The Scream Catcher Read online

  But not for Rosie.

  She screams from the initial shock of the frigid white water, from the panic of being pulled under, of swallowing the water into her lungs. The continuous scream is interrupted only by the water that pours over their heads before they suddenly reemerge gasping for breath, the water pouring out of our nostrils and mouths.

  If the stream were any wider, it would consume them entirely.

  But the mountain stream is not wide. Jude knows that under normal conditions, the stream would be more like a brook, easily passable on foot. But now it runs swift and heavy with whitewater because of the torrential rains. Despite its pull, momentum is on their side. They swim and kick with an inspired ferocity. If Jude has to attribute their efforts to any one thing, it would be the coldness of the water having injected new life into their veins. Because just when it appears that they are about to be swallowed up, he reaches out with his hand, locates a handhold along the opposite bank.

  Pulling Rosie in towards him, he wrenches her forearm fromhis neck. At the same time, she is able to find a thick tree root that juts out of the bank. She grips the root with both hands while for just a moment, her legs and feet continue their downstream trek, twisting her body sideways until it is parallel with the bank.

  Jude sucks a deep breath, feels the pain in his Adam’s apple in the exact place that Rosie innocently maintained her choke hold. Now side by side in the stream, holding to the bank, they somehow manage a smile. It’s at that moment Jude knows how desperately they both want to live. With drenched heads and faces, they gaze back at one another for only the briefest of moments before wordlessly thrusting their bodies up and out of the fast water, onto the safety of the solid earth.

  Coming upon the first clearing Jude stops. He does it not by choice, but as if having run face-first into some invisible stone wall. Rosie stops, stands beside him, arms crossed over chest, breathing having grown labored since climbing up and out of the stream.

  Calm down and think. You can’t possibly get anywhere if you don’t calm yourself down and start thinking logically. But where is Lennox? Where did he go? He was screaming at us just a minute ago from inside these very woods. Now, he’s not making a sound. He must be watching us, maybe baiting us towards another trap . . . For Christ’s sakes, stop it, Parish. Stop it right now. Ignore the demon. Think this fucking thing through . . . But where’s the Black Dragon?. . . Stop it and think this through the right way for a change and get your wife and child out of these woods to safety . . .

  He recalls the topo map.

  He remembers that according to Lennox’s hand drawn indicators, the boy is located somewhere upstream, above the clearing in which he was initially dropped—the very spot from which the kill game began who knows how long ago. Exactly how far upstream Jude can’t be sure.

  But what he can rely on is that between the downstream woods and the upstream woods that lay closer to Tongue’s dirt access road, there will be more pits waiting for them. More pits, more traps. More natural obstacles to be sure.

  Jude peers into his wife’s face.

  Gritting his teeth, he wraps his hand around her wrist.

  Her teeth are chattering. For all Jude knows, his teeth are making the same bony music. Rosie’s skin has grown pale, brown eyes glassy, long dark hair veiling an exhausted face. Still she has enough strength to offer him a nod, as though in complete understanding of what must be accomplished if they are to stay alive.

  “Stay close,” Jude says.

  They run.

  Tongue Mountain

  Friday, 3:40 A.M.

  Black Dragon feels the stretched rubber band tightness setting into his thigh muscles as he rapidly climbs hand and foot up the steep, level-five grade towards the mountain outcropping. He feels the pulsing pain that radiates from the high-strung tissue, the throbbing of the fibrous strands. Gloved hands poised before him, he grabs hold of the jagged boulders. He plants his feet, pulls himself up through the rain and the pain until he makes it to the rock ledge.

  From up on high, he feels the cooler than cool air on his black-painted face, senses it on the back of his neck where the sweat has collected above the low collared bodysuit. The air penetrates the skin-tight, waterproof fabric, causes the pores on his hairless flesh to close up, goose pimples to rise to attention.

  Laid out before him for as far as the eye can see is the wide open Lake George Valley now consumed in darkness, interrupted only by startling, jagged, sky-to-earth lightning bolts. Directly beside him along the edge of the long outcropping, lay five large, preassembled rock piles. In each of the piles, a pre-treated four-by-four has been inserted at the base. For now the timbers jut out not vertically from the heavy piles, but at forty-five degree angles. Positioning himself behind the first pile, he grabs hold of the timber with both hands, wraps fingers tightly around the hardwood. Knowing precisely the path the first-person Player and its now liberated sig-other will be taking on their way to rescuing their son, he patiently awaits the sounds that will signal their approach on the narrow trailhead directly below him.

  True to design, it’s only a matter of a few short minutes before he overhears the tell-tale footsteps along with the panting, heavy breaths. He hears the Player begging its wife to go faster. Because, after all, Jack’s life is at stake. They don’t have much time left to save him.

  As they approach the precise spot along the trail, Black Dragon poises himself, begins to pull back on the timber. The first of the cannon-ball sized boulders come loose, begins its rumbling, downhill decent.

  Tongue Mountain

  Friday, 3:40 A.M.

  With Rosie in tow, Jude runs. Not for his life, but for hers—for Jack’s.

  He holds to his wife with one hand, to the Maglite with his hurting hand. He aims the beam dead ahead in the direction of the deep black and white woods, the round light shaking and bobbing with their every step over the undergrowth and through the sometimes thick sweetbriar.

  They run in an uphill direction for a time that seems forever.

  There is no talking. No breath left over in the lungs to talk.

  On the outside, there is only the forested incline of thick pines and scrub brush. But on the inside hearts beat, pulses soar, blood pumps through wiry veins while the misty cool air burns up lung tissue. Eventually, Jude spots the trailhead in the circular beam of Maglite. Fighting back all thought, he pulls on Rosie’s arm, heads directly for it.

  When they come directly upon the narrow path, Jude can see that the trail crew has laid it out in a straight, uphill (west to east) line, in between the tall pines that line both its flanks. These pines are so old and thick with branches that drape over the trail, they provide an almost ample shelter from the rain. Tacked to the trunk of every fifth or sixth tree is a little red trail marker made of tin. Jude shines the Maglite on each one of the little round markers as they move ahead.

  They continue on in the direction for maybe three minutes until they come upon the first split in the trail, the path identified by the red markers continuing to the right, the path that veers off to the left identified by a new batch of blue markers.

  “My God,” Jude grouses, surprised to hear how hoarse and breathless his voice sounds.

  While tempted to go left in the direction of the Tongue Mountain access road, instinct tells him to remain on the straight and very narrow—to ignore any temptation to deviate from the original course he set for himself earlier. After all, he’s not a total stranger to these mountain trails. Maybe it’s been years, if not decades, since he’s climbed them with a full backpack strapped to his back, but he knows enough to avoid the narrow splinter trails. The splinter trails veer off and go on for long distances until coming to abrupt stops at either a random cliff edge or perhaps a dry swamp.

  Don’t think Parish, just do . . .

  “Rosie, we’ve got to move faster. Jack hasn’t got much time.”

  The two continue their forward progress on the “red” trail for another ten or tw
enty uphill steps when Jude senses something strange—a low rumbling noise coming from above; a noise that is rapidly rising in intensity and that cannot be confused with thunder.

  He looks up in the direction of a Tongue Mountain summit that looms large and all too hidden behind the low-lying storm clouds. Only a fraction of a second passes before the rumbling increases in intensity, its source becoming all too apparent.

  “Oh Jesus.”

  There is simply no time to warn Rosie.

  He pulls her in towards him, throws both their bodies down onto the trail, shoves them inside the area where the vertical mountain wall joins up with the horizontal path.

  Rolling and dropping down the mountain now in a thunderous avalanche are dozens of rocks and small boulders. The deadly rocks raining down in the same spot where only a half-second before they stood along the trailhead.

  When the boulders smack against the trail they do so with a resounding thud, spraying gravel and wet dirt into their faces. The rocks pound the ground, rapid concussions rattling their teeth.

  Rosie screams as Jude holds her tightly, shifting his hands so that they cover her eyes and mouth. He is convinced he’s about to take a direct hit to the head. He’s petrified of being killed out there on this trail…that his wife and son will soon follow.

  Jude closes his eyes, joins Rosie in a chest-splitting shriek.

  Until suddenly the last rock has passed and once again, the only sound that can be heard above their own panting and beating hearts is the rain spattering against the trail.

  They wait there for what must be a full minute before either one of them has the courage to move their bodies away from the mountain wall and back onto the trail. Fear or no fear, moving is something that has to be done. In his heart, Jude knows that the avalanche of boulders has not been a natural occurrence. He knows that Tongue is one solid pre-historic chunk of shale, granite, and clay—that any loose rock has already made its crushing decent off the mountain peaks during the thawing of the last ice age. He knows that the avalanche can only be attributed to Lennox.

  Rolling himself off of Rosie, it becomes apparent to Jude that they have stepped into yet another kill game trap, but at the same time emerged from it somehow unscathed. Doesn’t matter how much their bodies tremble, their teeth chatter, they are still alive. But then he also knows that the avalanche remains proof positive that the beast is still out there pursuing them, yet keeping a careful distance. If all that’s occurred thus far on the mountain has been intended as a series of tests or teases, Jude knows that he’s passed them all. He has completed his first objective: saving Rosie. That single act has earned him the right to go after his boy. But he has no idea what might be in store for him or Rosie further up the mountain where he will, by the grace of God, locate Jack.

  Alive.

  Pulling the ever-silent Rosie up onto her feet, Jude wipes the mud and tears from her cheeks, kisses her wet lips.

  “Jack is close. I can feel it.”

  Careful to step over and around the heavy rocks, they continue their trek along the trail. Before they get too far, Jude raises his right hand overhead. Making a fist, he extends only the middle digit. He knows Lennox has to be looking down upon them. He can feel the beast’s electronic eye cutting into the damp skin on his back. Jude can only hope that Game Boy has a clear, unobstructed view; that from the beast’s mountain perch he has no trouble reading sign language.

  Tongue Mountain

  Friday, 3:56 A.M.

  The hike uphill seems to go on forever.

  But the distance covered can be measured in feet, not yards. The physical exhaustion is taking its toll on Jude. Maybe it’s the gradual rise in elevation combined with his soaked through clothing, but as they approach another clearing, he begins to shiver. It’s an uncontrollable reaction—his body entering into a near fit of trembling and shaking.

  Rosie is moving directly behind him, following his every footstep along the narrow trail. She too is damaged, physically, emotionally—a human train wreck. How bad her overall condition is, Jude has no way of telling. But then she isn’t talking. She can’t seem to manage hardly a single word. With that foremost in his mind, he senses how damaging it would be to her already shattered psyche if she were to take notice of his own physical breakdown. If she knows he can no longer be her support and her guide, she might enter into freefall of despair.

  She might lie down and die.

  With his teeth chattering inside his skull, Jude is convinced that hypothermia is settling in to blood and bones. He’s got to get a hold of himself. It doesn’t make an ounce of difference if he’s shaking from hyperthermia or from fear. He has no choice but to carry on along the trail towards Jack’s position. He must do it without Rosie losing even an ounce of confidence in him.

  Shining the Maglite directly upon it, Jude lights up the trail.

  Just beyond the thick pines off to his right-hand side, he spots what looks to be yet another clearing, this one smaller than the one down by the stream. In order to be sure, he lets go of Rosie’s hand, takes another step or two forward.

  Definitely another clearing.

  Lennox has been using the clearings to his advantage, placing traps, obstacles and objectives inside them. How the beast managed to create such an elaborate playing field in just three days is anybody’s guess. But then, maybe he had help—an assistant or a partner in murder. Jude once more tries to recall the topo map that he stupidly discarded in blind anger; tries to recall the precise location of Jack on the mountainside in relation to their position on the trail.

  He can only believe they must be close. Maybe closer than close.

  But then it becomes apparent that they have arrived.

  “That’s the one,” Jude says under his breath. “As God as my judge, that’s it.”

  All shaking, all trembling leaves him. As if by some miracle he no longer feels the ice chill that for a time seemed to have invaded bone, marrow, and flesh. Even his teeth are no longer rattling. He begins to feel only warmth. He also experiences a definite rise in energy level, as though having hit the imaginary wall, he has somehow managed to pull his sad sack of rags and bones clear over the top.

  Sprinting the remaining distance of the red trail, Rosie and he enter the clearing that holds Jack. They run to the boy, stand over his still, prone body while sucking deep painful breaths. Like Rosie before him, Jack has been bound with duct tape at the ankles and wrists. Unlike her, no tape covers his mouth as if Lennox made a conscious decision to pull it off before leaving the boy alone. Nor is the boy’s body wrapped in clear poly. He is still dressed in the same Batman and Robin pajamas he went to bed in earlier the previous evening. Covering his feet, Converse sneakers.

  Is it possible Lennox took the time to slip Jack’s sneakers on?

  In the brightness of the Maglite, Jack appears to be rain-drenched and chilled, but otherwise unharmed. Or maybe that’s what Jude wants to believe.

  You have to be alive because my son cannot die before me.

  Dropping down to his knees the ex-cop shines the Maglite in the boy’s face.

  He prays, Dear God, let him be alive!

  The white light is meant as a shocker and it works.

  “Jack,” Jude pleads, voice cracking. “Jack wake up.”

  Rosie is standing off to the side. Jude can see that there is something gravely wrong with her. Something more than the obvious. He knows there has to be something going on with her insides. She’s grimacing in pain. She sets an open hand on her belly, sucks in a deep breath. But when she sees her husband looking her way, she quickly turns. There comes a quick, not too distant spark of lightning and thunder that rumbles across the valley as though making its way directly towards them from the lake. The cold rain falls harder. It pelts Jack’s face, makes eyes blink, eyebrows scrunch when it hits him directly on the cheeks, nose, and lips. As the seconds pass, he begins to stir back to life.

  He opens big brown eyes wide.

  Voice gro
ggy, he whispers, “Dad . . .” But it becomes immediately apparent that, for now anyway, all attempts at making words will trail off into a haze of exhaustion and confusion.

  Rosie stands.

  From where Jude is kneeling, he can see that her cotton nightgown is drenched, the thin fabric adhering to her breasts and thighs, open hands still pressed against her belly, long rain-matted hair veiling her narrow face. He wants to scream. But there isn’t a thing he can do for her.

  Jack tries to sit up.

  “Why am I outside? Why are my hands stuck together?”

  Sensing the panic that is beginning to settle into the boy—because he has to know by now that this is not the usual “dark monster” dream—Jude takes him into his arms, clutches him tightly.

  “You’re okay now, kid.”

  But you know full well that Lennox is out there watching. You know it’s true because you’re not dead yet. Black Dragon is out there watching and plotting and laughing and if none of you are dead it’s only because the beast won’t be satisfied until he catches your final screams…

  Jude feels Jack trembling in his arms.

  No doubt the sedative has begun to wear off while fear settles in.

  “The dark monster woke me up,” says the boy, voice vibrating, teeth clicking together. “He made me scream into his phone before he put his hand over my mouth and stuck a needle in my arm.”

  Jude feels a chunk of ice melt inside his stomach at the mention of Lennox and a needle. He pulls himself away from Jack, far enough to get a look at the boy’s face in the glow from the Maglite.

  “Jack,” he says, hands still gripping both the flashlight and the boy’s arms. “He’s not the dark monster. He’s just a man.”

  But you’re lying to yourself. Black Dragon is every bit the dark monster. You’ve seen it yourself—seen it in the form of the dead fish and the dead bird. Seen it in the form of Fuentes’ decapitated head. You felt it when you dropped down into that pit, and when those boulders smacked and punched the trail floor only inches from your skull. He’s a dark monster and he will torture all three of you before he captures your screams and kills you . . .