Scream (13 page)

By the time he stepped out of the shower, shaved, and
combed his hair, the sky was beginning to lighten and the trees
were no longer just black silhouettes pasted against a dark backdrop. He went for the cupboard, pulled out a granola bar, and
seated himself at a small, round wooden table in the kitchen.
The clock on the microwave read 6:16. He'd usually be waking
Cheryl about this time.

-Time to get up, babe. Rise and shine.

-So soon? Wake me up in ten, OK?

Eventually, she'd make her way to the kitchen, pour herself
a cup of coffee, and sit across from him at the table while she
sipped the steaming java. That's what she called it Java. It always irritated Mark just a little. Like she was trying to be
hip or something. They'd sit for maybe ten minutes, small talk
about the day ahead of them, then he'd head for work and
she'd head for the shower. When they were first married they'd
share the shower in the morning, but that hadn't happened in
a couple years.

Now, sitting at the table by himself, he thought of how much
he missed Cheryl, what he would give to share a shower with her,
even hear her call her coffee java. He would give his right arm
for ten minutes of small talk and coffee sipping this morning.

He thought about the mistake he'd made. The other woman.
Rachel. How did it happen?

-How did it happen, Mark?

-I don't even know, it just-

-Oh, no. Don't you even tell me it just happened. That's
such a bunch of...

He never thought he'd be the kind of guy to cheat on his
wife. It seemed so callous, so cold, so ... ignorant. He knew
some guys that had cheated, and they were all jerks. He never
thought of himself as a jerk. He loved Cheryl. Really, he did.
Even when he and Rachel were growing closer, laughing at each
other's dumb jokes, talking about their lives. Flirting. Yes, it
had just happened so fast he'd neglected to take the time to
step back and get control of the situation.

He remembered the first time he met Rachel at Ray's Family
Restaurant. He'd gone there for lunch, sat in his usual spot, and
toyed with a sugar packet until Melody, the regular waitress,
stopped by. When he looked up, though, the waitress standing
by his booth, notepad in hand, was not Melody. She was an
angel. Tall, lean, auburn hair that fell loosely to her shoulders,
full lips, and the biggest, roundest, brown eyes Mark had ever seen, like roasted chestnuts encased in jewels. She smiled, and
he stammered, "Hi. Are-are you new?"

"Yes. Started just three days ago. Can I get you something to
drink?" Her voice was smooth and clear. Cold mountain water
on a sultry summer day.

"Uh, yeah, sure. A large Coke, please, and I'll have the two
hot dog lunch special too. It's nice to meet you"-he glanced at
her name tag-"Rachel."

Rachel slid her notepad into her apron pocket and smiled.
Her eyes flashed like brilliant amber. "Nice to meet you too"she leaned to the right a little to get a look at the name stenciled
on his Stone Service Center shirt-"Marj."

Mark's face flushed hot and he forced a smile. "It's Mark.
They stenciled the wrong letter on and I just never bothered to
send it back to have it fixed."

She laughed playfully, and the sound nearly took Mark's
breath away. He had to hear more of that laugh.

The phone over the kitchen counter rang, yanking Mark
out of his painful memory. He shoved the chair back, stood,
stretched again, and picked up the phone.

"Hello?"

"Mark?" A familiar voice. Strained. Crying.

"Mom? What's the matter?"

A muffled sob. "It's your father. He had a heart attack last
night."

Mark didn't say anything at first. He hadn't held a real
conversation with his father in years. They weren't exactly on
speaking terms anymore. Sure, they were cordial to one another
at holidays and other social gatherings, but when it came time
to sit and talk, one of them was always conveniently preoccupied. "Is-is he OK?"

Mom sniffed. "No. It was bad, Mark. He almost died. I
thought I'd lost him."

Mark stood by his kitchen counter, silent, listening as his
mom retold the story of how his father had complained of a
pressure in his chest but refused to go to the hospital. Typical.
That was just like him. She called 911, and by the time the
ambulance got there, he was almost gone. They were able to get
him stabilized enough to transport him to the ER, where they
did emergency surgery-triple bypass-and almost lost him on
the table. Two times. Two times he tangled with death, she said.
As she told the story, her voice grew more and more strained,
and Mark could tell she was fighting back the sobs. "Mark, I'm
here in his hospital room. He ... he wants to talk with you."

The words didn't register at first, sounded foreign, then hit
him like a wrecking ball, almost knocking him over. He wants
to talk with you. Talk with him? Dad didn't talk with him,
never did, even when they were on good terms, which seemed
like a lifetime ago. He talked at him; that was just his way. Mark
dragged a chair across the linoleum floor and sat in it, pressing
the receiver against his ear. "OK."

There was a moment of silence where the only sound was
Mark's own pulse tapping in his ear, then a weak, raspy voice.
"Mark."

Dad.

"Hi, Dad." It was awkward at best, talking to a man called
Dad who was more like a stranger. A stranger who had just
dodged the bullet of death two times.

"Well, looks like you got your wish."

My wish? "What do you mean?"

Dad tried to laugh, but it only came out as a gravelly cough.
"You once said you wished I was dead."

Mark remembered the time. He was a stubborn, independent, ignorant nineteen-year-old who thought his dad was the dumbest
prude on the face of the earth. He'd left the church, grown his
hair long, listened to "worldly" music, and had a non-Christian girlfriend. Those sins combined were enough to place him
squarely in the crosshairs of his father's righteous (self-righteous
was the word Mark had used) indignation. After enduring ten
solid minutes of his father's own version of Judgment Day, he'd
stormed out of the house, cursing. He'd stopped on the sidewalk,
spun around glaring at his father's still form behind the screen
door, and hollered loud enough for the whole block to hear, "I
wish you were dead!"

He was surprised Dad had remembered. Or not surprised
at all.

"Dad, that was a long time ago. I was young and stupid. I never
should have said that." He paused, waiting for Dad to say something. When he didn't, Mark said, "I didn't mean it, you know."

Dad coughed again, a raspy hack that filled the phone with
static. "Naw, you meant it, but it doesn't matter now. It's gonna
happen soon. Your mother keeps telling me I'm gonna be OK.
Be going home in a few days. She's wrong about that. I'm not
leaving this room. I can feel death creepin' up on me."

Mark thought about that and was surprised by the feelings of
remorse that filled him. He'd lost so many years with his father
because of anger and resentment. Now he wished he could have
those years back. He was about to say something when Dad
started up again.

"Mark, listen to me. Are you listening?"

"Yeah, Dad."

"I've been thinking. Not much else to do here." He coughed
loudly three times. "I'm sorry, Mark. I did a lot of stupid things
as a father, things I now wish I hadn't done. Made a lot of stupid
rules, said a lot of stupid things. I need to make it right with you. Now that I'm looking death in the face, I'm not sure where
I'm going, and it scares me. But I at least want to leave on good
terms with you."

Mark could tell Dad's voice was getting weaker the more he
spoke. He ran his sleeve across his eyes, wiping the tears away.
Dad's words had plucked a chord deep in his heart. He'd longed
to hear his father say those words, longed for it for so many
years but thought it would never happen. "Dad, I-"

He was cut off by an eerie sound that sent chills down his back
and peppered his skin with goose bumps. Screaming. Painful,
pealing screams that rose and fell and collided like two steam
engines that had been barreling full throttle toward each other.
Weeping. Gnashing. Molars grinding. Fists clenching. Bodies
writhing. It lasted maybe five seconds, then stopped abruptly.

Mark panicked. The others-Jeff and Jerry-had died almost
immediately after he'd heard those awful screams. Dad's words
tunneled through his head like a mole. I can feel death creepin'
up on me. "Dad? You still there?"

"Yeah. What was that?"

"Nothing, Dad. Don't worry about it. I'm coming up to see
you." What was he saying? His parents lived outside of Roanoke,
Virginia. A five-hour drive. Chances were strong, if this call
was anything like his last call with Jeff and Jerry, Dad wouldn't
live to see the next five minutes. Five hours now seemed like an
eternity. Was an eternity.

"No, Mark. It's too far. I just wanted to say that."

But Mark had made up his mind. He'd close the shop for a
couple days. If he was right, and Dad passed before he arrived,
he could at least be there for his mother. If he was wrong, he'd
get to see his dad maybe one last time. Either way, he needed
to go.

He sniffed back some tears and wiped his nose with a napkin from the counter. "I'm coming, Dad. I'll leave in a couple
minutes. And, Dad?"

"Yes?"

"I love you. I want you to know that. In case ... well, I just
want you to know that."

There was a long pause, then Dad's thin voice came on
again. "You can say it. In case I don't make it. Me too, son. I
love you too."

Sheriff Wiley Hickock was hoping for a quiet day, and all was
going as hoped until Jess walked through the door waving a
single white sheet of paper. The look on her face told Wiley that
his quiet day was about to end. The sheet of paper turned out to
be a missing person report. Amber Mann. Thirty-one. Five-six.
Brown hair. Hazel eyes. Last seen last Friday leaving work at
Darlene's Diner. Her car was still at the diner.

Wiley sat behind his desk, leaning back in his chair, one leg
crossed over the other, lips tight, studying the photo of Amber.
"I hate these cases. Nuthin' but bad news."

Missing person meant just that, missing. Disappeared.
Whereabouts unknown. Most of the time it was nothing more
than a case of miscommunication or so-and-so wandering off
to find himself in some foreign land. And most of the time soand-so showed up broke and an emotional train wreck. Rarely
did the cases materialize into anything serious like murder or
abduction. And when they did, nine out of ten times it wasn't
discovered for months, and only then by some twist of chance.
That's why he hated them. Too many variables. Too many
unknowns. Too many unanswered questions.

He unfolded his legs, straightened in his chair, and set the report on his desk, still studying it. "Good-looking girl too.
And you checked with her family?"

Jess nodded, biting at the nail of her index finger. "Yup. They
live over near Swanton in Garrett County. Her mom said she
hasn't heard from Amber in over two weeks. Apparently she
doesn't call home much and visits even less. She was supposed
to visit her sister Saturday. Never showed up. Her sister filed
the report."

"Where's the sister live?"

"Charlestown."

"Did you interview her yet?"

Jess tapped her notepad. "I'm swinging by this afternoon."

"And her house? Mann's?"

Jess flipped a page on her notepad. "Clean. No break-in.
Nothing disturbed. No messages on the machine. She didn't
leave much of a trail."

Wiley thought for a moment. No surprises there. "Anything
else on her? Friends, co-workers?"

Jess stepped around the chair across from Wiley's desk and
lowered herself into it. She leaned forward, rested her elbows
on her knees. "Oh, yeah. Marge Anderson. She kinda took
to mothering Amber and said when Amber left work Friday
night, she was headed to Bruno's Bar over in Frostburg. Seems
Ms. Mann had a secret boyfriend there. Mitch Young, a tattoo
guy in Frostburg. Amber didn't know that Marge knew about
Mitch, tried to keep the fling hush-hush. Marge said Amber left
work Friday night all dolled up saying she was going to Bruno's,
that's where she would hook up with lover boy. She didn't show
up for work the rest of the week. Marge said at first she thought
maybe Amber was sick or ran off for a few days-"

"Was that like her?" Wiley asked.

"To run off without telling anyone?"

"Yeah"

"Marge said no. But when someone doesn't show up for work,
the last thing you're thinking is kidnapping. She just figured
Amber got a little wild and forgot about work for a few days."

"And the fact that her car was still in the parking lot didn't
concern her?"

"She said she assumed a friend picked Amber up. Apparently
that's happened before."