Scream, page 3
Straw? Wait a minute. She was on a bed of straw. She looked around again. Wooden planks rose vertically on either side of her about fifteen feet into the air, held together by wooden beams. A few slanted bars of sunlight slipped past the gaps in the planks and dotted the floor with golden light. Straw was scattered over the worn flooring.
Amber's mind was slowly beginning to piece things together. Straw. Wood. Beams. She was in a barn. For the first time since regaining consciousness, she drew in a long breath. Yes, definitely a barn. The musty, earthy odor of straw and rotting hay and who-knows-how-old animal dung was unmistakable.
She looked around. The barn was obviously abandoned. There were no stacks of bales, no tools, no tractors, and as she listened, no rustle of animals. As far as she could tell, she was the only occupant. She leaned to her left and pressed her face against a gap between two wall planks. Outside the barn, the ground sloped away toward what looked like an overgrown pasture. On the other side of the field, maybe a quarter mile away, stood a line of trees that stretched as far as she could see to the left and right. North and south. The sun peeked out just over the treetops, and beyond that, fingers of pink light reached into the pale blue sky.
A jolt of panic, like a thousand-volt shock, buzzed through her nerves.
Where was she? How did she get here? And how did her head get so banged up? The questions stood like giant bullies, refusing to leave until answered. Like her dad. An image of him towering over her, thick arms crossed, forehead wrinkled, asking over and over again "How many bales today?" flashed through her mind. How many bales? She was only nine. She just wanted to do a nine-year-old's worth of chores and go play. But he made her work and work and work. And if she didn't make her quota? Well, well, "You're not goin' anywhere, missy, until you finish your chores." He'd corner her and fire questions at her, quizzing her on mundane farm facts-how many square feet in an acre, how many acres in a square mile, how many quarts in a peck and pecks in a bushel-and wouldn't let her eat or sleep until she answered every one correctly. The bully.
But this time she had an answer, one that made her shiver. She'd been kidnapped. Taken against her will. Abducted. Apparently beaten and ... she didn't even want to think about what else. Instinctively, she tugged at her skirt, wishing she'd worn pants.
Slowly, like a TV station slowly picking up the signal from a rotary antenna, her memory faded in. She left work last night and a man approached her in the parking lot. She remembered his face, lean and angular, mustache and patch of hair under his bottom lip. But that was all. Just his face. He'd asked her a question, she knew that. But what the question was, was yet another question. Unanswered.
And what about Liz? She was supposed to visit Liz and Christopher today. Surely they'd miss her and report it, right? They'd have cops looking for her before the day was over. Or maybe not. Maybe Liz would just assume something came up, something more important. But if Liz didn't report it, surely Mitch would. She was supposed to meet him last night. Mitch. He must have been worried sick when she didn't show. That settled it in her mind. By the end of the day, there would be a massive search effort underway. There had to be. Somebody would miss her.
She pulled her knees up and looked out between the planks again. Suddenly, a furry, toothy face appeared only inches away, mouth curled into a snarl. A dog! Then another face appeared. Two dogs! Dobermans. Outside the barn. The dogs began clawing at the planks, snarling and growling. Amber tried to push herself away from the wall, but her hand slipped on the straw, and she tumbled to her side. A jolt of pain shot up her neck and pounded in her head, and she let out a scream.
"I see you're awake," a voice said from one of the far corners. A man's voice.
Amber started and sat up straight, her head scolding her for the sudden movement. She searched the far corners of the barn and noticed a man standing in one. He was wearing jeans and tanned leather work boots. The rest of his body was hidden in the shadows.
"Good morning," he said. His voice was in no way cheerful but not altogether sinister either. The voice from last night. This was the man she'd met in the parking lot. And no doubt the man who gave her the killer headache and brought her here.
Amber tried to push farther back against the wall, but she was already pressed against it. She tugged again at her skirt. "Who are you?"
The man shifted his weight and crossed one leg over the other. "No need to bother with names here. Let's not make this personal. You can just call me judge. There's a gallon of water and bag of apples to your right. That should hold you over for now."
The dogs to Amber's left began chewing at the wooden planks, snarling, their tongues flitting in and out of their mouths. Amber shot them a wary look.
"Don't worry about them," the man said. "They can't get in. They're to keep you from getting out. Don't even think about making a run for it. We're miles from nowhere, and the dogs are very hungry. Do you know what it's like to be eaten alive? Meat pulled from your bones while you're still kicking and screaming? No, of course you don't. And trust me, you don't want to find out."
Amber covered her mouth with her hand and choked back a sob. Her eyes burned with tears, and a lump the size of one of those apples had lodged in her throat. Fear had wrapped its bony fingers around her neck and tightened its grip. "What-what are you gonna do with me? Why am I here? What do you want?"
The man chuckled and uncrossed his legs. "Soon enough, my dear. You'll get answers to all your questions soon enough. You'll be getting some company too. I don't want you getting lonely all the way out here. The dogs are good for some things, but they're lousy conversationalists."
There was a long moment of silence, and though she couldn't see them, masked by the shadow as they were, she could feel his eyes on her. And it made her skin crawl.
Finally, he walked to a cutout door in the middle of the larger, rolling barn door, opened it, and paused, still obscured by a slanting shadow. "Until later, Amber." And then he was gone. She heard a lock slide into place and something large and heavy thud against the door at the bottom.
To her left, the Dobermans continued their gnawing and chewing.
It was almost three o'clock in the afternoon when Mark finally took a break to eat lunch. After the funeral yesterday he'd gone to the wake and numbly stood in a corner of the den in Jeff's home (the same den where he'd spent countless hours playing poker, shooting pool, and rooting for the Washington Redskins) nursing his iced tea and watching Cheryl mingle with their friends. Correction, her friends. After she left him and the news became public, their friends suddenly wanted nothing to do with him. Jeff and Wendy were the only ones who had remained loyal. The rest had proven to be fair-weather friends-the worst kind.
He'd spent less than an hour at the wake, returned home, fell onto the sofa, clicked on the flat screen, and zoned out. How long he sat there or what he watched he had no idea. But it was late, wee-hours-of-the-morning late, by the time exhaustion finally overtook him. When he'd had enough, he trudged into the bedroom, the one he used to share with his wife, and collapsed on the bed, falling quickly asleep still wearing his dress clothes.
This morning he'd debated whether to go into work or not. It was, after all, Saturday. He could stay home and play zombie all day, regretting how his life had turned out, regretting every poor decision he'd ever made, regretting there was nothing he could have done to save Jeff. Or he could go to the garage, lose himself in some engine or transmission, and hopefully keep his mind off the hopelessness of life and retain his sanity for another day.
The prospect of sanity finally won.
Mark sat in a gray swivel chair in his cubicle-sized office and opened his cooler. Ham sandwich, barbecue chips, and an apple. He wasn't hungry, but he unwrapped the sandwich and took a large bite anyway.
Jeff's death was a shock, of course, and Mark's heart ached for Wendy and the girls. Every time he pictured the girls in their pretty dresses standing beside that casket, a lump rose in his throat, and his eyes burned with tears. But one thing that kept hammering in his mind like a hyperactive woodpecker was the phone call he had with Jeff just before the accident. There was that awful scream that had interrupted the conversation. What was it? Where did it come from?
Mark took a long swig of Diet Pepsi, wiped the condensation from his hand, and took another bite of his sandwich. In the main shop area, his boom box belted out some guy singing. "...you had a bad day... "
Mark grunted. That pretty much summed it up. How 'bout bad life?
His mind went back to the scream. At the time he'd thought nothing of it. Just some interference in the cell phone signal or something. But now, for some reason he couldn't explain, he wasn't so sure. But what was it? It was the first time he'd ever heard such a thing, and it just so happened to occur on the same night-only minutes before-Jeff got in a bizarre car accident and died? Not just died, burned to death. Weird. Very weird.
He reached for a chip and flipped it into his mouth just as the phone on his desk rang.
Mark quickly chewed the chip, took a gulp of Diet Pepsi, and answered the phone on the third ring. "Stone Service Center."
"Mark, it's Jerry down at Detweiler's. How's it going?"
Crappy, Jerry, but thanks for asking. That's what he wanted to say, but he had no desire to talk about Jeff's death yet. Play it safe. "'Bout half. What, you working Saturdays now too?"
Jerry chuckled. "When business is good you do what it takes to keep it that way."
"You got a point there."
"Hey, I have that fuel injector you ordered. For the '99 Cavalier. You-"
Screams cut off Jerry's voice like a guillotine. The screams. The same ones Mark had heard before-before Jeff died. Hideous, tortuous wails and groans. An image of thousands, maybe millions, of twisted faces, distorted with pain, flashed through his mind and his blood ran cold, as if someone had jammed an IV of ice water into his vein. Goose bumps freckled his skin, and his neck and jaw tingled. His throat suddenly tightened, and he found it hard to breathe.
Like last time, it lasted maybe five seconds then ceased abruptly.
"Mark? Mark, you still there?" Jerry was talking to him, but Mark's mind was not registering it as actual words spoken to him. They were off in the distance somewhere. "Hello?"
"Uh, yeah, Jerry, I'm still here." He had to force the words out past his restricting trachea.
"Did you hear that?"
Mark closed his eyes, willing his muscles to relax. He took a deep breath. "Yeah, I heard it."
"What was it? Sounded like screaming."
Like hell itself. "I know. I don't know what it was."
Jerry snorted into the phone. "Crazy. Anyway, I'll run the injector over to you right now."
Mark still wasn't thinking clearly. He was still hearing the screams ringing in his ears. "O-OK. No, wait! Jerry. Wait."
"I'm waiting. What is it?"
"Are you calling from a landline?"
"You mean a regular phone? Yeah. Why?"
A thought had suddenly occurred to Mark, and it made his heart thump. He was on a landline too. There was no way the screams were some kind of interference, signals crossing with something else. "Um, nothing. Just wondering. You don't have to bring the injector out here. I'll come get it."
There was a pause, and Mark could hear paper rustling in the background. "No, I'll drop it off. I have a couple other parts to deliver, and you're on the way."
Panic seized Mark. He gripped the phone tighter with a sweaty palm, tried to sound calm. This was crazy! "Jerry, really, I insist. I need to get out of the shop for a little. Cabin fever thing, you know? I've been putting in some long hours, and I'm getting stir-crazy. I'm leaving right now. I'll be over in ten minutes. Don't go anywhere, OK?"
"But-"
"Jerry, please." He knew his voice was rising, and he knew Jerry probably thought he'd completely lost his grip on reality, but he didn't care anymore. He pressed his molars together then relaxed them. "Don't go anywhere. I'm coming right over. OK?"
"OK, OK. I'll wait for you. Don't be too long. I got things to do, you know."
Mark blew out a breath and loosened his grip on the receiver. "Thanks. See ya in a few."
"OK. A few."
Mark raced down Broadway in his 1973 Ford Mustang, slowing only for the dips in the road at each intersection. Pineville was a small town, hokey even, and anywhere one wanted to go in any direction was no more than a ten-minute drive-going the posted speed limits. But Mark wasn't anywhere near the posted limit.
His mind raced too. He'd heard it again, hadn't he? Were the screams real? Of course they were. He'd heard them with his own ears. Weeping and gnashing of teeth. And Jerry heard them too. So did Jeff. They were real, all right. Too real. Made his skin itch just thinking about it.
Crazy. That's all Mark could make of it. And his bizarre reaction. Just because Jeff died shortly after the screams didn't mean Jerry was in immediate danger. Or any danger at all, for that matter.
Crazy. Jerry had to think he was half out of his mind. Maybe he was.
But what if he wasn't? What if there really was something to the screams? What if Jerry's life really was in jeopardy? He couldn't afford to be wrong. Jerry couldn't afford it. No, he'd done the right thing. Jerry was safer just staying put and waiting for Mark to pick up the injector.
At the intersection of Broadway and Clayton, Mark slowed the 'Stang just enough to keep rubber on asphalt and took the ninety-degree turn at a tire-screaming speed. An elderly man working in his garden jerked his head up and around and yelled an obscenity, flailing his arms wildly.
Up ahead, Detweiler's sat on the corner of Clayton and Monroe. Mark pressed the accelerator; the engine rumbled, tachometer climbed steadily. Just before the entrance to Detweiler's parking lot, he stomped on the brake and jerked the steering wheel hard to the right. The car bounced into the parking lot and came to a stop.
Mark jumped out of the car and ran for the front door. His pulse was pounding out a steady rhythm in his ears, and the adrenaline rush had left him nearly out of breath. He was lucky to make it here without getting pulled over.
Swinging open the glass door, he stepped inside and called for Jerry. When no answer came, he looked around and noticed the store was empty. No customers in the aisles. No Jerry behind the counter.
C'mon, Jerry. Don't tell me you left anyway.
Mark peered out the storefront window and saw Jerry's tan Chevy S-10 sitting in the parking lot, Detweilers Auto Parts emblazoned across the door panel.
"Jerry!" He listened and approached the counter. "Hey, Jerry. It's Mark. You here?"
No answer.
"Hello? Jerry?"
Still no answer.
Mark leaned over the counter and nearly choked on his own saliva. There, behind the counter, lying prone on the cement floor, was Jerry Detweiler.
Mark rushed around the counter and rolled the large man over. Jerry's empty eyes, like two blank TV screens, bulged toward the ceiling, mouth open, a trickle of blood curling around his nostril. Mark pressed his fingers against Jerry's carotid but felt nothing. No life-giving blood pumping through the artery. No steady pulse throbbing under his fingertips. A groan escaped from somewhere deep in Mark's chest, and he clenched his jaw tight, cursing under his breath.
Jerry was dead. But it couldn't have happened more than five minutes ago. Mark had just talked to him, and the drive here only took seven minutes tops. He reached for the phone on the counter and punched in 911. Then, with phone jammed between his ear and shoulder, he placed both hands on Jerry's barrel chest, one on top of the other, and started compressing.
RIGHT RAYS OF WARM MORNING SUN SLICED BETWEEN the planks and landed on Amber, stirring her out of a deep sleep. She rolled to her back, opened her eyes, and focused on the rafters high above. A family of bats hung silently, adjusting their wings to settle in for a day's worth of slumber. Birds sang a cheerful melody from a nearby tree, but other than that it was still and quiet.
Wait a minute. Quiet. No dogs. She rubbed her eyes, sat up, and scooted over to the wall. Leaning her face against the planks, she searched the outside for any sign of the Dobermans.
A gentle breeze rustled through the treetops. Long, cirrus clouds stretched across a bright sky. The pasture glistened like glitter as morning light danced on the dew. It was chilly, and her skin puckered with goose bumps. She remembered the weatherman saying the overnight temperatures were going to be in the upper forties all week.
But all was quiet. Maybe her four-footed prison guards had wandered away in search of food.
She had no idea what time it was, but from the low position of the sun in the sky, she figured it to be about eight or nine. She did know it was Monday morning, though. She'd been in the barn for two full days with no sign of her abductor. Judge, he called himself. Odd. Would he ever come back? Or was he just going to leave her here to dehydrate and rot? Trapped in this musty old barn-a wooden tomb. The first day, Saturday, she'd screamed and screamed until her lungs burned and her voice was hoarse, but no help had come. She truly was in the middle of nowhere. Where nowhere was, though, she hadn't a clue. Was she still in Maryland? Did he take her to some remote farm in West Virginia? Or Pennsylvania? Either way, no matter where she was, she would surely die here.
Suddenly, an attempt at escape didn't sound so bad. She didn't know how much longer she could survive here. She tried to drink the water and eat the apples sparingly but found it harder than she thought. Her growling stomach had been very persistent. The result was less than half a gallon of water and two apples left. Add that to the fact that she had no toilet paper, no blankets to keep her warm during the cool nights, a bed of uncomfortable straw she shared with a nest of mice, and the fact that the Dobermans, those demon dogs from hell, were always waiting, and she didn't know how much longer she could hold on to her sanity.
