Scream, page 25
"He's smoking," she said.
Amber put her face to one of the gaps between the planks. "Hey!" she hollered. But Judge didn't acknowledge her, didn't even seem to hear her. He tilted his head back and blew out another plume of smoke, replaced the cigarette, and inhaled. The orange tip glowed brighter. "Hey! Did she suffer?"
If he heard her, which Cheryl was positive he had, he gave no indication of it. He simply crossed his arms and drew on the cigarette again.
"Did she suffer? The girl who burned? Katie?"
Cheryl jerked her head toward Amber. Was she nuts? What was she trying to do, infuriate him so he'd get it over with quicker? She opened her mouth. "What-"
Amber held up a hand and cut her off. "Wait" Then to judge, "You loved her, didn't you? Katie was your girl. Your first love."
That got his attention. He pushed away from the car and walked directly toward them, his feet falling in even, determined steps. Stopping ten feet from the barn, he reached up and stuck the cigarette between his lips. The tip flared orange in the Stetson's shadow. He stood there for a few seconds drawing on the cigarette, removed it, and, holding it between his thumb and index finger, said, "Are you ready to die?"
"No," Amber said, her voice remarkably calm. "I don't want to die. Not yet. Not like this. I'm sorry she died. How did it happen?"
Judge paused as if contemplating how much he wanted to divulge. He took another long drag on the cigarette, blew out the smoke.
Amber didn't give him time to think about it for too long. "I'm sorry Katie died. I really am. It must have been awful. And I'm sorry they blamed you while her murderers walked free."
Judge didn't do anything. Cheryl expected him to strike a match at any moment and light the place up, but he didn't. He just stood there, hidden in the shadow of his Stetson, puffing away on that cigarette, while the Doberman sat at his side as man's best friend should. Was she getting through to him? Was she connecting with him on a personal level? Humanizing herself?
"We're not them," Amber finally said, her voice low and innocent. "We're not the ones who killed Katie. Let us go. Please. We-"
"Enough," Judge snapped. He took two long steps forward, held the cigarette in front of his face, and flicked it with his middle finger.
"No!" Amber yelled.
Cheryl tried to scream, but the words got stuck in her throat. She watched as the cigarette flipped through the air, end over end. Her fingers dug into the wooden planks; an electric buzz spread over her whole body.
The cigarette landed on the ground six inches from the barn wall. Cheryl turned away and covered her face just as the wall erupted in a thunder of flames behind her. She scrambled to the far wall and frantically began using her hands to sweep the straw to the center of the barn.
"Hurry!" she yelled, lifting her strained voice above the roar of the flames.
Amber got the idea and sprang into action, clawing at the floor, shoving straw between her legs. Somewhere, Cheryl heard Ginny scream, a guttural, primal shriek, then a solid thump. She looked to Ginny's corner, but she wasn't there. The flames were eating up the perimeter of the barn at a quick pace. Another throaty scream sounded and another sickening thump. Where was Ginny-? There. To Cheryl's right, near where the dead dog lay. She was throwing herself against the back wall, hitting it with the force of a linebacker and bouncing off like a rubber ball.
Cheryl watched as Ginny picked herself up, scrambled back fifteen feet or so, let out a shriek, and launched herself at the wall again. Whump! She hit the planks and bounced off, landing on her backside. The whole display reminded Cheryl of a sparrow flying into a patio door.
Ginny got up, turned, and looked at Cheryl. And though the temperature inside the barn was steadily climbing, Ginny's appearance made Cheryl's skin pucker with goose bumps. Her hair was matted to her forehead and littered with straw. Her face glowed red in the light of the fire and glistened with sweat and smeared blood. Her lips were twisted into a panicked frown, and her eyes were wide with fright. Cheryl had seen fear before but never like this. The look in Ginny's eyes wasn't fear ... it was terror.
Ginny held Cheryl's gaze for a second, reared up, and threw herself at the wall again. Whump! She hit hard this time, crumpling into the solid plank wall and sliding to the floor. She rolled over and shook her head, obviously dazed by the collision.
Realization dawned on Cheryl like a black sunrise and sent a whole new wave of goose bumps over her flesh.
Ginny wasn't trying to get out. She was trying to kill herself.
Mark jammed the Mustang's brakes. The car fishtailed to a halt. Something had caught his eye. To his left, in the distance. He opened the car door and jumped out. Why hadn't he noticed it before? There, just over the crest of a sloping field, a thin pillar of black smoke rose into the twilit sky. He hopped onto the hood of his car for a better look. The source of the smoke was still out of sight, but it couldn't be more than a mile away.
His heart hammered away in his chest. It had to be them. Cheryl. The barn was burning! But why hadn't he noticed it before? Had he missed it? He couldn't have. It must have just started.
Mark jumped back into the car and stomped on the accelerator. The Mustang's engine roared, wheels squealed, and the car lurched forward, rear end fishtailing.
Mark sped down Dam Road in a reckless panic, keeping his eyes on the growing pillar of smoke. About a quarter of a mile down the road, he jerked the wheel to the left and turned onto an unmarked side road even narrower than Dam Road. It was more like a driveway, littered with potholes and debris from the last storm. On either side lay acres of meadow, fields that hadn't been farmed in years. This had to be it.
The plume of smoke was now directly in front of him. He gripped the steering wheel tighter and pressed the accelerator to the floor. Please, God. Please let me be in time. The Mustang bounced over potholes like a golf ball on pavement, abusing the car's suspension.
No more than a few hundred yards down the road a dirt lane split off on the left. Mark took the turn without letting up on the accelerator and almost lost control of the car as it slid on the packed dirt and nearly landed in a shallow gully that ran along the right side. The smoke now rose to his left again, and for the first time he noticed an orange glow flickering at its base. The Mustang rattled over the dirt lane, jarring Mark's eyes and blurring his vision. Within seconds, he crested a low hill.
The barn was in full view now, no more than a couple hundred yards away.
Orange and yellow flames licked at the old structure, climbing halfway up the front and side walls. Billows of thick smoke poured into the night sky like a black chimney.
Mark pounded the brake, and the car slid to a stop. He opened the door and fell out, landing on his hands and knees. He tried to scream, wail, anything to release the pressure in his chest, but nothing could get past his tight vocal cords. Tears spilled out of his eyes and dripped off his chin and nose.
Run.
The voice started as a whisper, somewhere in the back of his mind. He rolled over onto his butt, propped himself on one arm, and forced himself to look at the blazing barn. The fire roared and crackled and sent sparks shooting into the sky like fireworks. To the left of the barn sat a white sedan, glowing in the light of the fire.
Run. Go.
The voice was louder now, more urgent. But the barn was burning like dry kindling. Could anyone survive that?
Run to the barn.
Without thinking, Mark jumped to his feet and started toward the barn in a stumbling run. He pulled up, spun around, and dashed back to the car. Reaching across the driver's seat, he grabbed the shotgun, then tore off in a full sprint toward the barn.
It took him less than a minute to reach the structure, but the intense heat stopped him a good fifteen feet out. The roar of the flames was growing. A steady blast of heat buffeted his face. Mark fell to his knees, still holding the gun in his right hand. His heart felt like a lump of rock in his chest; his throat was still stuck in a vise. Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead and coursed down his face, mingling with the tears.
What was he doing? The thought occurred to him that he would also die here. And somehow, he didn't care. His life was over anyway. First he'd lost Cheryl's love; now he'd lost her. The urge came to rush the barn and die in the flames with her. It wouldn't be painless, but he didn't deserve a painless death. He deserved hellfire. The screams-those screams-came back to him and streaked across his mind. Weeping and gnashing of teeth. Utter torment.
But the screams were no longer coming from inside his head; they were coming from in the barn. Were they still alive?
"Cheryl!" He yelled her name into the roaring flames. His throat rebelled against the hot air, and he barked out a dry cough.
"Mark!"
He could barely hear her above the thunder of the fire, but it was definitely Cheryl's voice. She was alive!
Mark jumped to his feet and ran around to the back of the barn, where the flames weren't as intense. Sweat poured off of his forehead, pooling in his eyebrows and stinging his eyes. "Cheryl!"
"Mark!" His name was followed by a loud pop, then the sound of cracking wood. Someone inside screamed.
The barn was collapsing! He had to find a way to get them out. There had to be a way. What kind of God would bring him here-
Mark stopped dead in his tracks. Panic crept up his chest and gripped his throat like two bony hands. He couldn't do this on his own, he knew that much. And it scared him. Pastor Tim's words came back to him:
Trust Jesus.
Trust Jesus. That's what this was all about, wasn't it? Hell? He was being given a second chance, a heads-up, Tim had called it. He didn't want to die. He didn't want to suffer in hell. And he knew the only way to rescue Cheryl was to trust Jesus. It was all about Jesus. It always had been. An image of Tim, the tattooed preacher, tapping his chest-It's gotta be in here-flashed in his mind. He shut his eyes tight and cried out, "Jesus, help me! Save me!"
Surprisingly, the words came out of his mouth like a cool rush of water. He knew it was a foxhole prayer, but he didn't care because he meant it. Every word of it.
Mark opened his eyes and looked at the flames, past the flames. There, in the barn, he could see the outlines of three women huddled together.
"Mark!"
"Cheryl!" He started toward the barn, not knowing what he would do, then stopped. The heat was still intense. His face burned hot, and his clothes felt as if they'd spontaneously combust at any moment. The gun burned too, and he let it slip from his hand.
He shielded his face with his arms and backed up a couple of paces.
That's when he heard it. A voice. Not the child's voice he'd heard before, not Cheryl's voice, but a gentle, deep voice, so clear it could have come from someone standing right next to him.
When you walk through the fire,
You will not be burned,
And the flame will not scorch you.
From somewhere in the barn, wood cracked and popped. "Mark!"
Mark pulled his jacket up so it covered his face. He was going for it. And somehow, he knew he'd make it. Jesus. Help me. He ran at the barn, ducked his head, and hit the wall with his left shoulder. It gave out like a piece of cardboard. He tumbled through the flames, rolled twice, and stopped on all fours in the middle of the barn.
Cheryl and another woman he immediately recognized as Amber Mann were there, crouched low to the floor, finding what oxygen was left in the barn. A thick cloud of smoke roiled above them. Dazed, Mark pulled his shirt over his mouth and stood. He looked himself over. Not a burn on him. Not even his clothes were singed.
He quickly surveyed the situation. Cheryl and Amber looked well, red-faced and soaked in sweat, but well enough. The other woman with them, whom he recognized as Virginia Grisham (Cheryl had called her Ginny on the phone), looked like she'd been through hell already. Her hair was matted in clumps, her face streaked with blood, eyes swollen from crying. And on the floor was another woman, lying on her side, apparently unconscious.
"She's out but alive," Cheryl hollered above the roar of the flames.
Mark looked back at the wall he'd just busted through. There was a hole maybe four feet wide where the planks used to be. But it wouldn't last long. The building couldn't hold up much longer. He bent down and noticed the woman on the floor was wearing a police uniform. No, dear God. He turned her over. It was Foreman.
"Help me get her on my shoulder," he yelled.
Cheryl and Amber helped him lift Foreman to a standing position. Her head lolled to one side like it was attached by a string. Mark bent over and slipped her over his shoulder. Then, turning to Cheryl and Amber, he motioned toward Ginny, who was standing wide-eyed, hands partially covering her face, watching the whole thing. "Take her and go."
Cheryl grabbed Ginny by the arm and pulled her through the opening in the wall. Amber followed. Mark adjusted Foreman on his shoulder, covered his face with his left arm, and ran through the opening as well.
When he had cleared the barn, he was about to dump Foreman on the ground when Cheryl stopped him with both hands on his chest. "He's still here," she hollered.
"Who?"
"Him. Judge. He's still around here somewhere."
Mark scanned the area. No sign of anyone except Cheryl, Amber, and Ginny.
"Judge?" Must be the maniac. "Where?"
Cheryl gripped his arm. "I don't know. But he's here. We have to go."
Mark threw his head in the direction of where his Mustang was. "My car's over there. Go. I'm right behind you." He bent over and scooped his gun up off the ground. It was still hot but had cooled some in the tall grass. "Go!"
Cheryl grabbed Ginny's arm again and turned to head for the car.
Suddenly a shot rang out, like a crack of thunder. At first, Mark wasn't sure if it had come from the inferno or not. Something may have exploded in the barn. But then he saw him, tall and lean, standing on the dirt lane by the Mustang, like a gunslinger from the Old West complete with a broad-brimmed Stetson. He stood facing them, legs parted, shotgun in one hand, its stock resting on his hip. Looked like Chuck Connors-the Rifleman. Judge.
Cheryl and the others froze. Ginny let out a loud whimper and started to cry again.
Judge stood still for a few seconds, facing them, then turned, pointed the gun at the rear wheel of the Mustang. A blast of fire exploded from the barrel. The Mustang rocked side to side; the rear tire sagged to the ground.
Mark's head throbbed. His heart was in his throat. He could stay and make a stand against this nut-he had six shots in his gun. But what about the women? They were defenseless. What if this was how Cheryl died? A thought struck him like a rock between the eyes: he'd saved her from the fire, spared her life, but for how long? The repo man may have been delayed, but he was still coming. He had to tell her about Jesus. She'd survived this fire, but if she died, she'd still have to deal with hell's fire. He had to tell her. But when? Here? Now? Not a chance. A wave of frustration and desperation swelled within him, and he let out a loud grunt.
Another shot pierced the air, above the roar of the fire.
Judge was on the far side of the car now. He'd just shot out the passenger-side rear tire.
Mark looked at Cheryl, who was staring back at him with wide eyes.
"The woods," he said. "Head for the woods. Go." They could find some cover there. He'd put up a stand if he had to.
Mark looked back one last time at judge finishing off the last of the Mustang's tires, then, repositioning Jess on his shoulder, took off for the woods.
Cheryl and the others were a good ten yards ahead of him and opening the gap with each step. Mark lowered his head and pumped his free arm, trying to make up ground. Each heavy step sent a jolt through his back. His lungs burned, and he was sure his heart was going to pump right out of his chest.
He had no idea if judge was in hot pursuit or not. An image of the Stetson-wearing outlaw, silhouetted against the glowing flames, gun raised to shoulder level, sat in Mark's mind like a lump. He kept expecting to hear the gun's loud retort and feel the impact of a slug against his back. But it hadn't come yet. Maybe Judge had been caught off guard. Maybe he had to reload. At any rate, Mark knew if he didn't make it to the woods, that would be it. His appointment with death would come due.
A new wave of adrenaline surged through his arteries like hot fuel, and he pounded his feet harder on the soft ground. Cheryl was now close to twenty yards ahead and almost at the-
Something hit Mark in the back of the leg and he went down, spilling Foreman onto the ground. She rolled once and lay motionless, face up in the grass, arms splayed to either side.
Searing pain started in Mark's calf and shot up his leg. His calf felt like it was in a vise. A vise with teeth. He flipped himself over, still gripping his shotgun, and came face to face with the Doberman. The dog had a death grip on his calf and was shaking it like it was a groundhog. Mark let out a throaty scream and tried to kick the dog away. But the jaws on the beast were like iron. The dog growled and snorted and gnawed on the thick muscle, keeping itself low to the ground for leverage.
The pain was almost unbearable, like fire in his leg. Flashes of white heat blinded Mark, and his head swam. This was it? This was how he was going to die? Eaten alive by some crazed dog?
The gun.
The pain had been so intense, and he had been in such a panic he'd forgotten all about the shotgun his left hand still gripped. He quickly transferred it to his right hand, pumped it once, shoved the barrel against the dog's chest, and pulled the trigger.
The barrel exploded, the gun jerked in his hand, and the Doberman released its grip. For a moment the dog just sat there, looking at Mark with glassy eyes, jaws ajar, tongue dangling to one side like a pink ribbon as if to say, Hey, I was only kidding. Why'd you go and do that? All the while, the gaping hole in its chest vomited a pool of dark red blood.
