Scream Catcher Page 18
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.
47
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 rainwater 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 …
48
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 onto 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, past an Everlast heavy bag that hangs by a chain from a steel I-beam, past the Olympic free weights, past 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, tiptoes 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 beer.
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 onto 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.
She stirs, mumbles, “Are we safe now?”
He can’t be sure if she’s awake or dreaming.
He stands, still feeling the warmth from her cheek on his lips.
“Everything is secured. We’re safe.”
But in his head, Jude pictures his father.
Where the hell are you, Mack?
Back to his own bedside, Jude drinks down the rest of his beer. For a split second he considers slipping out of the damp jeans and T-shirt, crawling quietly under the covers.
But not tonight.
It’s just a matter of time before Ray or Mack or somebody pulls up in the driveway. When it happens, he will be dressed and ready to greet them. In the meantime, he’ll close
his eyes, ignore the demon inside him, and try to get some rest. Tomorrow promises to be one hell of a trying day.
For a time he finds himself staring up into the darkness.
Flat on his back, Jude avoids eyeing the end of the bed. The Burns mother and daughter: they’ll be standing there when finally, he falls to sleep.
Part IV
Darkness My Old Friend
49
Assembly Point Peninsula
Friday, August 18, 12:01 A.M.
Then a noise.
Something that sounds like a thick strip of metal slapped against hardwood.
The slap is not something that goes bump in the night. The slap vibrates from out of the stormy darkness; from out of the lower regions of the log home. It penetrates the density of the humid summer air.
At the same time the foreign noise acts like a spring.
It triggers eyelids, drawing them wide open. Just a quick solid slap that, should it occur during daylight hours might not register a second thought. But that now in the deep night becomes cause for serious alarm.
The slap comes and goes so swiftly that by the time the first wave of adrenalin rush passes, Jude begins to believe he must have imagined or dreamt it in the first place. It only makes sense to believe that after falling asleep, the subconscious took over, decided to play a dirty trick on his brain. Because who really wants to believe that someone or something is breaking into their home in the middle of a blacked-out night?
* * *
A glance at his watch tells him he’s been asleep for almost two hours.
He throws a glance over his shoulder at Rosie.
She hasn’t stirred an inch. So it seems.
But then the darkness of the night is so absolute he can’t see ten feet in front of his face even with the now fading candlelight. Or perhaps it’s just the effects of having been asleep—the eyes not yet adjusted to light no matter how dim.
Get a hold of yourself, Parish. Don’t let the demon get the best of you.
He almost feels himself smiling at the stupidity of it all. Smiling at the overactive thump, thump, thump of his carotid artery and the moist sweat that coats the skin beneath the down comforter.
All is well, he attempts to convince himself.
Until a second sharp slap rings out in the night.
50
The Molloy Gravel Pit
Friday, 12:02 A.M.
Mack is startled awake.
How long has be been out?
No clue.
Best not to think about it. Best just to do something.
Now.
He crawls, makes it as far as the Jeep where he manages to open the door, dropping himself into the front driver’s side seat. It takes almost all the strength he has left to lift his left arm, take hold of the radio transmitter, bring it to his mouth.
“Village base,” he spits. “Base … Do. You. Copy?”
Before he can even hope for a response, his fingers go numb. The transmitter falls out of his hand, onto the cruiser floor. There’s no real pain. Only a bone-thick exhaustion.
“Copy on that number nine. Where the hell have you been, Captain? Over.”
But Mack can not read, copy or respond. He just lies still, chest flat on the front seat of the Jeep Cruiser, legs hanging out the open door, blood dripping from the exit wound just below his right shoulder, pooling onto the carpeted floor.
51
Assembly Point Peninsula
Friday, 12:03 A.M.
Eyes wide open, Jude springs up, swings his legs out, presses them flat onto the wood plank floor. He does it without waking Rosie. The last thing he needs right now is for her to be awake and alarmed.
The shotgun case is leaning against the log wall on the opposite side of the nightstand. He sets the case down flat onto the wood floor. He opens it, grabs hold of the weapon. Breaking the breaches, he rechecks the No.1 buckshot loads. Slowly and quietly closing the breach, the shotgun is officially locked and loaded.
The weapon secured in his right hand, he holds the flashlight in the left, aims the white light dead ahead. The back of his neck is cold, damp; stomach tight and cramped.
This is not just fear. It is realization.
My fear; my disability; my demon … has it clouded my judgment? Was I being naïve in assuming we’d be safe inside our home? Should I have hauled my family out of here while we still had the chance? Because under the circumstances, Mack would have understood my going against his order to sit tight. But then the blackout was the very excuse I needed for keeping my family home, even when our protectors had abandoned us …
But there’s no use in assigning blame at this point, even if the blame is all his. Because now an intruder has breached the security of his home.
And now is too late.
52
Assembly Point Peninsula
Friday, 12:03 A.M.
Black Dragon lies himself down flat onto his chest at the far end of the home. From there he is able to eye Mr. Parish (his Player) as the ex-cop gradually emerges from the master bedroom exactly as planned—shotgun held in one hand, a lit flashlight in the other. Black Dragon observes the ex-cop as he inches his way along the top floor corridor.
From down in the prone position, night vision device positioned over ice-blue eyes, Black Dragon can taste the fear that oozes from the Player’s lips.
I am your pursuer, Mr. Parish. You are my Player.
Black Dragon raises the fighting knife, bitch-slaps the table leg, bites his lip to suppress a hyena laugh.
You will scream for me … But not yet.
53
Assembly Point Peninsula
Friday, 12:03 A.M.
Pressing his body out the open bedroom door and into the hall, Jude finds himself alone in the dark and what should be familiar spaces. But now the spaces are not familiar. In the blackout, the spaces have become a suffocating opaque maze of log walls, wood beams, floors and high cathedral ceilings.
The perfect setting for an ambush.
The sharp slap: he hears it again; feels its impact inside his chest.
Definitely metal against wood, coming from the direction of the living room or beyond it, the dining room.
Pumping heart is about to bore its way through his chest.
Walking, inching, he inhales short swallows of air, exhales even shorter breaths. Not through his nostrils, but through his open mouth. He breathes the damp air, but the oxygen does not reach his brain.
Lightheaded and jerky, he moves on past Jack’s bedroom door towards the short staircase that descends into the vestibule. At the bottom of the stairs he aims the beam of white light directly ahead while holding the shotgun as steady as possible, index finger tickling the first of the two, back-to-back triggers.
He takes a step towards the living room, all the time shining the flashlight against the vacant rectangular space. It’s at the end of the light beam that he expects to see a face and along with it, feel the ceasing up of his heart.
The face of Lennox … the Black Dragon …
Instead Jude gets a whole lot of nothing. Just a mute display of log walls, bare overhead beams and furniture.
Maybe he’s just imagining things. There’s no reason to believe that Lennox is inside the house. Jude resigns himself to turning tail, heading back to bed when the hand brushes up against his lower leg.
54
Assembly Point Peninsula
Friday, 12:06 A.M.
It’s possible that he screams.
But then, it’s just as likely he does nothing of the kind. It’s impossible to judge in the heat of panic. All Jude knows is that one second he’s making his way down into the stone vestibule, and the next someone or something is grabbing at his right ankle. Thumbing off the shotgun’s safety, he aims both barrels straight down at his feet as if it’s possible to shoot off an intruder’s hand without crippling himself in the process.
But then what he thought might be a hand is nothing of the kind.
<
br /> In the end it isn’t a human hand that’s grabbed his lower leg. As it turns out, Atticus the cat has emerged from the basement for something other than food.
* * *
But the damage is done.
Nerve damage.
The strength bleeds out of Jude like a major artery suddenly severed. Shock sets in. Legs grow wobbly before completely giving out. Jude must look like a limp noodle seated on the cold stone floor.
Inside his head a loud humming noise begins to grow louder, more forceful with each passing second. The demon is screaming. Breathing in, he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
The fat orange cat jumps up onto his lap, lays his furry body down.
From where Jude sits on the hard floor, he can’t help but feel the animal’s rapid beating heart through the warm flesh and thick fur. It’s along with the comfort of the cat that he begins to feel some of the strength returning to his muscles, the blood to his limbs. Enough strength and blood to raise the shotgun up with his right hand, pick up the flashlight with the other, give the living room one last sweep.
He finds himself holding the beam of light steady on the birdcage located on the far end of the room beside the fireplace. He can’t be sure what’s attracted him to the wire and metal cage in the first place; what made it suddenly seem so important that he focus all his attention upon it. But then maybe it has something to do with its emptiness; its profound silence; its lack of life.