The Scream Catcher Page 19

  Eyes that do not plead with him to save her.

  Rather, eyes that tell him to leave this place; to grab his boy, get the hell out while they still have the chance.

  I’m not running out on my wife . . . my unborn baby.

  Suddenly, the closet door is thrust open.

  Assembly Point Peninsula

  Friday, 12:12 A.M.

  Black Dragon drops the baseball bat to the floor beside the now unconscious Player. He steps over the prone body, makes his way to the beautiful Mrs. Parish’s side of the bed, leans himself over the still struggling pregnant woman. He reaches out with his right hand, extends a gloved index finger, runs it up and down the flesh on her protruding belly, flicks her naval ring. Through the black leather gloves, he feels her pulsing fear, her sensual warmth. He moves the finger lower and lower still, gliding it over the dark hair. He probes until he feels the division of skin, the fleshy moist heat, the tight internal opening.

  It excites the beast to sense her wet warmth.

  Peering directly down at her, he is able to see through her skin to the veins and capillaries that crisscross her flesh. He sees her spleen, kidneys, liver, and lungs. He sees her heart, sees it pumping the blood into arteries and veins. He’s amazed just to see the path the blood follows on its way through the body. He sees a small baby floating in clear fluid. The baby is sucking its thumb.

  He slides gloved fingers in and out of her insides. He watches Mrs. Parish wince and gasp painfully while he works the extended fingers. Gently gliding his fingertips up to her breasts, he pinches her nipples one at a time, causing each of them to grow hard and pert. This is a sensual game Black Dragon plays. It’s a game in which he can feel and be felt.

  Outside the bedroom windows lightning flashes, thunder rumbles.

  Black Dragon reaches up to the woman’s face, pulls the panties from her mouth. He licks the entire length of the leather-gloved index finger as though it were a lollypop before running the delicate undergarment slowly over his lips and nostrils. He inhales deeply before tossing them onto the floor.

  “Victim doesn’t scream,” he whispers. “Yet.”

  Bending over, he shoves his mouth against her quivering lips.

  Assembly Point Peninsula

  Friday, 12:16 A.M.

  Jude awakes with a start only to find that Rosie has vanished, along with the shotgun and the flashlight. There remains only a cell phone set on the wood floor beside his throbbing head. Reaching for his own cell phone, he finds that it has been removed from his pocket.

  He can’t concern himself with what must have been a deliberate cell phone switch for long. Because there is a shooting pain in his head and an egg-sized lump protruding from the forehead directly above his right eye. He touches the lump with the fingers of his right hand only to pull them back quick from the sting.

  Jude breathes, tries hard to calm himself. Focus. But all objects contained within his peripheries are blurry, depth-of-field spinning and pulsing like an out of control video camera.

  The candles set in all four corners of the bedroom have been relit. Now the candles are burned down to almost nothing. Pushing himself off the wood floor, Jude sits up, sees the empty place that Rosie occupied when she was still strapped to the bed. All that remains are the cut away ropes, the crumpled bed sheets, a pair of discarded underwear tossed onto the floor.

  Something else grabs Jude’s attention. He’s overcome with acrid smoke.

  Fire.

  He pulls the bedroom door open, runs out into the hall. That’s when the dancing orange flame reveals itself like a devil’s aura. It burns bright against the blacked-out night inside the half-inch linear space that exists between Jack’s bedroom door and the carpeting tacked to the floorboards.

  Jude will not allow himself the luxury of thinking. He simply lowers his shoulder, rams the door down.

  The abrupt introduction of new oxygen causes the flame to shoot up from the bed. The mattress, pillow and down comforter are ablaze as if the bed has spontaneously combusted. Inside Jack’s closet, Jude reaches for the top shelf, grabs hold of the extra comforter. He whips the quilted comforter through the air like a fisherman and his net, spreads it out over the burning bed to smother the flame.

  Thoughts of burning himself never enter his head. Rather, the thoughts enter his head all right, but they seem unimportant compared to the present emergency. There is only the need to douse the flame before the entire log home goes up.

  It takes maybe thirty seconds before he manages to pat the fire down, rob it of its oxygen. Jude coughs and chokes from inhaling the thick black smoke that billows from the mattress. Outside in the corridor, the smoke alarm blares. But in his brain, he hears a different alarm.

  Lying on the nightstand is a tipped over candle, the black wick oozing a thin, coiling trail of white smoke. The candle has been fired back up. He steps back away from the remains of the bed, cups his hands around his mouth.

  The word for tonight is careful with a capital “C” . . .

  “Jack!” screams Jude.

  Assembly Point Peninsula

  Friday, 12:17 A.M.

  The white Ford cargo extend-van is backed up in the Parish gravel driveway. The steady rain drums against its sheet metal roof. Now that Black Dragon has loaded two out of the three bodies, plus the remains of Fuentes (a bowling ball-sized parcel wrapped entirely in a green trash bag), there remains one task left for him to accomplish. The beast pulls the satellite phone from the Velcro utility belt. He dials a rerouting code, then the two digit country code, followed by the area code and finally the seven digit number for the Player’s brand new cell phone.

  Black Dragon thumbs Send.

  In his head, he pictures the invisible radio waves shooting into space, bouncing off one shiny satellite after another. He anticipates the connection with a spine tickling-excitement.

  While the phone rings, he settles himself back in the driver’s seat, glances into the rearview to check on the state of the bodies laid out in the cargo space. One adult woman; one prepubescent boy; one super cop head-case. So to speak.

  All of them dead to the world . . .

  Assembly Point Peninsula

  Friday, 12:18 A.M.

  Jack’s fire damaged bedroom becomes a four-walled chamber of acrid smoke and toxic fumes. But the bad air does not stop Jude from searching for the boy inside the closet, under the desk, beneath the burned-out bed. Frantic, he searches every corner of the square-shaped room as if amidst the gray-black haze the open spaces are able to conceal a seventy pound child. From down on hands and knees he examines the smoldering mattress on the off chance that the unthinkable has occurred—that Jack has gone up with the bed.

  The good news: there’s no sign of the boy amongst the ashes.

  The bad news: there’s no sign of the boy anywhere in the room.

  Outside in the hall, the ceiling-mounted smoke alarm ceases its piercing tone . . . only a second or two before the cell rings.

  No voice or sound of any kind comes through the earpiece. In the place of a voice comes a Text Message that displays itself on the radiant face of the picture phone.

  Rule 1, the I.M. reads, The Player does not scream unless requested to so.

  Rule 2: The Player does not run away.

  Rule 3: If the Player breaks any of the first two rules, its family dies.

  Jude presses the phone against his head, screams, “Where’s my family!?!”

  He waits for an answer.

  But then he remembers to pull the phone away from his ear, stare down at the screen.

  The answer reveals itself in the form of another I.M.

  The Player broke rule number 1.

  Connection terminated.

  Jude heads straight for the windows, starting with Jack’s.

  He strains to gaze outside. But the windows are covered over in soot and ash. A few of the panes are cracked from the fire’s heat. But then the night is so black and thick it is nearly impossible to make o
ut anything beyond the window glass.

  It’s the same story with every other window he peers out of on the home’s top floor. Nothing but black, overcast night.

  Jude stands alone in the smoky hall, his breathing labored, his lungs filled with smoke. He presses his back up against the wall, slams his skull against the horizontal logs. But the pain never registers. He tells himself that now . . . now is the time for the power to be restored. As if the simple wish will make an ounce of difference.

  Electrical Power Grid System . . .

  Holding the phone back up to his face, he stares at the electronic display. He thumbs the commands that might reveal Lennox’s number. But the caller identification display reveals “Unknown Name.” He can only wonder how the beast managed to locate a usable signal in the blackout. Maybe the phones—or at least cell phones—are up and running again. Just the thought provides him with a sliver of hope.

  With a trembling hand, he begins to dial the number for the village cops. Not Mack’s personal office phone. He doesn’t recall the number off the top of his head. He dials Emergency 911. But before fingering the second number in the three digit sequence, he stops himself cold.

  He stares out into the darkness and silence of the log home. He asks himself, What if it’s possible to get through to the police? What if they immediately dispatch a set of squad cars to my home? What will Lennox do when he spots the cruisers? What kind of revenge will he take out on Rosie and Jack?

  He allows his hand and the digital phone it grips to fall to the side. He has no idea which way to turn for help. Not without getting his family killed in the process.

  Assembly Point Peninsula

  Friday, 12:20 A.M.

  From where he sits behind the wheel of the van, Black Dragon sets the black sat phone onto the empty seat beside him. He opens the glove compartment, grabs hold of a black leather zip-up bag. He opens the bag, pulls a stainless steel pistol-shaped CO2 powered syringe from its designated elastic-banded place. Pulling one of the four remaining bottles of Ativan from out of its place beside the syringe, he presses the needle into the corked cap. He pulls back on the stopper, fills the chamber. Satisfied that no air bubbles have mixed with the liquid sedative, he zips the bag back up. Returning the bag to the glove compartment, he opens the van door, slips on out.

  In black body suit and face paint, he causally approaches the front door to the home as though he were just another invited guest. He lets himself inside. Quietly closing the door behind him, he heads immediately for the staircase. But it’s from down in the stone vestibule that Black Dragon spots Mr. Parish. The Player has fallen to its knees inside the top floor hall of the lake home. From where he stands, Black Dragon finds it impossible to discern if the Player is laughing or crying.

  There will come a time for tears, Mr. Parish…There will come a time for screams…But now is not that time.

  Auto-syringe in hand, the beast climbs.

  The Molloy Gravel Pit

  Friday, 12:20 A.M.

  Pulling the Chevy Suburban into the gravel pit’s dirt access road, Lino drives on past the open gates, down a narrow descending roadway hewn out of black shale, into the cavernous depths in the direction of the car fire. He pulls up behind Mack’s Jeep, draws his .9mm, jumps out of the Suburban. He then heads immediately to the first Jeep Cherokee only to discover the body of Captain Mack, legs and feet hanging out of the open door, upper body face down on the driver’s seat in a blood pool.

  Reaching out with his left hand he sets his index and forefinger against the old Captain’s jugular. He pulls back, whispers, “Barely.”

  He steps over to the now mostly smoldering fire, tries to make a determination as to whether or not Ray Fuentes was still inside his own Jeep-cruiser when it began to burn. Inside the back cargo space is a charred bundle.

  Impossible to tell just what the fuck that is, or was . . .

  Grabbing the cruiser radio transmitter from off the bloody floor, he thumbs Call: “This is Lieutenant Stewart. I’m reporting confirmation of one officer down, possibly two. I request immediate backup as well as fire and emergency medical assistance.”

  Having relayed the now confirmed Molloy Gravel Pit address to dispatch, he grabs hold of Mack’s left hand and squeezes.

  “The farm’s not for sale today, Captain. Not on my watch.”

  The Fort Anne Road en route to Glens Falls

  Friday, 12:35 A.M.

  The E.M.S. van speeds over the winding, blacked-out, Fort Anne Road towards the Glens Falls Medical Center. While one E.M.T. inserts intravenous and blood transfusion lines into his outstretched right forearm, the second opens Mack’s eyes, shines a beam of bright light from a pen-light flashlight against the retinas in search of a “live” reaction. Maybe the old Captain does not appear to be in extreme shock, but very little involuntary motion registers in his eyes, suggesting to the attending E.M.T. that cyanosis might be setting in.

  On the other hand, Mack is managing to breathe sufficiently on his own with the aid of an oxygen mask. The clear mask negates the need for an endotracheal tube or, what would be worse, a full tracheotomy.

  Huddled in the back corner of the vehicle is Lt. Daniel Lino. The Lieutenant stares down at the now shirtless body, at the display of drains, wires, tubes and needles that already litter the blood-stained, pale torso even before its arrival at the hospital.

  “Is he going to make it?”

  The E.M.T. closest to him stuffs the penlight into the breast pocket of her white, uniform work shirt.

  “He’s lost a lot of blood,” says the short, brunette woman. “He’s in some shock. But no vital organs were hit when the bullet passed through.”

  “But will he make it?”

  That’s when something amazing happens.

  Mack’s slate gray eyes open up on their own. They open up wide as if an electrical switch has been suddenly pulled inside his brain. He raises himself up achingly onto an elbow. With the wires and clear tubes hanging off of his torso, the bloody padding taped to his wounded shoulder, he glances up at Lino, pulls off the oxygen mask, looks the cop directly in the eye.

  “Lennox has got my family,” he spits. “You can bet your ass that I. Will. Make. It.”

  Tongue Mountain

  Friday, 1:15 A.M.

  He’s lost all track of time and space.

  One minute Jude is down on his knees in the top floor hallway of his home and the next, he’s somewhere completely different—somewhere foreign, as if he only then woke up from a long mid-summer’s nightmare. But then the nightmare is only just beginning.

  When the cell phone rings, it wakes him from a drug-induced sleep.

  The picture phone issues a rhythmic chime while wet pine needles remain plastered to his right cheek. He opens his eyes to a darkness broken only by a tiny flashing red light embedded inside the plastic phone casing. Climbing onto his knees, he reaches for the phone, opens it, holds it to his ear.

  He’s wet and shivering.

  He’s dizzy and off balance like the earth has suddenly shifted on its axis. But this is not what concerns him. All that interests Jude now is the voice at the other end of the connection. Then it dawns on him that, with this phone, there will be no voice.

  Setting the phone flat in the palm of his hand, he peers down at the light radiant screen. Opening and closing his eyes, he attempts to focus; to overcome the sedation.

  A Maglite is set on the ground to the Player’s left, he reads. The Player picks up the Maglite, turns it on.

  From down on his knees Jude reaches out with his free hand, probes the wet mix of pine needles, leaves, and earth with bare fingers until he locates the heavy Maglite. Thumbing the Latex-protected switch, he produces a powerful beam of light. The light not only provides him with a means of vision, it also reveals the truth: Hector Lennox acting as the Black Dragon has dropped him inside a thick patch of woods. The beast must have drugged him, hauled him out to some remote area, dropped his unconscious body inside it. Som
ewhere wild, somewhere dense with cover. And judging by the cold, somewhere far above sea level.

  Next command:

  Player goes to the Media App. Then clicks on Pictures.

  Jude does it.

  A picture appears. A man whose legs and wrists have been hogtied with duct tape. A big, burly man who is down on his knees. Like Jude, the man seems to be kneeling inside a thick patch of woods, at least judging from the backdrop. In the picture, Jude can clearly see that the man’s hair is gray and cut flat on top. He’s wearing a dark blazer, navy blue slacks, black shoes over white socks. The face has been bound with two separate strips of tape—one covering the eyes, the other covering the mouth, leaving only an exposed nose through which to breathe.

  The tape acts like a mask.

  But Jude doesn’t need to see the entire face to recognize the man for who he is. He worked with Lt. Ray Fuentes for more than ten years before taking his mandatory leave from Village P.D. For these past two days, Fuentes has been a fixture outside the Assembly Point Peninsula homestead.

  My own personal witness protection program . . . now at the mercy of a thrill killer, a scream catcher.

  Jude wipes beaded rainwater from the small screen, moves on to the next picture.

  It shows a man standing behind Fuentes. The man is dressed in black. He is tall but thinner than the cop. All black clothing fits him tight. So tight you can see muscle definition. He wears a black ski-mask or hood over his head. In his hand, he holds a long knife. The knife is almost as long as a sword. With pounding heart, Jude thumbs to the next picture. The man in the mask is running the blade across the neck of the kneeling Fuentes.

  Jude drops the phone, falls to his knees.

  He coughs up acid. It fills his mouth, burns his throat.

  He spits it out and inhales deeply of the cool, wet air.