The Screaming Room (27 page)

Malcolm Shewster had just finished breakfast. It was quiet and peaceful in his California mansion. The realization that the twins were no longer a threat thrilled him.

Pushing his plate forward, he reached for the paper and donned his glasses, intent on losing himself in world news. That's when his just-consumed Brie-and-onion omelet nearly came back up. He had to swallow hard to keep it from being propelled across the room. Anxious eyes scanned the syndicated story, avoiding contact with the eight-by-ten color photo emblazoned above the fold. His pulse raced as he noted there were more photos featured on page two. His knuckles whitened. Blood surged, giving his face a purplish hue. Slowly, he allowed his eyes to drift above the byline. What they saw caused them to widen.

He examined the unmistakable likeness of his daughter. The image was blurred over both breasts and what he could only assume was a generous mound of pubic hair. Her lips were puckered. One eye was closed, suggesting a wink. Her body, which resembled the letter
S
, was straddling someone. And Shewster knew who that someone was. It shocked him to discover that what he could see of Angus's body was completely covered with tattoos from below his neckline down. Some were hideous; others lascivious—all outlandish. What appeared on his daughter's executioner's face rattled him. Angus's glare at his smiling Abigail spelled contempt.

But what quickened his pulse and caused adrenaline to surge was the caption inscribed into the photo: “In twenty minutes, this female abnormality will be dead.”

Rage filled him. He would not be held captive by a phantom photographer inside his own house. He was a resourceful man. He'd find a way out of this scandal. Warily, he turned the page, where he discovered a second, more demeaning, photograph. It featured his Abigail, clad only in a strap-on, feeding it to the mouth of a grotesquely disfigured, naked, and oddly shaped girl.

But it was the inscription etched inside this photo that cut to the marrow. It caused him to do something he hadn't done since childhood. He screamed. Then screamed again. And though both eyes were closed, these words helped themselves to his cornea: “That's it, you wild little thing. Deep throat the sucker! Just like I did for Father.”

Driscoll stood at the edge of the dock at Sullivan's. The tide had gone out and the sun was beginning its descent behind a cluster of clouds.

Aligante and Thomlinson had volunteered to stay behind and file the mountain of paperwork that the murder spree had generated.

His city had shed its armor. Driscoll knew it would be a short-lived hiatus, but he allowed himself to be comforted by the sense of safety and restoration of order.

Tomorrow, he'd return to his office early. He'd need extra time to prepare his formal request that Detective Second Grade Cedric Thomlinson be promoted to the rank of Detective First Grade. Cedric had found the fissure in Malcolm Shewster's grand scheme. The fact that Shewster would not be tried in New York no longer troubled him. Because of Thomlinson's discovery, Shewster would surely be tried in a California court. It had taken him and Leticia an enormous amount of time to unearth the evidence that proved Gweneth Shewster died in New York City at the hands of two maniacal twins, and was buried in a grave that bore the name of a sister, Abigail, who existed only on paper.

He had found a witness whom Shewster's intimidation had silenced years ago. The man knew then, and knows now, that Gweneth Shewster's California burial was staged.

Spurred by the results of a painstaking exploration of every aspect of Gweneth Shewster's death, Thomlinson sought to speak to one Giovanni Petrocelli. The detective wanted to know firsthand why Petrocelli had been dismissed from Richard J. Malone's Funeral Home immediately after the “burial” of Gweneth Shewster.

Giovanni Petrocelli was also a subscriber to the
Los Angeles Times.
After getting an eyeful, he was certain Shewster's influence would take a huge hit and when Thomlinson reached out to him, he was happy to speak with an NYPD detective who was investigating Gweneth's death. Petrocelli thought he'd carry what he knew to the grave. But the thing about vengeance was that it wasn't mired by any statute of limitations.

During Thomlinson's exchange, Petrocelli not only told him that the casket which purportedly held the remains of Gweneth Shewster was a weighted coffin, he informed the detective where it was buried. A disinterment in California would support that, while an exhumation of Abigail's body and an unaltered DNA analysis would further attest to it.

Driscoll headed for Sullivan's tavern to celebrate, albeit alone, making a mental note to buy Thomlinson a box of Cuban cigars. They'd say a louder thank-you than his duly earned promotion would.

As the Lieutenant placed a twenty on the bar, he wondered what Giovanni Petrocelli, an embalmer's assistant, considered a proper way to say thanks.

Turn the page for an exciting preview of
Thomas O'Callaghan's next shocking thriller starring
NYPD homicide commander John Driscoll…

No One Will Hear You

…coming from Pinnacle in 2008!

“Hello? Is anybody there?”

The echo of her slurred query and the pounding of her heart were all she heard in reply.

Thoughts raced.
Where the hell am I? Why does my voice sound funny?
She tried to focus but couldn't. Frenetic thinking riddled her brain. “Hello? Hello?”

Attempting to move, she discovered her head was restrained, as were her wrists and ankles.
Something smooth. But strong. Cloth maybe?
“Rope!” she cried out, feeling a trickle of perspiration dabble her eye, compounding blurred vision. A glow emanated above her. It seemed to be in motion. She closed her eyes but reopened them as dizziness and the urge to vomit immediately set in.

It felt as though she were lying on moist sand. Cold moist sand. The limited mobility of her hands and the strained sighting of her nipples fueled her growing hysteria.

Why am I naked?

Adrenaline surged.

Jesus Christ!…What's happening to me?

Her sight was returning, but intermittently. The radiance above appeared to be still moving. Waves of nausea continued their assault, though less frequently and with decreased intensity. Closing her eyes, she found the dizziness had waned.

But worry plagued her.
Where the hell am I? How did I get here?

Something slithered across her abdomen. It was followed by what felt like a tiny creature landing on her pelvis, before skittering between her legs. Trembling, she clamped her eyelids shut, willing her dilemma to evaporate like the remnants of a bad dream.

Am I alone?

The thought blindsided her. Her eyes sprung open and began a slow and anxious ascent against clay walls that formed an irregular rectangle, open at its top.

She was at its base.

Dear Lord!

She let loose a bestial scream. Blinked rapidly, and screamed again.

Willows, visible through the aperture above, swayed against a cloudless sky, deaf to her screaming and indifferent to her predicament.

Inside the converted carriage house, Tilden put down the braided nylon cord he had been toying with and looked at his watch. One hour and thirty-seven minutes. He reached for a notebook and recorded the data: “Sodium thiopental, 100 mg.—ninety-seven minutes.”
Hmm…allowing for the different doses, this filly recovered a little slower than the others.
He tapped on the pad with his pencil.
Fluke?
Cocking his head, he raised an eyebrow.
Nah! They all had the same physique. Maybe an interaction to the Isoflurane I used when I nabbed her? A clash of anesthetics? That could account for it.

Pushing back his chair, he stood and faced the open door. “Aahh! Aahh!” he cried, mimicking his captive, before closing the door with his boot. Reaching for Tuesday's
New York Daily News
, he opened it again to page nine. Her abduction was featured in the lower right corner of the page. The diminutive headline read:
PROSTITUTE REPORTED MISSING
.
He puckered his blistered lips, brought the paper to within inches of his beady eyes, and scrutinized the story for the third time. Satisfied there was nothing in it to cause alarm, he tossed the paper atop a pile of others, which included several copies of the
Newburgh Record,
The
Westchester Journal,
and the
Connecticut Post.
Only last week's rag from Connecticut mentioned the abduction in Bridgeport. But it looked as though his role in that caper had also gone undetected. He was pleased there were no references whatsoever in the other two dailies, going back to day one. He knew there were Web sites that listed information about missing persons, often providing details of where they were last seen. But with government eavesdropping being what it was, he wasn't about to arouse suspicion by visiting any of them. Hell, no one was about to miss the sort of lowlifes he made off with, but he'd monitor the
Daily News
to see if they did any follow-up on the Big Apple prostitute.

He did have one regret: snatching the homeless woman in Newburgh. He had to douse the van's interior with a gallon of germicidal bleach and use up a full can of Lysol spray to get rid of the stench. Lord knows how many creepy-crawlers he fried when he torched that turd's clothing.
What the hell was she carrying in those bags? It smelled like a freaking pig roast, for Chrissake!

Narrowing his eyes, he put an ear to the door. Outside, he heard what he was hoping he'd hear. Nothing. Test subject number four had stopped screaming.

“'Bout time,” he muttered, reaching for the shovel making his way to the grave.

Silence filled the crowded New York courtroom as the jurors returned to their seats. A mix of emotions marked their faces. Fatigue and fear on some. Indifference on others. The defendant's eyes scoped each of the twelve, receiving not as much as a glance in return.

“I'm told you've reached a verdict,” said State Supreme Court Justice Everett Hathaway. “Is that true, madam fore-person?”

She nodded, then caught herself, and quickly blurted, “Yes. Yes, your honor.”

Judge Hathaway instructed his bailiff to retrieve the folded sheet of paper the woman held anxiously in hand. Upon receipt, he read what had been decided after two-and-a-half days of deliberation. “And you all agree on this?” he asked.

A slow but resolute response followed, with each of the jurors nodding or muttering yes.

Hushed murmuring intruded on the room's solemnity as the defendant was asked to stand.

The judge cautioned all present to stay in their seats and to maintain silence and decorum while the verdicts were delivered. He then turned his attention to the sallow-faced woman, who had regrettably agreed to act as the jury's voice.

“To the charge of unlawful imprisonment in the first degree, how do you, the jury, find?”

“Guilty, your honor,” she answered, sounding as though she were whispering, prompting the court reporter to ask if she could speak up. “Guilty,” she said, loudly.

“To the charge of predatory sexual assault against a child?”

“Also guilty, your honor.”

“And to the charge of murder in the first degree? How do you find?”

The woman, feeling empowered, returned the twice-convicted man's glare. “Guilty,” she said, looking as though she wanted to spit.

The defendant leaped across the defense table, bolted toward the jury box, and came within two feet of the fore-person before being tackled by a court officer, who slammed the defendant's face into the floorboards, pinned him with a knee, and cuffed him.

Pandemonium ensued. Judge Hathaway, pounding his gavel, quieted the crowd and ordered the aggressor be removed.

The lead juror's face looked like it had turned to alabaster. The same woman, who, only moments ago, had mustered the courage to stare down the coldhearted killer. The judge hadn't missed the transformation. He thanked the jury, particularly referencing the woman's resolve, and dismissed them. After setting a date for sentencing, he brought the session to a close.

From his seat near the back of the room, Lieutenant John Driscoll nodded, an unspoken gesture indicating he was pleased to see justice delivered. Reaching for his Burberry, he stood and was about to leave when he was approached by familiar faces.

“Mr. and Mrs. Keating, I thought I saw you leave.”

The Keating woman smiled. “Not without saying goodbye.”

“That's very nice of you. I hope the past few days haven't been a strain.”

Mr. Keating took hold of his wife's hand. “We had each other to lean on, Lieutenant.”

“We yearned for this day as much as we feared it,” said his wife. “There aren't enough words to express our gratitude, Lieutenant. If it weren't for you…”

“No need to go there,” said Driscoll.

The Keatings were the parents of twelve-year-old Lori Keating, a blue-eyed innocent who had been abducted, sexually assaulted, and callously murdered by the monster they had just seen convicted of his crimes. Driscoll, as commanding officer of the NYPD's Manhattan homicide squad, had led a task force of thirty dedicated professionals in the apprehension of the newly convicted felon Lyle Covens, bringing his heinous killing spree to an end.

“What my wife and I need to say, Lieutenant, is that because of you, many New York families have been given closure.” He turned to face his wife. “Now would be a good time, Janice.”

The woman opened her purse, withdrew a small envelope, and pressed it into Driscoll's palm. The pair smiled and ducked out the door.

Driscoll turned the envelope over. It was addressed to “Lt Driscol,” etched in green crayon.

He opened it, retrieved a haphazardly folded sheet of loose-leaf paper and unraveled it.

A small card fell from the envelope as Driscoll opened it to replace the letter. He picked it up. It contained another message. The handwriting was clearly not that of a little girl:

A sheen of moisture coated Driscoll's eyes. He thought of Nicole. No one's big sister, but his “bestest” friend. He looked up. Smiled at the unseen heavens. Then disappeared out the door.