The Scream Catcher Read online

  The Molloy Gravel Pit

  Thursday, 9:31 P.M.

  The taste of blood is the first sensation that registers inside his brain when Mack regains consciousness. The salty, metallic taste of his own spilled blood and an acidic bile that shoots up from his stomach, stings the back of his throat.

  Just inches from where his face touches the rocky gravel pit floor, a narrow stream of red rain flows. The old Captain swallows a bitter breath, gathers the strength necessary to roll himself onto his back. He feels no pain along the length of his spine or in the lower right shoulder exit wound. Only a kind of remorse for having allowed himself (a man of my years, my experience) to be ambushed by Lennox so easily. With a deep breath and a rallying of his available muscle, he manages somehow to sit himself up. That’s when the sickness balloons inside his belly, rises up into his mouth. Spreading his legs, he vomits blood and bile onto the shredded shale floor.

  When emptied, he decides to lie back, stare up at a heavy darkness interrupted only by the occasional flicker of lightning.

  The hard rain pelts the old Captain’s face.

  So easy to just lie here and call it a life . . .

  But then death is not an option. Not when so many lives are still coiled around his own.

  With one single concentrated burst of effort, he manages to push himself up one-handed onto his feet. Lightheaded and dizzy, he swallows a deep breath, staggers forward in the direction of his ride.

  Fuck death and the horse she rode in on . . .

  He knows that, from now on, his sole purpose in life is to get to his son before the Lennox gets to him first.

  Assembly Point Peninsula

  Thursday, 9:32 P.M.

  Black Dragon scoots his way up silently from the dock. Crosses over the gravel drive past the two-bay garage. Sets himself down onto his stomach. Slithers across the front lawn, sliding effortlessly in his lightweight bodysuit over the grass, the never ending rainfall that soaks it providing the perfect slippery surface.

  To his left, the dark Assembly Point Road and the narrow stretch of pine and birch woods that lead up to the Lake George Road. To his right, the dark, nearly black silhouette of a log home. Beyond that, the wide open lake.

  In his whirling mind, Black Dragon is invisible to the naked eye. Transparency has nothing to do with stealth. Nothing to do with the precautions he’s taken to maintain the stealth.

  This isn’t black magic . . . This is reality . . . Invisibility is the gift from on high.

  The black clothing, the black-painted face, the shaved head only serve to enhance the perfect oneness of his soul and the balance between the carnal and the incarnate. In his spiritual core he believes himself to be truly invisible, his body impervious to sight, to touch…to the wrath of God, man, or demon.

  He is the Christ; the chosen one.

  Clamped pirate-like between his teeth is an eleven inch Teflon-coated fighting knife betrothed to him by the United States Marine Corps. The taste of Teflon-coated steel energizes him when he makes his way underneath the row of shrubbery planted directly in front of the log-walled house. Coming upon the wide bay window, Black Dragon stops. He takes the blade into his gloved right hand, cuts the incoming power line in the place where the one inch conduit emerges from the soil and feeds through the top six inches of the structure’s concrete foundation. Not that he needs to cut the line during the blackout. But in his mind, he knows it’s the prudent thing to do. Because what if the virus were to suddenly be contained by state and federal antivirus detection software? What if the power were to be suddenly restored?

  Stealth and surprise would become severely compromised.

  Stealth, surprise, and invisibility are the key components of this newly devised three-level kill game—a kill game that began from the moment Jude Parish became the witness to a murder.

  From down on the wet earth, Black Dragon lifts his head. Using only the right eye, he manages to peer inside the log home. Inside the candlelit space, he is quick to spot the coffee table that supported the Betta fish’s vase. The same vase he tipped gently onto its side, allowing the water and the small fish it supported to spill out. Blue eyes glued to the transparent vase, he finds it odd that it’s still lying there on its side.

  He searches the room for the game players, the victims…the screamers. But they appear to be nowhere in sight. In his mind, he expects them to be running around in all directions like two blind mice scared out of their mortal wits. Lowering his head, he sets the blade back between his teeth. He resumes his crawl around the south side of the log structure, gliding past Mr. Parish’s glass-walled study, passed the screened-in stone patio, passed the two Japanese maples planted directly in front of it and then around to the split-level log home’s backside. When finally he spots Mr. Parish and the beautiful with-child, Mrs. Parish, he stops and observes.

  Husband and wife are making their way down across the lawn towards the point where the property ends and the lake begins at the small stone retaining wall just to the left of the wood dock. It’s there beneath a large, white-barked birch tree that they fall to their knees in a kind of reverent gesture. Black Dragon eyes the woman as she begins to dig into the wet sandy earth with a garden spade while her husband illuminates the ground with a flashlight.

  For now the rain falls steadily. Not heavy or light. Just steady.

  Coming from out of the distance, well above the glowing phosphorescent deep water beyond the bay, Black Dragon spots bursts of lightning that flash against a bruised purple and black sky. Directly to his right, he spots the screen door that accesses the home’s kitchen. The first time he infiltrated the home, he did it the easy way—by simply walking through the front door after having tripped the lock. He planned on using a basement window as a second point of entry. But now he spots a far easier way of entering the home.

  Laid out like a snake atop his tight belly, the invisible Black Dragon slithers, makes his way to the open kitchen door.

  Lake George Village Precinct

  Thursday, 9:33 P.M.

  It’s a simple case of love versus common sense.

  Or so thinks Lt. Daniel Lino as he bolts out the front door of the L.G.P.D. precinct. Through the darkness and the rain, he recognizes the throngs of tourists and villagers being led by the uniformed cops to both ends of the now cordoned off Main Street. Bright battery-operated spotlights combine with the cruisers flashers, the explosions of colored light bouncing off the exterior front facades of the blacked-out businesses that lined the west side of the street.

  Lino avoids the mostly drunk and rowdy tourist crowds completely by cutting through an alley that reaches from the south end of the village to its central point. He makes a left, then a quick right, before peeling back a partially detached chain link fence, squeezing himself through and entering into yet another alley—this one narrow, dank, and deserted.

  He enters this place in direct defiance of Blanchfield’s orders to stay away from Lennox at all costs. But now that the GPS surveillance bracelet has somehow been removed and reported discarded under the Brook Trout Bridge, the prosecutor’s order of “stay away” is now hereby revoked. Added to that is the issue of the missing evidence. Is it possible that a now free Lennox has somehow managed to get his hands on the forensic evidence? Has the killer stolen it with the intent to destroy it?

  Maybe the rules of the game have changed. But Lino is still playing, no matter what. That’s the way he sees it as he approaches the dark alleyway.

  Pulling the mini Maglite from his jacket pocket, he shines the narrow beam onto the wet pavement, then runs it up the exterior brick wall to his right, then up the brick wall to his left. It’s here he discovers the single, metal-paneled door that leads to a basement apartment. Approaching the door with caution, he draws his service weapon.

  Rain water drips off his brow onto his cheeks and mustache. He tastes the water between his lips. He knows that in all likelihood the surveillance bracelet assigned to Lennox has somehow been tamp
ered with. One simply could not forcibly remove the metal alloy and heavy plastic device without triggering a series of remote alarms. He also knows that the only way Lennox could have unfastened the bracelet was by acquiring the code that unlocks it. That code could only have come from someone on “the inside.”

  In his mind, Lino has a very good idea who that insider might be.

  There are other things to consider. For instance, every cop is consumed with the blackout. Not a single officer of Lake George law is available to enter into the hunt for Lennox—assuming he’s fled the village in the first place. Not even Mack is around to help in the hunt. At least not directly. Mack has more personal matters to attend to, like the safety and well being of his family. Because if Lennox is on the loose and looking for vengeance, then Mack will make certain to protect his son and his son’s family. Above all else, that will be the old Captain’s priority.

  It’s a simple case of love versus common sense . . .

  What all this means is that the task of finding and apprehending a now loose Lennox falls into Lino’s hands alone. There’s an emergency in Lake George and it’s up to the Lieutenant to answer the call. Which gives him every right in God’s world to conduct an illegal search and seizure on the premises of Hector Lennox.

  “So what the fuck are you waiting for, Daniel?” he asks himself aloud as he raises his right leg high, kicks the door in.

  For the first time in what must be weeks, Lino has to laugh.

  Because, after all that thought, all that deliberation, his illegal search and seizure will not be considered illegal after all. As it turns out, Lennox has been anticipating his arrival.

  “The proof is in the pudding,” Lino sadly whispers to himself.

  Not pudding exactly, but what resembles pudding. Shining the light on the floor and walls, the white foamy substance covers everything. Like the metaphor suggests, it almost looks as though Lennox managed to pump in gallons upon gallons of pudding or maybe vanilla frosting, sprayed it over every square inch of wall, ceiling and floor space. From where Lino is standing in the open doorway, he can see a table covered with computer equipment that now is dripping white foam. The small couch, the kitchenette counters, the sink full of dishes, even the barred window is completely frosted with the white foam. Judging by the dozen or more empty fire extinguishers huddled in the corner beside him, the Lieutenant knows precisely the source of the foam.

  “Lennox knew we’d tear his door down eventually,” he whispers to himself. “So he decided to leave us a little present. Something to slow us down a little.”

  In his mind, Lino’s already picturing the team of white, HEPA-suited Crime Scene Investigators who will be required to spend hours and hours sifting through the white goop. Their mission will be to find even a small shred of evidence that might shed some light onto the how, where and when associated with a brand new kill game.

  And by that time, it’ll be too damned late . . .

  Stepping back out into the alley, Lino closes the door behind him. He knows that by making a check on his extended family, Mack has already placed himself on Lennox’s trail, whether he knows it or not.

  At a jogger’s pace, Lino cuts through the fence on his way back towards the L.G.P.D. precinct. It’s now imperative that he make contact with Mack before the man unknowingly steps into an ambush.

  Assembly Point Peninsula

  Thursday, 9:50 P.M.

  Jude and Rosie stand together at the edge of the property where the grass ends and the lake begins. Without a word, he watches her fall to her knees, raise a garden spade, plunge it into the soft, rain-drenched earth. While he shines the flashlight over the worksite, she pulls out a narrow divot of dirt and grass, sets it off to the side.

  Watching her work, he begins to worry.

  “Easy Rosie. Remember the baby.”

  She offers no response.

  The rain falls while the lake laps against both the dock pilings and the stone retaining wall. When the small hole, or grave, is ready, Jude hands his wife the paper-towel shrouded fish. Gently she takes it into her cupped hands, places the creature slowly down into the hallowed earth. Pausing to gaze at the fish, she then looks up at him from down on her knees, damp face pale in the bright flashlight. She is giving off this droopy-eyed solemn look. The look tells him that maybe he should be saying something on behalf of Charlie. But standing there in the rain and a darkness interrupted by brilliant bursts of lightning, he can’t think of a thing to say. It’s just a fish. He feels silly trying to think of something to say on behalf of a dead pet fish.

  A long silent beat passes with all the strained slowness of a teardrop falling from a chin. Finally, Rosie reaches out, pushes the soil back into the divot. She replaces the sod on top of it. Somehow she manages to locate a small rock inside the narrow circle of white flashlight. Gently she sets it at the head of the little fish grave.

  Standing, she wipes the muddy palm of her left hand onto her leg, leaving a dark smear on the exposed skin of her thigh. That’s when he reaches out and with nervous apprehension, sets an open hand onto her damp back, rubs it up and down.

  With the rain water streaking down her brow into wide, wet eyes, Rosie says, “We just did a good thing for Charlie.”

  It’s all that needs to be said. Or so Jude tries to convince himself. But then he just wants to get the hell out of the elements, get back in the house, back to his son, lock the door behind them, get the night over with as quickly and uneventfully as possible.

  They turn back for their home. But as they walk over the soft, water-logged lawn, he gazes up at Jack’s bedroom window, observes the candle flame that flickers and dances against the little boy’s bedroom walls. The dancing seems oddly in synch with the now far away lightning that strikes the open water of the lake. He reaches for the screen door, makes a mental note to blow the candle out before crawling into bed.

  Before I have yet another fucking tragedy on my hands . . .

  Assembly Point Peninsula

  Thursday, 10:00 P.M.

  Back inside the kitchen, Jude locks the door.

  Facing the now lifeless home security enunciator panel, he can only hope that the power comes back on line sooner than soon.

  Rosie pours dry food into a stainless steel bowl for Atticus, the cat, sets it down on the kitchen floor. She then replaces the water and seed bowls inside the cage where Nigel the pet canary lives. To the sorrowing sounds of her teary sniffles, Jude heads downstairs into the laundry room to make certain the door that leads into the garage is locked. He doesn’t make it all the way down before Rosie calls out to him. She’s going to bed.

  He wants to remind her of their bath. But then judging by her state of mind, thinks better of it.

  Flashlight in hand, Jude crosses over the basement floor, passed an Everlast heavy bag that hangs by a chain from a steel I-beam, passed the Olympic free weights, passed the treadmill, until he enters the separate boiler room. Raising the flashlight, he aims the round beam of light up towards a rectangular push-out window which is embedded into the concrete wall at ground level. When the white light strikes the cat’s blood red eyes, his heart shoots up into his throat.

  Startled, Atticus hops up on all fours legs. She arches her back, shows her white fangs, lets out with a hiss. When she hurls herself down from the narrow interior window ledge directly onto the concrete floor, Jude automatically lurches back, slams the back of his head against the aluminum paneled boiler.

  “Jesus H. Christ, Atticus,” he cries out. “What’s got you so nervous?”

  But it’s a dumb question considering the seemingly never ending electrical storm; considering the blackout.

  But, of course, the cat pays him no mind whatsoever. She simply scoots off through the dark basement and up the stairs, no doubt in search of food.

  Heartbeat having resumed its normal rhythm, Jude heads back down to the dock in the rain, pulls and yanks on the stern and bow ropes that tie down the Lund motorboat, checks to make sure
the outboard engine has been cranked up, its propeller blades far above the rocky bottom. He then makes his way back up to the house to check and recheck every door and window lock until completely satisfied that no one is getting in.

  Not without a struggle.

  Up on the top floor corridor, he sets his ear against Jack’s bedroom door, listens for anything unusual. But he makes out nothing. Nothing that is, other than the reassuring noise of the boy’s steady inhaling and exhaling. Quietly he opens the door, tip-toes inside, blows out the bedside candle.

  Entering his own bedroom at the far end of the hall, Jude is more than a little surprised to see that in the ten minutes it’s taken him to inspect the dock and the house, Rosie has managed to fall asleep

  Or is she simply faking it?

  From where he’s standing at the foot of the king-sized bed, he sees that she’s set out another pill for him. To wash it down, a bottle of Bud.

  Not exactly the safe way to consume anxiety medication. But then maybe Rosie is trying to tell me something. Maybe to her I appear to be losing my mind if only a little.

  Or maybe Jude is reading too much into the gesture.

  Maybe Rosie knows that he could use a cold drink by now. A cold hard drink.

  He sits himself down carefully on the edge of the bed, swallows the pill, chases it with a swig of cold beer. For a brief moment, he’s mesmerized by the dancing candlelit shadow projected against the stacked log walls. Until he glances down at his wife, long dark hair still wet from the rain, half her face buried in the down pillow, half exposed. As the sky rumbles outside the home, he watches her quiet way of breathing in and out while she tries to sleep.

  Rising, coming around to Rosie’s side of the bed, Jude bends, kisses her on the cheek.