your previous breakdown as a police officer to the forefront of his defense. He will question your sanity. More than likely he will read Cop Job and use it as weapon against you. He will use the botched Burns murder/suicide as proof that you are a man living in constant fear.”

  Jude looks directly at his father for moral support.

  But all the old Captain can manage is a smoky exhale before lowering his head.

  Turning to Lt. Lino, Jude receives much the same reception. Lake George’s newest officer returns the gaze tightlipped, without emotion, video camera now idle in his hand. Standing outside the gym’s back door in the ever rising summer heat, Jude feels his breathing grow strained. He wants to defend himself. But what can he possibly say that won’t sound like an excuse for his ineffectiveness as a former cop, as an eyewitness to murder, as a fucking man?

  But then, like a sudden shift in climate, something amazing happens—just as quickly as the prosecutor came down on Jude, she offers up a sincere apology.

  “Please forgive me if I seem curt or edgy in my methods,” she explains, her face once more retaining much of its attractiveness—its tan softness, its hazel-eyed charm. “It’s my job to attack your story in the precise manner the defense will pry it apart, event for event, word for word.”

  Now working up a gentle smile.

  “Listen, if I didn’t believe the man wearing a surveillance bracelet wasn’t Hector Lennox, I never would have agreed to an early arraignment. I would have put it off until we received all forensic proof to further back up our claim.”

  Cool sweat goes from dripping to pouring down Jude’s back. He’s having trouble swallowing. He finds himself eyeing the small patch of second growth woods that conceal the perimeter of the gravel pit. It’s like waiting for Lennox to once again appear. This time in pursuit of another victim and more screams.

  “Lennox is representing himself?” He swallows. “How can he possibly wage a competent defense?”

  Blanchfield crosses arms, eyes the same patch of woods that Jude eyes.

  “I’m certain he will question your sanity as a former officer who was forced into resignation for botching a hostage crisis. Acting as Christian Barter, he will take great offense to having been accused of serial killing. He will be the falsely charged, the victim of shoddy justice, perhaps the victim of an elaborate setup. He’s being foolishly picked on while the real killer eludes the police. Worst of all, Jude, he will establish reasonable doubt in the mind of Judge Mann, and that is something we—I—cannot defeat, regardless of strong circumstantial evidence.”

  … When Burns presses the trigger, the shotgun blast causes Jude to shed his strength, lose his balance. He’s down on his knees on the cabin floor when the blonde-haired mother takes the full load of buckshot to the face, when the empty casing is ejected from the smoking chamber, when a fresh one is locked and loaded . . .

  Minutes later a timeline reenactment is set up in which all available people are assembled to recreate the events of the previous morning. With Mack acting the part of the victim, Lino plays Lennox. They are to be as accurate as possible, right down to Jude’s engaging in three solid rounds of speed bag work.

  It seems like a great chance for the former cop to get it right. But what he discovers instead is that a physically exhausted man trying to make out the faces of gunman and victim as they plow through the gravel pit, then the woods surrounding it, and onto the parking lot proves a next-to-impossible task. And that’s without the dark of night or the driving rain.

  The distance is just too great; the exterior spotlight too dim.

  The only scenario that carries any weight is the quick look he got of Lennox as the beast slowed the sedan, drew down the passenger-side window, aimed the sound-suppressed .22 cal. at Jude’s face and fired.

  But even then it’s possible that Judge Mann is not about to trust Jude’s testimony.

  In light of his having lost consciousness for an estimated twenty-three minutes (and in light of the Burns incident; in light of Cop Job), it’s more likely that the judge will continue to deem the testimony as unreliable. Or at the very least, questionable.

  “No wonder Mann approved a conditional bail,” Mack comments.
/>   Lino purses his lips.

  He adds, “Mann is probably convinced that the real killer is still out there somewhere. That we’re just jerking ourselves off.”

  Jude says nothing. Not a word.

  He knows then that what the morning’s exercises boil down to is this: instead of giving him the self-confidence to testify, he’s left feeling like a failure. Not only as a reliable witness, but as a mentally stable human being.

  Later, as Jude slips back into his father’s Jeep-cruiser, he silently asks himself the sixty-four thousand dollar question: If my testimony is considered so unreliable, why keep me on as the prosecution’s star witness at all?

  As the cops silently pull out of Sweeney’s, it’s a question Jude might pose to Mack or even Lino. But fearing an answer he does not want to hear, he keeps his trap shut.

  The Lake George Road

  Wednesday, 9:20A.M.

  P.J. Blanchfield pulls the Porsche over to the side of Lake Road. The car has hardly stopped in a screech of burning rubber and spitting gravel when she opens up the door, leans her head out and vomits.

  When emptied, her breathing having returned to normal, she closes the door, wipes her face with one of the paper napkins stored in the glove box.

  You bitch. You fucking selfish, lonely bitch!

  What the hell are you doing? What right have you got to put this man’s life in jeopardy in order to protect your own? Jude Parish is a father and a husband. He’s got a fucking baby on the way. He has all those things that you willingly gave up for your “career.” He’s a good man. You know he’s not an unreliable witness; that the man suspected of the murder in back of Sweeny’s Boxing Gym is Lennox.

  You know the Black Dragon is not dead. You know that this arrest and investigation has been orchestrated by the criminal himself.

  The master puppeteer.

  The kill gamer.

  The scream catcher.

  You know that he is free and that he will harm Jude Parish. He is free because he can tug your strings. He can manipulate you and you, in turn, can work the law to suit your own purposes; to protect your blue blood future by hiding your redneck past.