The Scream Catcher Page 7

  “You’re right. I should tell you to get out now,” Mack says. “But I can’t do it. You have to nail Lennox in three days at the Prelim, get his bail revoked.”

  Jude stands on the third of six descending steps. He’s staring at Mack’s hand, where it’s grabbed hold of his own right, sweat-shirted arm.

  “You heard the Judge,” he presses. “I’m unreliable. There’s not going to be an indictment based upon my testimony.”

  “We’ll make you reliable.”

  “That still leaves you with a doubting Judge and the most timid prosecutor I’ve ever seen at work.”

  Pulling his arms away from his father’s hold, Jude descends the last of the steps until he stands on the concrete landing. The anger swells inside the ex-cop. But then he can’t be sure if he is angrier with Mack for pushing him into this mess or with himself for having been so willingly pushed. Whatever the source, Jude tries to avoid letting the anger get the best of him, clouding his judgment.

  Mack takes a breath. He stares down at the tops of his shoes as though preparing himself to take a different approach.

  Raising his head back up, he says, “You remember back in the fifth grade, you begged me all summer long to sign you up for Pop Warner football even though you weighed ninety-five pounds soaking wet? You remember how you wouldn’t leave it alone even though I was dead against it? Until finally, against my better judgment, I brought you down to the field and they suited you up.”

  In his head, Jude tries to picture that kid. Just a scrappy little guy, too big helmet floating on his head, shoulder pads draped down over chest and back, baggy football pants held up with an old piece of clothesline tied in a knot. He was the smallest kid on a field surrounded by giants.

  Yeah, he remembers it all right. Like it was yesterday.

  “Well, I know you recall that first hit you took because you can probably still feel it. After an entire summer of begging me to play, you crawled off the field after practice and begged me to let you quit. You were afraid of being hit again.”

  Jude breathes in and out. Even at forty-five years old, he still feels the embarrassment of that moment swimming in his veins. He feels the fear like it has never left him.

  He says, “But you wouldn’t let me quit, would you, Mack?”

  “Damn right I wouldn’t let you quit. I knew that if you gave up that easily you would forever give up on anything just because you were afraid.” The old Captain exhales. “Consider this de-ja-vu all over again. Just an hour ago you were ready and willing to take on Lennox with your bear hands. Now you’re ready to give into your fear just because some half-witted country Judge has questioned your reliability as a witness.”

  Jude stares into Mack’s slate gray eyes. The same eyes he looked into as a boy coming off the football field, pants falling down around his knees, eyes tearing, head ringing like a bell.

  Raising his right hand high, Mack points directly to the courthouse.

  “Inside that building is your chance to destroy the demon inside your soul. You back out now it’s just another way of giving up.”

  Turning, Jude eyes Tongue Mountain poised large and not too distant over the village rooftops. He can’t explain why exactly, but he contemplates the silver-brown rattlesnakes that at this very moment are making their silent, slithering trek from the lake up its forest-covered terra firma where they lay their eggs. At the same time, he’s picturing his son and his wife. In the back of his head comes the sound of adrenalin speeding through veins and capillaries…an orchestra of over-wound nerves pulsing their way up to major crescendo.

  “I can’t make you do it,” Mack adds. “I can only ask you to do what’s right.”

  Jude’s stomach twists itself inside out. The demon reeking havoc on his insides. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but no words will come. All he can manage is to nod his head in the affirmative.

  Mack runs his hand over stubbled face, experiences a sigh-of-relief moment.

  Peering over his shoulder, Jude now looks upon the white beach and the calm lake that continually laps at it. That’s when, without warning, he feels his bowels turn to water. Shooting back up the courthouse stairs, he makes a beeline for the first floor Men’s room.

  Warren County Courthouse

  Tuesday, 2:05 P.M.

  Two uniformed police officers—one man, one woman—guard the main entrance to the courthouse, its vestibule security check-point and airport style, walk-thru metal detector. Outside the front marble façade of the brand new building, a group of Girl Scouts sit circled on the flat green lawn around a woman dressed in a long green skirt and a red kerchief wrapped around her head. When the woman lays herself out long and flat on her side, some of her long brunette hair slips out from underneath the cloth and blows wildly in the wind.

  All the young girls are dressed in short, green jumpers. They hold sketchpads in their free hands, pieces of black charcoal in their drawing hands. They stare intently at the prone woman, patiently adding a line here or a curve there to the sketchpads.

  An old man walking with the aid of a cane steps up behind one of the girls, stares down at her drawing. When finally the auburn-haired girl notices him out the corner of her eye, she automatically pulls the sketchpad up flat against her green-jumpered chest. She smiles red-faced while the old man shakes his head and hobbles on.

  Per Judge Mann’s decree, Christian Barter (a.k.a. Hector Lennox; a.k.a. the Black Dragon) is free to descend the courthouse steps. He is accompanied by a uniformed cop who will lead him directly to his apartment where he will subject to house arrest.

  Mack is standing alone when he spots the beast dead on.

  The summer wind blows cool off the lake. But the wind seems to cease the moment Lennox and the old Captain lock eyes. Mack is perched on the concrete landing, his slate gray eyes doing the man dance with the killer’s ice blue eyes from a distance of maybe twenty-five feet. The eyes never disconnect while the blond Lennox makes the short climb down each marble step, one at a time, the glares that came from the two L.G.P.D. officers never veering far from the backside of the accused and his police escort.

  Wrapped around Lennox’s left ankle, its weight pressing down against the high-top basketball sneaker, is the thick Electronic Surveillance Bracelet. His narrow, goateed face is a billboard of smiles. The happy face becomes all the happier the closer he comes to the old Captain.

  Now, standing on the landing that extends beyond the Girl Scouts out to the Village sidewalk, Lennox faces the shorter, but thicker, Mack from a distance of maybe five feet. He lets loose with a high-pitched laugh. For Mack, the laugh acts like a lit match suddenly dropped into a bucket of high grade gasoline. Only this firestorm erupts inside his chest and head.

  “You go near my son, Lennox,” he says, “and I’ll kill you.”

  The kill gamer glances over his shoulder at the two cops standing four-square atop the courthouse steps, at the third cop poised only a few feet away from him. He then throws a wide-eyed glance towards the circle of Girl Scouts.

  “It’s Barter, Captain,” he corrects. “Little Hector is dead.” Stepping closer to the Captain he whispers, “If you close your eyes and listen carefully, you can hear the sound of Hector’s screams. He screams for you Captain, and your boy, Jude.”

  Heading out across the lawn, Lennox runs a hand through the long auburn hair of a seated Girl Scout before the escorting cop grabs hold of his arm, pulls him towards the crowded village.

  Office of the Warren County Prosecutor

  Tuesday, 2:32 P.M.

  Inside the eighth floor office, Jude sits beside his father in a polished wood chair.

  P.J. Blanchfield stands behind her desk in her blue blazer, white button down, and matching skirt. She’s the epitome of clean and confident despite the disappointing outcome of the arraignment.

  Jude can’t help but notice that she’s a tall, athletic, handsome woman with straight strawberry blond hair cut neatly just above broad shoulders. What Rosie
might enviously refer to as “drop dead gorgeous.” Thick lips, sallow cheeks, hazel eyes complete the presentation of a go-getter, a winner. A take-no-prisoners kind of brass-knuckled woman.

  At the same time, here’s the same woman who faced Lennox in court once before and lost. Here’s the same woman who, in Jude’s mind anyway, should have been screaming at Judge Mann to wake up and smell the coffee—the blond, dreadlocked man who stood before his bench was not only the gravel pit killer, but the prodigal return of the devil himself.

  To the right of Blanchfield’s desk stands a large antique glass case. Displayed inside are four basketballs, each with a different year scribbled on them in bright silver Sharpie. The basketballs are trophies that hearken back from Blanchfield’s glory days at Providence College where she played women’s hoops on a full athletic scholarship. So she is quick to explain during the nervous small talk period immediately following Jude’s and Mack’s entrance into the top floor office. Neatly framed above the basketball cabinet is the front page of the local newspaper bearing the headline “Blanchfield Steals County Prosecutor!”

  The headline is accompanied by a photo of a slightly younger but no less attractive woman standing at a podium that’s been set on the steps of the new courthouse. In the picture, Jude can see that she’s addressing a crowd of Lake George supporters. Surrounding her on the podium are several town dignitaries, Mack and Judge Mann included.

  Sitting herself down, the prosecutor plants forearms atop the desk.

  “Your cooperation is sorely appreciated, Mr. Parish,” she starts off by saying. “Especially now that conditional bail has been granted and satisfied. Naturally, Christian Barter has twenty-four hours to produce a passport.”

  “Lennox,” Mack jumps in. “His name is Hector Lennox.” Then he coughs and says something that takes his son by surprise: “Under the circumstances, P.J., I’m seriously considering that Jude reevaluate his involvement in this case.”

  Blanchfield turns quick, eyes on Jude. If she were in possession of an Adam’s apple, it might bob up and down in her throat.

  “Have you had a change of heart, Mr. Parish?”

  Jude shoots his father a look like, Aren’t you the one who insisted I stay the course? But then it dawns on him that the old Captain is putting on a bluff at the good prosecutor’s expense.

  “Here’s the way I see it,” Mack answers in his son’s stead. “If we want Jude to go through with his testimony, then I must see to it that he and his family are thoroughly protected. You, on the other hand, must do everything in your power to make sure this quote—Christian Barter—unquote, is exposed for the man he really is. Anything less and Jude calls off the wedding.”

  “So long as your son remains committed to the cause, I am confident that we can give it a fair shot,” Blanchfield says.

  Mack coughs again.

  “Our killer wasn’t supposed to make bail either.”

  The prosecutor’s face appears to lose all its color. It seems to petrify beneath its thin patina of powder and rouge.

  She says, “With all due respect, Captain, don’t be fooled into believing this case—if it indeed remains a case—will prove open and shut.” Crossing arms over chest. “Jude is a highly unreliable eyewitness. Apparently Judge Mann is a reader and a fan of Jude’s work. Or, perhaps, he vividly recalls the actual Elizabeth Bay incident that formed the basis of Jude’s book. That said, whether Jude was knocked unconscious before or after he got a good look at Lennox is apparently open to conjecture for the good Judge.”

  Jude knows his father like he knows himself. He can tell by the old Captain’s stabbing eyes and pouty mouth that he does not trust Blanchfield. After all, not only did Lennox manage to best her in court before, the killer just scored again in that morning’s arraignment.

  Perking up, the prosecutor says, “What we do have on our side, however, is circumstance and probable cause.”

  “And there is the matter of a long-standing gag order,” Mack adds.

  “Right you are, Captain. That alone should keep the media hounds at bay, keep them from creating a media frenzy and panic. However, that does not mean that life will be any easier for us.” Eyes shifting to Jude. “If Judge Mann does not consider you a completely reliable eyewitness, then neither will a jury.”

  “My son is a decorated former officer of the law,” Mack chimes in.

  “And there you have my single reason for entertaining Jude’s testimony.” Her undivided attention again directed onto Jude. “I want your full cooperation in taking me and my team back to the crime scene. I intend to walk through every step of the murder as it happened. If we can match up this morning’s M.O. with the M.O.s with the previous two murders, we just might have something to go on.

  “In the meantime, I’m ordering a full psych evaluation on you. I will not tolerate Lennox challenging your sanity when the county names you as its number one witness come Friday morning.” Blanchfield forces a smile. “You are sane, are you not, Jude?”

  The former cop finds himself grinning as if something funny is going on. But in reality, the Prosecutor’s question slams him like a nightstick to the back of the head. She’s obviously referring to Cop Job and Jude’s self-confessed fear factor—his having frozen up at a time when he should have been stopping Oscar Burns from murdering his family.

  The prosecutor rises.

  She says, “I’m calling Terry MacSweeny back in from the FBI field office in Washington.”

  “He’s retired,” Mack points out.

  “Not so retired he won’t testify against a serial creep like Lennox,” Blanchfield corrects. “He was willing to conduct our interviews last time. I don’t see why he won’t help us on this one. Especially when an FBI field investigation seems inevitable.”

  Jude recognizes the name Terry MacSweeny. He’s famous, after all, the agent often appearing on television. FBI and Cold Case File programs. His book did far better than Jude’s, having remained on the New York Times nonfiction bestseller list for more than a year (Cop Job only graced it for one week). Jude even met the special agent once inside Penn Station during a New York City tour stop for his own book. Jude never realized the agent had helped his father in his original case against Lennox, until now.

  “I expect to hear from MacSweeny soon,” Blanchfield goes on. “For now I want you to head home, get some rest, Jude. My assistant, Lois, will call you later on this afternoon to coordinate our schedules.”

  Mack gets up. Jude follows while the somber and taller Blanchfield comes around the desk, looks down upon the two men.

  “You recently married,” she says. More a statement than a question.

  “Remarried,” Jude confirms. “A little more than a year ago.”

  “Does your wife work?”

  “She was a partner in a clothing boutique in New York. But she sold out when we got married and moved back up here, so she could spend time with my son and raise our daughter to be.”

  Blanchfield smiles the sad smile of a woman who might have wanted children once, but . . . She runs a thin hand through smooth hair, pushes it off her forehead.

  “How old did you say your boy is?”

  “He’ll be eleven come October. His name is Jack.”

  Jude isn’t entirely sure the point the prosecutor is trying to make by asking about his family. Maybe she just wants to get to know him better; get a feel for all he’s risking by willingly involving himself in the Lennox case. Or maybe she’s simply trying to be personable, nice. Either way the questioning doesn’t put him the least bit at ease.

  Blanchfield leads Jude and Mack to the door, opens it for them. Together they step out into the marble foyer. The place is new enough that it still smells of fresh paint.

  “Lennox’s legal proceedings,” she says from the open door. “The hearings, the trial prep, the testimony, the long hours spent cooped up inside your home: it will be hard on you, but it will be harder on your family. You must be prepared for that.”

  “
Jude and his family are to be well protected,” Mack reiterates. “We’ll also keep a vigilant eye on Lennox. He steps out his front door for the morning paper we’ll be on him like underwear.”

  Blanchfield shoots Mack a stern look.

  She warns, “You know how this works, Captain. Tenacity will play against us. The last thing we need right now is a disgruntled Christian…excuse me…Hector Lennox filing for what could amount to valid harassment proceedings on top of a potential false arrest.” Running both hands through her hair. “Judge Mann has granted the suspect his freedom as a non-flight risk. He’s successfully posted bail and he’s been fitted with a surveillance bracelet. Do not post a blue uniform outside his apartment unless the Judge orders it. No undercover either. We just can’t risk it. His every move will be electronically monitored from this point out.”

  Jude’s stomach is twisting itself into knots. Maybe on the surface Blanchfield is talking up a tough argument. But he feels he could stuff all the confidence in this room inside a shot glass and still have space left over.

  “Frankly,” Mack says, “I’m a little concerned about this surveillance bracelet situation. I haven’t had much experience with them since they came on the scene back in the ‘90s. None to be truthful.”

  “If you’re thinking that Lennox might slip it off, you have nothing to worry about. They are a tamper-proof and very reliable means of surveillance and monitoring.”

  “They’re machines powered by computer chips. And a computer can be beaten. Especially by an expert hacker like Lennox.”

  Blanchfield grins.

  She says, “Should he tamper with the bracelet in any way, the alarms will sound inside your communications department and then you’ll get your wish. Because Mann would have no choice but to lock him up.”

  Silence settles over the office like a cloud of mustard gas. Until Mack clears his throat.

  “But just so I’m clear on this matter, P.J.,” he presses, “You are one-hundred percent certain that you can prosecute this case?”