One Last Scream (31 page)

He turned down the bumpy, one-lane dirt road, which ceded to patches of crab grass and tree roots. There were also some fallen branches to navigate, along with old beer cans and other garbage. George figured the ranch must have attracted curious and bored high school kids who wanted to see where those two people had burned to death. So, maybe some of Annabelle’s classmates had been to her home after all.

Taking a curve in the road, George saw the ranch house ahead, just as Caroline Cadwell had described it: a two-story, burnt-out shell. Wood planks boarded up the front door and windows. He noticed even more garbage littered around the blackened edifice—faded fast-food bags and more rusty beer cans. Over to one side stood a dilapidated barn, its door boarded up. Between it and what remained of the house were a stone well, covered with graffiti, and a tall wind pump creaking in the breeze.

George parked the car and switched the motor off. That squeaky wind pump was the only sound he heard now. He walked around the charred structure, kicking at the occasional pop bottle or beer can in his path. He tugged at a plank that was nailed over one of the windows. It didn’t budge. In the backyard, he noticed sporadic patches of wildflowers between one side of the barn and a wooded area. They were the only bit of beauty and color on this drab, desolate place.

He wondered if the Schlessingers had buried some of their dead ranch animals there. Wildflowers were supposed to indicate a grave.

Or was something else buried out there?

The photocopies of the missing young women were folded up and tucked inside George’s sports jacket pocket. He automatically touched the square bulge over his breast to make sure they were still there.

Glancing toward the burnt house again, he saw the wood panel over the back door was askew. George stepped up to the door, and pulled at the plank. It moved easily. The lock and handle on the soot-stained back door had been broken off. He opened the door. From the threshold, he studied the kitchen. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. But he could see the room had survived the fire. The green linoleum floor was filthy and littered with garbage from intruders. The only piece of furniture left was a broken chair, lying on its side. The old stove still stood against the grimy walls, but it had been stripped of the oven door and a few of the dials. All the windows—covered up by the planks outside—were broken. The curtains were in tatters. The place was cold, with a stale, stuffy, acrid odor.

George wondered what the hell he expected to find here. He touched that square bump in his sports jacket pocket again.

The local fire and police departments had already been through the place, along with a few scavengers. If they hadn’t uncovered anything, how did he expect to fare any better?

But those people had been looking for a cause of the fire, while others had been scrounging for a piece of furniture or a knickknack worth stealing. Still others had been seeking a cheap, morbid thrill, or a remote spot to get drunk.

George was pretty certain no one else had searched this place for evidence of the missing young women. He kept thinking about how it was just too much of a coincidence that they’d started to disappear when Lon Schlessinger had moved into this house, and that the last one had vanished a week before this place had turned to cinders.

George walked through the kitchen, and listened to the old, weakened floorboards groaning beneath him. The front hallway and living room hadn’t fared as well as the kitchen. The walls were blistered and blackened. A huge section of the charred floor had collapsed. George could tell there was a basement to the house, but it was too dark to see anything. The stairway to the second floor had been destroyed. Only the black skeleton of a newel post and two steps remained. He had no way of going up to the second floor, where they’d found Annabelle’s and Lon’s remains.

Every time George breathed in, he smelled the soot and grime. He could even taste it now. He retreated back to the kitchen, and he found the door to the Schlessingers’ basement. Opening it, he carefully started down the stairs. Halfway down, he heard a rustling noise that made him stop. A faint light seeped in from an uncovered small window that was broken. Below it was a shelf full of cheap planters holding brittle-looking vines of long-dead plants. Below that, there was a hose connection where a washer machine must have been. George listened again to the light rustling. He figured some rodents had made their home down there. He stopped and tucked his trouser cuffs inside his socks, and then continued down the stairs. Wire hangers dangled from an exposed pipe along the ceiling in what must have been the laundry room.

The next room was nearly pitch black, and had caught all the debris from the living room floor collapsing above it. George took out his cell phone and switched it on. He used the little blue light to navigate through the cobwebs and the rubble. He saw an old-fashioned furnace over to one side, and directly ahead, a big, heavy-looking door. It looked like one of those old bomb shelters. He gave the door a tug, but it barely moved. Putting the phone back in his pocket, he yanked at the door again, this time with both hands. It squeaked open just a few more inches. He tried one more time, but the door didn’t budge.

Switching on his cell phone again, he slipped it through the narrow opening and then glanced into the room. The blue light was just strong enough so he could see, past a haze of dust in the air, a cot and a bare metal bookcase against the wall. An old army blanket lay in a heap on the dirty floor. But he couldn’t see anything else from where he stood at the doorway. The light wasn’t strong enough. He couldn’t even tell how big the room was.

Turning around, George made his way back through the darkness and debris until he reached the basement stairs. He hurried up to the kitchen, and then out the door. It felt good to breathe fresh air again. But he still had that awful sooty taste in his mouth. He ran to the car, popped open the hood, and took out the jack.

He needed to get a better look inside that little room in the basement. As much as he didn’t want to think like someone who abducted and murdered young women, George could see that little room as a perfect dungeon. Maybe Lon liked to hold on to his toys for a while before he grew tired of them. What better place than that fallout shelter with the cot and a blanket?

Inside the house again, he headed back down the basement stairs with the jack. George switched on his cell phone once more as he weaved around the wreckage and maneuvered his way to the bomb shelter door. He had a tough time bracing the jack in a horizontal position, but finally got it to stick. He worked the lever, and listened to the heavy door creak open wider and wider. But then the lever started to resist and buckle, and no matter how hard George pushed, the door didn’t move another inch.

The gap was a little over a foot wide. Stepping over the jack, George squeezed through the narrow opening. He prayed the jack wouldn’t collapse on him. He imagined himself trapped in this tiny room, in this desolate house in the middle of nowhere.

He brushed against something with his foot, and heard a tinny, clanking noise. George directed the cell phone light toward the floor, and saw at least a dozen empty tin cans. He checked out the labels: most of them were for a cat food called Purrfect Kitty. There were a few empty cans of Del Monte brand sliced peaches, too. George also noticed a plastic bucket in the corner, tipped over on its side. There was nothing else in the tiny room, just the cot, the barren metal bookcase, and a discarded blanket. The only new discoveries he’d made were these lousy tin cans and a bucket, hardly worth all his painstaking effort to get inside the place for a better look

He seemed to be chasing after nothing. Hell, maybe it was indeed just a lousy coincidence those girls had started disappearing once the Schlessingers had moved here.

George poked at the blanket with his foot. Suddenly a rat scurried out from under the folds.

“Shit!” he hissed, dropping his cell phone. The light stayed on just long enough for him to see the rodent crawl out the gap in the doorway. Then everything went black.

George tried to catch his breath, but he couldn’t. A panic swept through him. He thought he’d be able to see a very faint light through the doorway opening, but no. He couldn’t see a damn thing, not even his hand in front of his face.

Standing there, paralyzed by the dark, he heard a strange buckling noise. It sounded like the jack ready to give out. The big, heavy door made another creaking sound.

“Oh, Jesus,” George whispered. He knew the phone had dropped somewhere near the bookcase. Blindly, he waved his hand around until he touched the metal shelf. He crouched down and started patting the floor. “Shit, where is it?” he muttered. “God, please…”

His hand brushed against the phone, and it slid across the floor. “Damn it,” he growled. He anxiously felt around under the bookcase. Then something stung his finger. George snapped his hand back. “What the hell….”

He wondered if it was another rat. But this was more like a pinprick.

Behind him, he heard the door giving out another yawn.

Shifting around, his knee touched something on the floor. George reached down and found the cell phone. He switched it off, and then on again. The light came on once more. “Thank God,” he murmured.

He looked at his wounded index finger. It was bleeding.

Crouching down close to the floor, he used the cell phone light to check under the metal bookcase. He saw the pin sticking out on the back of something that looked like a name tag. He reached for it, carefully, so he wouldn’t stab himself again. But he must have knocked it farther back against the wall. He had to squeeze most of his arm under the bookcase until his fingertips finally brushed against the badge, or whatever it was. Clasping it between his fingers, he slid his hand out from under the case.

He shined the light on it. “Oh, Jesus…”

It was the kind of name tag waitresses wear. This one was green with white indented lettering that said
YOUR SERVER IS NANCY RAE
.

George didn’t need to look at the photocopies he’d made. He remembered Nancy Rae Keller, the talented pianist and part-time waitress, who had disappeared one Thursday night in March 2002 after finishing work at a Corvallis restaurant.

According to her former teacher, Nancy Rae had had beautiful red hair.

A loud groan emitted from the fallout shelter door. The jack buckled under the pressure.

George lunged toward the opening, slamming into the door just as the jack gave way. The device snapped out of place and flew into the pile of debris in the outside room. George was halfway through the opening when he felt the door move. It scraped against his leg, and he winced at the pain. But he didn’t stop until he’d made it out on the other side of the big, heavy door. And all the while, he’d kept his cell phone and Nancy Rae’s name tag firmly in his grasp.

He knew he’d hurt himself. No doubt his leg was bleeding. But that didn’t matter right now. He’d gotten out.

And in a way, after five long years, so had Nancy Rae.

The Schlessinger ranch—July 2004

She sat on her bed, painting her toenails—Sassy Scarlet. Her tabby, Neely, was curled up beside her. It was still pretty hot out, so she had the box fan in the window. A U2 song played softly on her boom box. Annabelle wore cutoffs and a sleeveless T-shirt. Her black hair was pulled back in a ponytail.

She had a friend from school staying over tonight.

Annabelle hoped to chat a bit with Sandra. But she had to wait first, until her father finished with Sandra down in the basement. He’d been at her now for about a half hour.

At last, Annabelle heard him clearing the phlegm from his throat and lumbering up the stairs to the second floor. He passed her room without looking in, and continued on to his bedroom.

Annabelle shoved Neely off her bed, then got to her feet. From her bedroom, she peered into her parents’ room. Her father couldn’t see her, but in a darkened window across from her parents’ double bed, she caught his reflection. He was wearing a T-shirt and work pants. He plopped down on the bed, then lit a cigarette. In a few minutes, he’d go take a shower and wash Sandra off.

Slipping on a pair of flip-flops, she snuck out of her room, and down the stairs. As she passed through the kitchen, she got a waft of her father’s body odor, still lingering from when he’d passed through just minutes ago. He must have really worked up a sweat down in the basement. Annabelle paused for a moment, as she heard the pipes squeaking and the shower starting in the upstairs bathroom.

She got another dose of that musky stench as she started down the basement stairs. But at least it was cooler down in the cellar. In the laundry room, she grabbed a bath towel from on top of the dryer. Carrying it into the furnace room, she pulled on the string for the overhead light.

Annabelle listened to Sandra crying in the fallout shelter, but the sound was muffled. She laid the towel by the big, heavy door, then sat down on it. “Sandra? Can you hear me okay?”

There was a gasp, and then she cried out, “Who’s there? Is somebody there?”

“It’s me, Annabelle,” she called to her. “Listen, I can’t talk long—”

“Get me out of here! Please, please, you have to help me….”

Why do they always say the same thing?
she wondered, fanning at her toes and blowing on them so her nail polish dried faster.
Just like Gina, and all the others.
She let Sandra scream and beg for another minute, and then finally interrupted her. “Listen, I can’t spring you out of there right now. It’s just too dangerous. But I’ll help you. I promise, you won’t have to stay in there long—”

“No! You have to get me out of here
now
! Please, Annabelle, I want to go home, please!”

It was nice, the way Sandra called her by name. Annabelle leaned against the door. “Hey, Sandra? Please don’t be mad at me for this, okay? He forced me to do it. But I’ll make it up to you, I swear.”

“I’m not mad at you,” she said, her voice still full of panic. “In fact, my parents will give you money if you help me. I’m sure of it. They’re rich….”

Annabelle frowned. The offer of money was nice, sure. But an offer of friendship would have been better. She had this notion about killing her father and helping Sandra escape. Of course, then she’d have to go on the run. But she’d already planned for that. For several months now, she’d drawn money out of her father’s account with forged checks and the occasional trip with one of his credit cards to the ATM at Sherry’s Corner. So far, she’d stashed away over three thousand dollars. There was also her mother’s jewelry, and a silver service that belonged to her grandparents. Annabelle figured she had about six or seven grand worth of crap around the house that she could hock.

She imagined, after several days in captivity, Sandra would bond with her. And if she helped Sandra escape, Sandra would do the same for her. Like in
Thelma and Louise
, life on the lam with her new best friend would be an adventure. She and Sandra already looked alike. People would probably mistake them for sisters, or even twins. That would be nice.

“Sandra, I left you something in there,” she said. “That stuff he used to knock you out, it’s chloroform, and sometimes it burns your face. I knew he’d be using it tonight, so I left you a little jar of Noxzema under that old rag in the corner. It’ll help soothe the irritation. I left some chewing gum there, too.”

He always starved them for the first twenty-four hours. The promise of food and water always made them more cooperative, especially after an initial bout with true hunger. Some of them were probably even grateful to get the cat food.

“Annabelle, I really, really want to go home. He hurt me. I’m in pain….” She started crying again. “I miss my momand dad. Please, please, help me….”

Annabelle let her cry for a few moments. “I’ll help you escape, Sandra,” she said, finally. “But it’s impossible tonight. Just hang in there, okay? And listen, if I get you out, I can’t possibly stay here. You’ll have to help me get away. Can you do that? Do you promise to help me make a clean break and go start somewhere else?”

“Yes, of course!” Sandra answered, almost too quickly. “I promise. I’ll do anything you want. Just get me out of here! Please…”

“Sandra?” she said, her face pressed against the crack in the big door.

“Yes?”

“Earlier tonight, you asked me to go to the movie with you,” Annabelle said. “Were you just inviting me out of politeness, because I was giving you a ride? Or did you really want to hang out with me? Because I’m not sure if I fit in with your friends—”

“Oh, no, I—I wanted you to come with us,” Sandra replied. “I wasn’t just being polite. I like you, Annabelle. You seem very nice.” But the tone of her voice smacked of desperation, as if her life depended on giving the right answer.

And, of course, it did.

With a sigh, Annabelle got to her feet and gathered up the bath towel. “I need to go now,” she said. “I don’t want him to know we’re in cahoots—”

“No, God, please, don’t go. Annabelle, don’t leave me here…please….” Sandra started pounding on the other side of the door.

Annabelle turned away. She reached up and pulled the string to the overhead light in the furnace room. Standing in the darkness, she listened to Sandra Hartman begging her to stay and talk just a little longer.

It felt kind of nice.

Wenatchee, Washington—three years later

SEARCH CONTINUES FOR MISSING MOSES LAKE WOMAN
said the headline near the bottom of page 3 of the
Columbia Basin Herald
for October 21, 1992.

Karen had found it almost by accident. She’d been at the Wenatchee library for forty-five minutes now, scanning microfiche files, moving backward from February 1993. She was searching for a news story, but didn’t quite know what kind of headline to expect, maybe something like
Child Snatcher Shot Dead
or
Dramatic Rescue Reveals Waitress-Killer.

So far, she hadn’t come up with anything, except a slight crick in her neck from all the tension. She tried not to rush through the files, but after scanning the headlines on the first five pages of every edition for two months, she started skipping days. Karen kept reminding herself that she wasn’t in any hurry. Amelia was supposed to meet her here in an hour.

She hadn’t heard back from Jessie, yet. Nor had George phoned with an update. Most surprising of all, Detective Peyton hadn’t returned her call. And so far, she hadn’t found a damn thing in the Moses Lake newspaper files, until now.

There was a photograph of the missing woman: a thin, pale-looking blonde with big eyes and short, curly hair. Karen read the caption: “Kristen Marquart, 22, was last seen leaving work at The Friendly Fajita on Broadway in Moses Lake last Wednesday night.”

According to the article, Kristen’s car was still in the restaurant parking lot the following day. Investigators determined the car had been tampered with, but they didn’t say exactly how. Kristen, a graduate of Eastern Washington University, had been missing for a week when the article was written.

Karen saw the second-to-last paragraph, and grimaced. “Oh, God, here it is,” she murmured to herself.

Four women had vanished in eight months, and the authorities didn’t have any suspects. Karen had been hoping to find a story like this, and now that she’d found it, she felt horrible. These women weren’t just part of some puzzle. They were real.

And it seemed even more likely now that Amelia’s birth father was a monster.

Karen wondered if he’d abducted and killed any more young women before moving to Salem. Or had Kristen Marquart been the last?

Staring at the screen in front of her, Karen realized she must have scanned past the news story about Lon Schlessinger shooting the neighbor who had allegedly molested Amelia. That neighbor was also blamed for the murder of a waitress. Was the murdered waitress Kristen?

With a heavy sigh, Karen started to scan over the newspaper records again. This time, she wouldn’t skip over any days. Her eyes were getting blurry from too much reading, too much driving, and too little sleep. But she kept searching for the story she’d missed.

Hunched in front of the warm, wheezing microfiche-viewing machine, she read every headline on the first few pages of every edition of the
Columbia Basin Herald
until she found a front-page headline on Monday, November 16:

CHILD ABDUCTION SPARKS
SHOOTING DEATH

Dead Man Linked to

Disappearance of Moses Lake

Woman, Possibly Others

Lon Schlessinger shot Clay Spalding in front of four Moses Lake policemen, and apparently, seconds later, the panic-stricken little girl ran into her father’s arms. If Lon was in any kind of trouble for taking the law into his own hands, there was no indication of it in the article. They tactfully avoided calling Amelia by name, but did mention:
“Lon Schlessinger is a ranch foreman at G. L. Durlock, Inc. in Grant Country. The Schlessingers have been Moses Lake residents for five years. They have two children.”