The Scream Catcher Read online

  It takes only a couple of seconds for the hand to come loose and free of its bind against the hip. Turning fast, Jude frees the right hand.

  One minute . . .

  With total disregard for the sensors attached to neck and chest, Jude reaches for the back door handle, thrusts it open. He throws himself over Rosie’s body, grabs at the tape that binds her ankles to her wrists. He tears it to shreds with his hands and teeth.

  “Go!” he orders.

  Leaping across the back cargo bay, over the jug of Nitro, through the narrow space between the stacks of fertilizer, Jude grabs at Jack’s waist, at the tape that binds the child to the front bucket seat. Looking up into the boy’s face, he sees the terrorized wide brown eyes, the boiling red cheeks. Jude yanks at the tape, pulls up enough slack to place it in his mouth, tearing it with front teeth. That’s when he grabs Jack by the hand and, reaching over the boy’s lap, throws the van door open . . .

  . . . at the precise moment the computer detonator counts down to zero.

  Office of the Warren County Prosecutor

  Friday, 6:18 A.M.

  Pulling open the fourth and final drawer from the tall wood filing cabinet, Black Dragon knows he’s come to the end of his own personal paper trail. He pulls the drawer all the way out so that it falls onto the floor. Dozens of overstuffed files spill out onto the mound that already exists.

  And something else too.

  Maybe a dozen glass jars and vials, each of which houses a bit here or a piece there of forensic evidence pertaining to the kill game Preliminary Hearing. Spent .22 caliber casings that come from his automatic; bits of his formerly long dreadlocked hair vacuumed up from the carpet of his car after it was dragged out of the lake; an entire footprint from the gravel pit that just might match the size and shape of one of his boots; and so on and so forth.

  Black Dragon glances down at his watch face.

  “It’s almost time,” he whispers, blue eyes now connecting with Blanchfield. “The people of Lake George should have arrived by now.”

  Per Black Dragon’s Modus Operandi, the Warren County Prosecutor has been duct-taped and gagged to one of the wood chairs that’s been placed in the center of the office floor. Stacked and piled at her bare feet like kindling wood are just some of the classified prosecution files, including this morning’s preliminary hearing docket. Now, with the last of the files tossed onto the heap, the black-faced beast raises a can of lighter fluid, holds it beneath Blanchfield’s nose as if having opened a bottle of wine.

  “Kingsford Two-Thousand and Ten. It meets with Madame’s approval, yes?”

  Blanchfield mumbles something indiscernible under the duct tape gag; bobs her head until allowing it to drop, chin against chest.

  Black Dragon laughs at the woman. He possesses no love or hate for her just as he has no love or hate for anyone. Certainly he has no further need for her. He is playing no games with her either. She’s merely served as a prop in a far larger design or stage play. He knows that now is the time to light the prop up. But before spraying the file material with the fluid, he looks up at the framed newspaper clipping—the one with P.J. standing proudly at the podium. He recognizes himself in the photo too—the way he looked years and several facial reconstructions ago. He recognizes the real Hector Lennox, pseudonymous video game developer and entrepreneur. He stood directly to Blanchfield’s left—a sporting young man with short black hair, neatly trimmed mustache, green tinted contact lenses, navy blue pin-striped double-breasted suit, horn rim glasses. How smart he looked back then, back when he was P.J.’s secret admirer and anonymous financial supporter.

  Turning away from the past, Black Dragon goes to the window, looks out onto the village street eight stories below. A decidedly peaceful empty lake-side street.

  Another check on the time.

  6.23 A.M.

  Why don’t they come? Where are all the people? . . . The women, the children, the reporters, the lawyers . . . The people should be arriving by now, filling the courtroom for the final level of play . . .

  Stepping away from the window, Black Dragon runs a hand over his bald head and black face. He turns to face his Prosecutor and, for reasons even the devil inside him can’t explain, begins to sob.

  Pulling the iPhone from his pocket, he presses the app that will record Blanchfield’s horror. He holds it to her mouth, then quickly rips off the duct tape gag.

  “Scream. For. Me.” he cries.

  Warren County Courthouse

  Friday, 6:21 A.M.

  Jude takes hold of Jack’s hand, grips it so hard he fears bones might snap.

  Closing his eyes, he lowers his head, awaits the flash and the explosion that will incinerate them.

  But the explosion never comes.

  The parking garage, the van’s interior, even the cool morning breeze that blows gently off the lake behind them seems to go calm and still.

  Maybe all that stands between life and sudden death is a minor malfunction in the motion sensitive detonator. Or maybe in the computer program itself. But then maybe nothing of the sort has occurred at all. Maybe the van bomb was designed as a ruse, a ploy designed to frighten Jude and family. Maybe the whole thing amounted to a sick joke played out by Lennox while the beast escaped into the courthouse and took care of other matters—murderous matters that almost surely have something to do with Blanchfield.

  Jude’s hand is clutched to the hand of his boy.

  Rosie is standing just outside the garage, still well within range of a bomb blast should one occur. Jude is not about to wait around thinking the I.E.D. malfunction through.

  Pushing the boy out the open passenger door, Jude crawls out after him—head first. Jumping back up onto his feet, he picks the boy up in his arms, cradles him tightly. Together they bolt out of the concrete parking garage on their way to Rosie and to the safety of the surrounding Lake George Park.

  For the first time since having been located up on Tongue Mountain, Jack breaks down, begins to cry a flood of tears. Standing on the open grass of the lakeside park, out of range of the van I.E.D. should it explode, Jude peels the now torn pieces of duct tape off the boy’s torso, wrists and mouth, wraps him securely in his arms.

  “It’s over now,” the ex-cop repeats again and again. “It’s over.”

  Standing on the park’s open green, a dazed and night-gowned Rosie looks silently on. Just the sight of her—the spot of blood at her midsection and the way her long dark hair veils a now pale, withdrawn face—makes his heart sink to new depths. It didn’t seem to matter that they still had their individual lives to hold onto. Because without having to be told, Jude knows that all of them have experienced the death of something precious not yet born.

  Jude feels Jack clutching him tightly as the morning sun shines down upon them. Pointing the boy in the direction of the Lake George P.D. precinct, he says, “You know where to go. Take Rosie’s hand, head across Main Street through the village until you come to Algonquin Street. You’ll see the big brown building. When you get there ask for Grandpa Mack. Tell him where I am and everything that happened last night. Everything you can remember. Can you do that?”

  Jack nods, sniffles.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to slay the dark monster.”

  Despite the tears, the boy works up a kind of strange round-faced smile that Jude has never before seen.

  He adds, “Don’t stop running until you get to the police station. Understand Jack?”

  Wiping the tears from his face, the boy turns and, in the orange-gold light of a brand new day in Lake George, takes Rosie’s hand in his. While Jude looks on, the two strike out for the L.G.P.D. precinct.

  Jude turns away from his family as soon as it becomes humanly possible.

  For reasons more unknown than known, it is simply too painful a scene for him to watch as they disappear into the distant village landscape. Instead, he gazes out upon a calm lake. As if it were scripted to happen this way, he sp
ots a large, green-scaled and white bellied largemouth bass explode from the water’s surface only to crash land inside the center of its own surface boil.

  Move, Parish . . . Move now and do what you were brought here to do . . .

  After a beat, he turns back to the courthouse. From where he stands on the abandoned expanse of the open village green and the empty village buildings behind it, he can easily make out the white cargo van that occupies the parking garage along with one other vehicle: a fire engine red Porsche Carrera.

  County Prosecutor P.J. Blanchfield’s ride.

  Blood goes ice cold to boiling hot to ice cold again. He realizes how easy it would be to simply follow Jack and Rosie to the L.G.P.D., how easy and logical it would be to seek out the protection of Mack and the police. But Jude made a promise to his father—a promise to make a positive I.D. of Hector Lennox in a court of law. Now he knows precisely where to locate the beast—inside the brand new county courthouse building, eighth floor, Warren County Prosecutor’s office. Now is Jude’s chance to hunt down the hunter before he has another shot at escaping Lake George altogether.

  Crossing over the lawn once more in the direction of the parking garage, Jude picks up his step as he makes for the courthouse’s rear entrance.

  Warren County Courthouse

  Friday, 6:40 A.M.

  The orange morning light is beaming into the parking garage after having spilled over the mountains and across the lake. Jude shifts gears from walk-speed to an all out sprint past the Porsche Carrera and the Ford Cargo van on his way to the courthouse ground floor door. Twisting the aluminum knob clockwise he can only pray that Lennox left it unlocked when he entered the building ahead of him.

  The door opens freely.

  Inside the dimly lit stairwell, Jude finds a single-story emergency staircase. He runs up the flight of concrete stairs, bounding the treads two at a time until he comes to a second metal door I.D.’d with the words FIRST FLOOR.

  He twists and pulls on the door knob. It opens as easily as the ground floor door.

  Like the stairwell the windowless corridor is lit only with dim emergency, wall-mounted lighting. Although the courthouse was built after Jude’s departure from the L.G.P.D. and his short-lived stay in New York City, he knows from a recent Cop Job reading that the narrow hall leads out onto a great marble rotunda. He also knows that echoes will be a problem. He decides that the prudent thing to do is to remove his boots and socks, proceed from that point on with bare feet.

  Jude does it.

  Having removed the clothing, he sets it aside, slowly opens the door, slips out into the rotunda.

  The place is cool, dark, and empty.

  From where he stands he can hear the muffled sounds of a woman screaming.

  Blanchfield…

  Even with the electronic emergency candles mounted to the marble walls every fifteen or so feet, the rotunda seems like a giant, vertical cavern. A glance upwards reveals huge stained glass skylights embedded into a domed ceiling. Directly before him, a great marble staircase wraps itself around the entire interior of the open, cathedral-like building. Taking up nearly the entire wall behind him is a giant mural depicting the five clans of the Iroquois breaking bread with local pilgrims. Jude recalls his voice echoing within the marble walls as he read passages from Cop Job before an audience of local senior citizens just a few weeks ago.

  He begins climbing the stairs, bare feet gripping the cold marble. He takes his time but still manages to ascend the eight floors in just under two minutes. Slipping down the narrow eighth floor corridor with the solid marble wall on his left and the open rotunda on the right, he comes to the open wood and glass door that accesses Blanchfield’s office. Sneaking his head around the door frame, Jude takes a quick look inside, immediately spots the prosecutor. She’s been bound to a wood chair that’s been placed in the center of the room along with a pile of papers, files and evidence jars stacked all around her legs and feet. Long legs and arms have been duct-taped to the chair, along with her torso.

  Lennox stands before her, golden dreads now chopped off, leaving only an eggshell skull. From where Jude stands, the beast appears to be crying, tears running down black-painted face in streams. A white plastic can of lighter fluid is gripped in his left hand while his right holds the iPhone. He’s soaking the materials that rest at Blanchfield’s feet in the fluid. Amidst tears, comes the familiar order:

  “Scream. For. Me.”

  Blanchfield’s voice is now reduced to a scratchy whisper. How long Lennox has been making her scream like that, Jude has no idea. But he knows it’s been long enough for her to lose her voice.

  Jude pulls himself back from the door.

  His breathing is growing rapid and labored. He begins to hear something besides Blanchfield’s pathetic attempts at screaming coming from inside the office. He makes out a snap, crackle, and pop. Sneaking another quick look into the room, he sees that both the file material and the plastic evidence jars that surround Blanchfield’s feet are now in flames.

  Don’t think…Ignore the demon and just do…

  He swallows a breath, then bolts through the open door, moves swiftly across the office floor. Thrusting both heels up and out, he connects dead center with Lennox’s chest, drop-kicking him onto the concrete. Back up on his feet, Jude raises arms, clenches fists.

  Lennox is still down, back pressed against the painted floor, his dropped iPhone set beside him. He’s gone from tears to all smiles, hands clutching his chest, air knocked out of his lungs, mouth gaping wide open. Parish can see that he’s not yet breathing freely. Still the beast manages to grab the phone, get back up onto his feet and quickly pocket it.

  On the opposite side of the room, the fire grows out of control.

  Jude knows he must put Lennox down now, for good, or Blanchfield will burn.

  Once more he lunges.

  This time, Lennox is ready for him, evading him with a quick sideways deflection. At the same time he enters into a crouch, extends the left leg, snap-kicks the ex-cop in the chin. Helpless, Jude rears back, legs cut out from under him, lower back slamming against the floor, pain shooting up the length of his spine.

  Lennox stands tall, strong, the thumbs on both hands buried deep inside a thick black nylon belt. He’s breathing freely again, in and out.

  As for Jude’s air, it will only come to him in short pulses. Still, he pushes himself up on all fours, crabs in reverse. He should be getting back up onto two feet. But he can’t find the strength. Nor can he find the balance.

  A glance over his right shoulder reveals a fire that’s beginning to consume Blanchfield’s short skirt and blouse. He can see the fabric melting off of her body, exposing white skin underneath. He also sees that Lennox is now moving again, closer, taking his time.

  Rolling himself onto his left side, Jude swings legs and feet hard, catching the beast at the ankles, putting him immediately down. That’s when Jude musters all available strength, forces himself up onto his feet. Planting the heel of his right foot against Lennox’s neck, he raises a bare left foot, goes for the kill by driving the heel down hard in the direction of the black-painted face.

  But Lennox sees it coming.

  He’s too strong, too quick.

  Despite Jude’s right foot, which is jammed against his neck and windpipe, Lennox grabs hold of the left foot just as it’s about to plow him in his already damaged mouth. He holds the foot tight, vice-grips it in both hands. With a wild scream, the beast heaves Jude head over heels.

  Office of the Warren County Prosecutor

  Friday, 6:55 A.M.

  For a few brief seconds, Jude feels nothing.

  Until he senses wet on his face and thick black smoke stinging the interior of his nasal passages. He opens his eyes, immediately searches for Lennox, sees that he is back up on his feet and, at the same time, coughing, clutching at his throat with both gloved hands.

  Sprinkler system has been triggered.

  It’s reduced the fire
to a smolder. It’s also produced a cloud of acrid gray/black smoke that fills the office.

  Blanchfield isn’t dead.

  From down on the floor Jude can see that although she hasn’t been badly burned, she’s having trouble breathing through her nose in the heavy smoke.

  Off to his right, he sees Lennox coming for him.

  Jude tells himself to roll onto his side. But the body does not respond. As hard as he wills himself he can’t so much as raise a finger. It’s as if Lennox were somehow controlling his mind; somehow able to project his will upon his kill game player. Squatting at the knees, the beast extends middle and index fingers on his right hand. He shoves them up into Jude’s nostrils, cocks his arm, proceeds to lift Jude’s deadweight body up off the floor. At the same time, Lennox shoves the iPhone in Jude’s face.

  “Scream. For. Me.”

  The pain is unbearable.

  The pain causes bright red flashes of light to shoot through Jude’s brain, strike out against the backs of his eyeballs. He can’t possibly scream or shout, for the pain robs him of all breath. Jude simply lashes out helplessly with open hands, claws wildly at the beast, but connects only with smoke-filled air.

  Lennox heaves until suddenly Jude finds himself back up on his feet staring into a black broken-toothed face and ice blue eyes.

  “Scream. For. Me.” the beast insists, voice calm, non-flustered.

  Jude’s eyeballs feel doused in acid. His head is spins while the floor seems to be trembling beneath both his feet. But it’s his weak legs that are trembling. Jude tries to raise clenched fists, tries to resume a fighter’s stance. But the best he can manage is an unsteady wobble.

  “Scream. For. Me.” Lennox repeats.

  “No,” Jude whispers. “I will not scream for you.”

  That’s when the beast does something strange. He nods and smiles. Pocketing the iPhone he wipes the soot and water from his eyes, makes his way back through the smoke and the dripping sprinkler water to Blanchfield’s desk where he grabs hold of a wood chair. He sets the chair down only inches from the spot in which Jude is standing. He steps up onto the chair, extends both arms out to the sides as if imitating the fully extended wings on a bird. Raising himself up onto the tip-toes of his left foot, the beast elevates the right leg and foot high in what Jude recognizes as a crane-style Karate stance.