The Scream Catcher Read online

  Jude is afraid to pick up the phone. He doesn’t want to see what comes next. He’s already seen enough. But his family has been taken hostage. He has to pick up the phone. He has to keep looking.

  It seems to take every ounce of his will, but he thumbs to the next picture, draws his eyes to the screen.

  This time he’s startled to see himself. Rather, not only himself, but he and Rosie standing together inside the kitchen. The picture appears to have been snapped from directly outside the window. It occurs to Jude that the picture can easily have been snapped from a boat out on the lake with the use of a zoom lens. Maybe even from the L.G.P.D. Whaler itself—the patrol boat assigned to provide lake-front protection.

  Fucker could have killed the crew . . . He could have killed them, dumped their bodies into the drink . . .

  In the picture, Jude is facing his wife, she holding a dinner plate in her hand, a dishtowel draped over her shoulder. The image, while crystal clear, is tinted a luminous green. The look on Jude and Rosie’s faces is pure worry, anxiety. Like his demon is somehow plaguing them both.

  Night vision. No flashes . . .

  Head spinning, throat closing, he depresses the button on the keypad with an almost frantic anticipation, moves on to the next picture. And the next, and the next . . .

  Rosie and me burying her Betta fish on the back lawn by the lake’s edge, a streak of white lightning crashing into the earth in the far distance . . . Me, shotgun in hand, searching the perimeter of my home in the rain . . . Me, sitting down on the stone vestibule floor inside the house, Atticus, the cat, laid out across my lap . . . a dark left side profile of Rosie sitting on the edge of the Jack’s bed while she reads to him by candlelight . . . then flames shooting up from the boy’s mattress.

  Despite incessant shivering, he can’t help but notice that the last two pics have been shot from outside Jack’s third story window. It means that somehow Lennox climbed up onto the second floor overhang in order to gain visual access to the log home’s top level—did it without their having a clue.

  Jude thumbs through the remaining images—the dead fish, the canary both alive and dead, the green-eyed pics of Atticus the cat, even a picture of his empty writing study, the hand-corrected pages to what he hopes will be his new book stacked atop the desk. It’s all laid out for him like a stranger than strange version of This Is Your Life.

  But that isn’t all.

  There are two more pictures, the last to be viewed before the order once more starts from the top. Images of Rosie and Jack not captured at their home, but very close by. He can tell how close just by taking notice of the trees and the dark, leaf-covered floor in the background.

  Then, another text.

  Player goes back to Media, presses Ring Tones.

  He does it.

  There’s only one ring tone for him to click on. He clicks on it.

  A scream emerges from the phone’s speaker. A desperate scream that quickly turns into a gurgle, as if the person were drowning. That’s when Jude realizes the scream is definitely coming from a man who is drowning. Only not in water.

  The man is drowning in his own blood.

  Slamming the phone down onto the wet grass, he knows precisely the source of the captured scream. It comes from Ray Fuentes as Lennox decapitated him.

  Tongue Mountain

  Friday, 1:18 A.M.

  Jude picks the phone back up, tries swallow his anger. He reviews the photos once more. Both Rosie and Jack have been riot-bound with duct tape. Thick gray strips that cover their mouths, leaving only the nostrils through which to breathe. Maybe it has something to do with the effects of shock and awe, but viewing the images of his loved ones broadcast on a smart phone leaves him feeling somehow detached.

  It isn’t as if these people are not connected to him.

  It’s as if they do not exist at all. As though these two gagged and bound people do not live as real flesh and blood.

  The phone screams.

  Ray’s screams.

  A dying Ray is the ringtone.

  It not only breaks Jude from out of his spell, it sends an electric shock through his system.

  He thumbs Send, reads, The Player looks down at its feet.

  Jude shines the light on his boot tops.

  Only inches from his right foot lay a transparent Ziploc Freezer bag. A large, two quart job Rosie might use for storing leftovers in the freezer. He bends down, picks the bag up off the wet ground, holds it in the fingers of his right hand along with the Maglite. He unzips the bag, shines a light inside, finds a rolled sheet of paper that’s been coated with a thin protective plastic. He also discovers a Swiss Army directional compass. Pulling out the coated sheet and the compass, he allows the bag to fall to the ground.

  Shining the light down onto the sheet, he immediately recognizes the computer-generated topographical satellite map. Maybe one inch to ten miles in scale. Some hand-drawn lines have been added to the map. A line, made from red pencil, highlights a road that runs through the center of the area, from one corner of the square paper to the opposite corner. To the right of the road, in the direction designated north, the area has been marked off as “Woods.” To the left of the road, or to the south, the area has been designated as “Mountain.” Highlighted in blue pencil is a stream that runs down from the mountain, continues under the road via culvert, then cuts its way through the woods.

  Shaded in light yellow pencil is a circular area located in what appears to be a triangular patch of forest. Like a cartoon treasure map, the place has been marked with a thick black X. Scribbled above it in the same thick black ink is the name “Parish.” Standing in the cool rain, Jude can only assume that the map designates his precise location in the woods.

  Towards the top of the map, closer to the road exists a second patch of forest which is circled in more yellow pencil. Another black X has been drawn in the center of the circle. Penned above the X is the word, “Jack.”

  An identical yellow circle has been drawn on the bottom of the map. The name written above the third X that occupies its center reads, “Mrs. Parish.” Just beyond the circled area is a thick straight line that’s been highlighted in bright red. An arrow pointing to it reads, “Cliff Edge.”

  Jude continues to study the map with a strange mixture of curiosity and desperation. Connecting his position to Jack’s is a series of green broken lines that on occasion, branch off from one another. The lines are identified on the map as “Trail.” A similar series of branching lines connect his area to Rosie’s.

  Numerous landmarks have been identified throughout the wild territory situated on either side of the trails. He notices that some of these landmarks are marked in purple pencil as “Traps.” Others are highlighted in the same purple as “Pits.” Yet others as “Flags.” While he has little idea what might await him at the flags should he run into one, he can only imagine what might be in store for him at the traps and the pits.

  To the bottom right-hand of the page (southeast) is a small, egg-shaped area that’s fed by the stream. It’s labeled in baby blue as “Pool.”

  The phone screams, alerts him to a new I.M.

  The rules of engagement are as follows:

  The Player is being chased.

  The Player must locate and rescue its objectives while Black Dragon tries to stop it.

  If the Player rescues wife and child within the set time limits, it wins the game.

  If the Player rescues only the wife or only the child, the one not rescued faces elimination.

  Failure to rescue either wife or child will result in Game Over.

  You are it Mr. Parish. You are the Player.

  Jude stands inside the small clearing, the cold and the rain no longer registering above the pulse pounding in his temples.

  4 hours until the break of day. But the Player has only 2 hours. One hour per objective. Its first objective is to secure its wife. Once completed within the given hour, only then may it proceed to its son.

 
Looking down at his left wrist, Jude discovers his watch is missing.

  Black Dragon must have ripped it off my wrist during the drugged unconscious time.

  Then, one final burst of Ray’s screaming voice; one final I.M. delivered.

  Begins now.

  Tongue Mountain

  Friday, 1:20 A.M.

  Black Dragon stands poised and still among the cluster of short pines, USNV-14B Generation 3 intensifier tube night vision device zooming in on his Player.

  Black Dragon knows that the confusing time for the Player has arrived.

  While bringing out the confusion and fear in a human being has proved an easy task in the past, it remains difficult to translate that human fear inside the binary, pixel-filled computer program.

  During the first level of the evening’s kill game which took place inside the Parish home, the Player simply acted as a target—easy prey designed to act and react to the difficult circumstances being heaped upon it and its loved ones (I.E. the elimination of the little blue fish; the elimination of the canary; the elimination of the motorboat; setting Jack’s bed afire, etc.)

  But now, as the kill game’s second level is about to begin high up on the forest-covered terra firma of Tongue Mountain, the Player has evolved from victim to active participant. Parish is now a Player that must attempt to save the lives of its loved ones within the time limit set forth by the rules of the game. The Player must succeed at all costs or realize the elimination of one or more family members, including itself.

  “The Player is vulnerable,” Black Dragon whispers to himself. “Now is the time for conflicting emotions to rage like a mad river inside its brain: hate, love, fear, anger, desire, desperation.”

  The beast looks up at the black sky, feels the rain pat the smooth skin on his face. Swallowing a deep, wet breath, he begins sprinting through the damp brush in the direction of the dirt access road and the white van parked alongside the soft shoulder.

  “Time for you to score some precious Hit Points.”

  Inside the van, he will find his pepper-ball launcher. In his mind, he can already hear the screams.

  Tongue Mountain

  Friday, 1:21 A.M.

  Closing the picture phone, Jude stores it back inside his jeans’ pocket. With Maglite in hand, he aims it at the stand of trees directly ahead of him. Shifting clockwise he begins to pivot on the balls of his booted feet like a dancer pirouetting in slow motion. He keeps this rotation up until he’s able to recognize one of the narrow foot trails that, according to the topo map, cut through the woods and lead eventually to either Rosie or Jack.

  Jude is trying to think clearly, without panic. Doing his best not to lose it. Swallowing a dry, bitter breath, he speaks to himself in a calm, collected manner: You need to strike a bearing, Parish. Figure out exactly where you are in relation to your son and wife. So that you don’t start walking around in circles.

  He opens the plastic Swiss Army compass, lays it out flat on top of the map. He goes to shine the light onto the map’s surface in order to coordinate the device’s true north with that of the topo map. But that’s when something begins to go wrong. The Maglite begins to fade. The once powerful bright white beam starts diminishing to a kind of yellow half light.

  Pulse picks up.

  He opens his mouth, allows some of the rain to fall on his tongue. He inhales slowly, deliberately.

  He can only wonder what he’ll do without light.

  Exactly what can he accomplish in the pitch dark?

  The Maglite provides more than just a means for him to see his way through the woods or to strike a proper bearing on the topo map. It’s also his security blanket—a way to fend off total blind exposure; a way to fight off the demon.

  A shield between me and the dark monster.

  He shakes the Maglite as if the action will recharge the failing batteries.

  But the effort proves useless.

  One moment he stands rationally, almost calmly, in the deep woods while attempting to establish a compass reading. And the next he finds himself at the mercy of the darkness and the rain—at the mercy of a man who confuses video games for real life.

  Both brain and common sense are telling him to use whatever available power he has left in the Maglite to enter onto the trailhead, begin the rescue game—bearing be damned.

  The dim yellow light poised on the wet earth before him, Jude makes his way across the clearing in what he assumes is the direction of his wife’s position.

  He’s standing at the edge of the chosen trail when the Maglite goes dead.

  Tongue Mountain

  Friday, 1:23 A.M.

  Schizophrenic weather.

  Late summer rain is once again pouring down in sheets while a heavy rain cloud surrounds the mountain like a vapor ring around a clenched fist. Jude releases the now useless compass, allows it to hang from his neck by its attached heavy coiled string. As for the topo map, it’s become useless without a light to read it by. Which is why he shoves it up underneath his T-shirt, tucks the bottom third of the wet plastic into the waist of his jeans.

  Directly ahead of him in the not too distant straight ahead, come the intermittent explosions of lightning. Without them, the darkness of the deep woods would be absolute and impenetrable. With the cloud cover, there are no stars shining bright in the Adirondack sky. No moon—nothing to navigate the thick terrain by. There exists only a low lying cloud cover that veils the mountaintop. Caught in the heavy cover, he cannot discern in which direction the mountain might be situated—whether its peak is located behind or ahead of his position.

  Then a quick bolt of lightning takes him by surprise.

  The flash of electric light seems different from all the rest in one important respect. The bolt has caught his attention just as he begins the sightless journey onto the narrow trailhead. As he’s about to place boot heel to the soft mud-covered floor, the lightning strikes the ground somewhere off in the distant valley. Because of its flat, dark appearance, Jude becomes convinced that he’s looking directly at Lake George, perhaps even the blacked-out village rooftops situated directly to its west.

  If that’s the case, then Lennox has kidnapped us, hauled us up to Tongue Mountain . . . If it’s the truth, he would have cut the chains that secure the gates at the base of the mountain. Because no one in their right mind climbs Tongue in August. Not when the rattlesnake migration is at its seasonal peak.

  Jude is a writer now. He recalls what Hemingway once said about overcoming fear. It requires the ability to suspend your imagination. But Jude can’t help but let his imagination run away with itself. Standing still, he begins to feel as if a dozen snakes are crawling over his boot tops, climbing up his pant legs, wrapping themselves around his waist and neck, poising themselves to strike their fangs into wet skin. The sensation makes him want to scream. But he knows it’s just his brain fucking with him.

  Get a hold of yourself, Parish. If there are snakes, they will be sure to stay out of your way because, after all, they are more afraid of you than you are of them . . .

  He inhales a deep breath, exhales it, tries to get his head together, tries to think logically. Without the demon clouding his judgment. The distant lightning strikes provide just enough light to tell him that the path he’s about to tread will most likely lead to Rosie first. He knows this because the lake and the village are located due east from his position on the mountain. Whether he likes it or not, that’s his heading.

  Jude is a blind man forced to move by touch, by sensory perception, one foot before the other, the rain coming down stronger now against face and head, running down a scrunched brow in streaks.

  From out of nowhere a thin branch slaps him in the face.

  A direct hit that causes exhausted eyes to tear. The only way for him to know for certain that he’s following the path is to stay free and clear of the brush and the trees. Do it by touch, arms and hands extended straight out in front of him while he treks.

  Another lightni
ng bolt reveals a landscape of thick, dripping growth. Pine trees, mulberry bushes intermixed with birches and oaks. Still another bolt reveals something scattering before him—something alive, quick and fleeting.

  Instinct causes him to drop to his knees while gripping the Maglite, holding it out before him—his only available weapon. The thunder explodes. For a split second, the concussion takes his breath away, shakes the ground at his feet. But once again, the lightning has given Jude sight. It’s allowed him to spot the beast if only for an instant.

  But that single instant is all it takes to know that Lennox is now blocking his forward progress on the trail. The Black Dragon, black-painted head no longer covered in long white dreads. Covering his eyes is a green-tinted night vision scope. The beast stands four-square in the center of the narrow trail, heavy rainwater washing over a rippled, muscle-bound body.

  The dark monster . . .

  Blindness returns to Jude.

  But not for long.

  More lightning illuminates the sky. Another brief view of the path comes and goes with all the speed of a heartbeat.

  This time the path is clear.

  Like the lightning, Lennox has vanished in the twinkling of an instant.

  Now you see the beast. Now you don’t.

  Tongue Mountain

  Friday, 1:30 A.M.

  Walking without tripping or falling has become a near impossibility.

  With every step Jude takes along the trail in the darkness comes a branch slapped to the face, a tree trunk to the thigh, a boulder to the shin. He catches a thorn from a mulberry branch that hangs over the trail. It tears into his jeans, penetrates the skin on his lower right calf. He knows he’s cut. Not because he can feel the sting. But because he can feel the blood trickling down the calf muscle, warm and wet, the thick consistency not at all like the cold rain.

  It’s a struggle to get anywhere in the total dark.