Scream (37 page)

The anger will become his sustenance, his god, his reason for
existing. And it will consume him like a raging fire (our god is
a consuming fire), the same fire that consumed Katie.

He slips a single flower, a daisy-Katie's favorite-from his
pocket and drops it on the dirt mound that covers Katie's body
(or what's left of it). An image of her charred figure frozen in
one last scream flashes through his mind. He's had nightmares
about it every night. No matter what he does, he can't get the
image out of his head. It's like the fire seared it onto the backs
of his eyelids, and every time he closes his eyes, it-the image,
the horror-appears.

He closes his eyes tight and clenches his hands into fists
(squeeze it out, like dirty water out of a dish rag), willing the
image to flee, to retreat into some remote place in his brain
where it will be lost forever. But it refuses. It will never leave
him. He can never forget what happened. He will never forget
who did it.

Justice has to be served.

So it's there, standing over the grave of his first love (only
love) that judge resolves in his heart to never rest until justice
has been satisfied. They will have to pay for what they did. (The
wages of sin is death, fire and brimstone, forever and ever.)

Someone will pay. Someone has to take the punishment.

He welcomes the anger now, knowing it will never allow
him to forget. He will let it to grow and fester like a ravenous
beast until the day comes when he can exact the appropriate
punishment and feed the beast (an eye for an eye, a tooth for
a tooth).

God won't approve, but where was God when Katie's flesh
was melting off her bones and she was screaming for mercy?
Where was God when he was being falsely accused of setting
the fire? Where was God when he cried out for an answer, an
explanation, anything that made some sense out of the horror
that invaded his otherwise peaceful life? He wasn't anywhere.
He wasn't answering prayers; He wasn't giving reasons; He
wasn't offering consolation; He wasn't being the just God He was
supposed to be... He wasn't doing anything (wasn't doing a single
thing!). And for that, He will be ignored. He no longer exists.

The anger is his god now. (My god is a consuming fire.)

Tears well in his eyes and roll down his cheeks like streams of
bitter water. He makes no attempt to stop them, doesn't even wipe
at them. The tears are good. They are tears of rage, not sorrow.

"Katie, I'll never forget. I promise, if it's the last thing I do with my life, I'll make sure someone pays for what they did to
you" (If it's the last thing I do, I promise.)

He knows with that one declaration he has sealed his fate.
He'll give his life if he has to, if that's what it comes to.

And he's OK with that.

"I love you, Katie. I'll never love anyone else."

With that he turns and walks away, shoulders hunched,
hands shoved in his pockets. It will be the last time he visits
Katie's grave. He has no need to come back. He's said everything he needs to say.

Now he has to keep his promise.

The anger had subsided over the years; the fire had quieted to
a lump of smoldering embers. It had to at some point, if judge
was to remain persistent and patient. The initial rage was like a
burst of oxygen, whipping the flames into a roaring inferno, but
sooner or later the fire must settle in to a steady burn, an even
flame breathing just enough oxygen to maintain its luminous
glow. Maturity had taught him that. And so he had to abandon
the inferno and settle in to the rhythm of the flickering flame.
What remained was a steady resolve, seared into his heart, to
fulfill the mission, complete the job, see the task through to its
end. And the moment was almost here; the end was in sight.
And the end was justice.

Mark slammed through the front door of his house and flipped
on the living room light. Things were taking way too long. It
had taken him almost twenty minutes just to make it here.
Who knew how much longer Cheryl had? Or if it was already too-No! Don't you dare think that. Don't you think that.
Anger and frustration bubbled inside him. A dismal feeling of
helplessness had brought him to the point of fury. He wanted
to strike out at someone, but who? He knew it wasn't Foreman's
fault, wasn't even Hickock's fault. They could only do what they
could do. There were protocols to follow, chains of command,
jurisdiction issues, blah, blab, blab. Maybe deep down he
wanted to turn his anger on God. He held death and life in His
hands, didn't He?

He raced over to his gun cabinet, tried to shove the key in
the lock, missed, and dropped it on the floor. "C'mon!" Picking
up the key, he steadied his hand and tried again. This time it
took. The glass cabinet door swung open, and Mark grabbed
his .12-gauge pump-action shotgun and a box of shells. He then
went to the hutch, pulled open the drawer, and sifted through a
mess of papers. C'mon. Where are you?

There, the map of Pennsylvania.

Flipping the switch to light the kitchen, he spread open
the map on the table. Now, where was that tower? Where had
Foreman pointed to? He traced his finger around Bedford
County. He remembered U.S. 220 was just to the west of it
and ... there, Buchanan State Forest was to the east. He'd head
there first. Why? He didn't know. He just had a gut feeling,
and right now that was the best he could do. He ran back to
the hutch drawer, rummaged some more, and returned to the
kitchen table with a drafting compass. Measuring out twelve
miles, he placed the point of the compass on the map, some
arbitrary location between 220 and Buchanan State Forest, and
drew a large circle. It was a lot of territory to cover, all rural.
Fields and forest.

A needle in a haystack, Jess had said.

And time running out.

He traced his finger along his planned route. He'd drive up
Interstate 68 and catch 220 north. From there ... he had no idea.
The Maryland line was a good twenty-five minutes away. The
estimated location of the phone tower, another fifteen, twenty
minutes from there. He had to get moving.

Grabbing the gun, shells, the flashlight from the pantry, and
the map, he headed back to his car. He'd stay out all night if he
had to. He wasn't about to abandon Cheryl again. He looked at
his watch: 5:51. Almost an hour since the call. Since the scream.

Please, God, keep her alive.

Hang on, baby. Just hang on.

E NEED TO DO THIS NOW," AMBER SAID, WINDING
her thin black leather belt around her hand. "No telling
how long he'll be gone. And I think he wants to finish
this tonight."

She looked from Cheryl to Ginny. They were both huddled
close, and it was still hard to see the expression on their faces.
Overhead, the bats were chirping quietly, getting ready for their
nighttime feeding.

"We need to get out of here," she said. "No matter what."

"Any ideas on how to get the dogs close enough?" Cheryl
asked.

Amber thought for a moment, tightening the belt around her
hand until her knuckles blanched.

"I have an idea," Ginny said. Her voice was quiet and shaky.

Amber and Cheryl both looked at her. She had an idea? Did
she even know what they were planning to do with the belt?
She was standing there with them, not because she was invited,
but simply because she hadn't left Amber's side since judge left.
Amber didn't remember ever discussing their plan to strangle
the dogs with her.

As if she'd read Amber's mind, Ginny said, "I heard you
talking about how we could get out of here."

Amber swallowed. Then she'd heard everything else too.
"Sorry," she said, and meant it.

"It's OK. I just want to get out of here too."

"So what's your idea?" Cheryl said.

Ginny reached for the belt. Amber unwound it and handed
it to her. Ginny held one end of the belt with her left hand so it
dangled like a dead snake. "One of us reaches through a crack
in the wall as far as we can and holds the belt like this. Someone
else lures the dog close, so its snout is right up against the
crack. Then you swing the belt like so"-she swung the belt like
a pendulum-"and reach through the crack to grab the bottom
end"-she pinched the bottom end with her right hand-"then
pull hard and pin the dog's neck against the outside wall."
She held the belt out to Amber, her mouth drawn into a thin,
serious line. "That's it. I don't know if it would work or not, but
that's the idea."

There was silence among them for at least thirty seconds.
Amber ran through the scenario in her mind, visualizing it. It was
a long shot and they'd get only one chance, but it was possible.

A voice from her past-her grandfather's-sounded in her
head: Anything's possible except squeezing toothpaste back
into the tube. The real question is, is it probable? Probable,
Granddad? Yes, it is. The more she thought about it, the more
she realized just how probable it was. "It might work," she
finally said, breaking the silence.

"Yeah, I think we can pull it off," Cheryl said. "We'll need
something for bait, something that will keep the dog occupied
long enough to loop the belt around its neck."