Scream (4 page)

Mark shifted his weight, clasped his hands behind his back,
and lowered his head, letting the mist cool the back of his neck.

When Mahoney finally finished, the mourners slowly cleared,
whispering to each other. "Isn't it a shame." "What a horrible
tragedy." "The poor woman. Two little girls with no daddy, but
didn't they look precious."

Back to life as they know it. Life goes on. For some.

Wendy approached the casket and rested her hand on the
glossy surface. She whispered something Mark couldn't quite
make out. Little Gracie turned her head to look at the box that
held her daddy, and Sara choked out a sob, her tender mouth
twisting into a broken frown.

As Wendy passed Mark, she rested her hand on his forearm
and squeezed. She didn't say anything, but her eyes said it all:
Thanks for coming.

Mark forced a smile and nodded.

Cheryl followed Wendy. As she passed in front of Mark, he
took her arm in his hand. "Cheryl, I-"

"Don't, Mark," she said, her voice strained with grief. She
looked at the ground and her chin quivered. "Don't"

Mark let his hand fall to his side and let his wife walk out of
his life. Again.

Ten minutes later he was sitting behind the wheel of his
Mustang, tiny raindrops pattering on the windshield. The
mourners were mostly gone now, heading to the Beaversons'
home for the wake. He didn't want to go but knew he had to at
least make an appearance ... for Wendy. His mind wasn't on the
wake, wasn't even on the funeral. It was on the screams. They
were as fresh in his mind today as when he'd first heard them
a week ago.

He'd raced to Cooper's Hollow after dialing 911. The first
thing he saw was the gyrating orange glow of the fire on the
horizon, retching a pillar of smoke as black as new charcoal into
the night sky. The next thing he saw was Jeff's Civic engulfed in
angry flames and Jeff pinned behind the steering wheel, bloated
and stiff. The sound of the fire was like a locomotive. The smell
of burning fuel and flesh was hot in his lungs.

The rest of the night was a black blur, a nightmare that would
surface piece by piece until the whole ghastly affair played itself
out like some cut-'em-up horror movie in his head. And he
would be forced to watch, eyelids taped open and head held in
place. The last thing he remembered was arriving home, falling
into bed, and dreaming of Jeff's blackened corpse writhing in
anguish as flames licked at his flesh and wrapped his body in
hell's chains.

Mark ran his hands over his face, feeling the bristles of his
morning stubble, a reminder that he hadn't shaved. He could still hear the screams, awful sounds, like thousands, no, millions, of
voices lifted in agony, a chorus of misery and anguish. Every
time the sounds of the outside world died and silence crept in
like a demon, the screams were there, echoing through his head,
filling his ears with the sound of the tortured. If it was nothing
more than tangled signals like Jeff had suggested, where was
the signal coming from? Hell, that's where.

He shut his eyes and pressed both palms to his forehead.
Maybe the wake would take his mind off things.

Judge sat in an old brown metal desk chair in the center of a
basement room, elbows resting on the armrests, fingertips
lightly pressed together, forming a tent in front of his face. A
gray metal desk sat against one wall, its surface covered with
photo clippings and notebook paper scrawled with notes. To
the left of the desk stood a metal bookshelf, empty except for
one stack of spiral notebooks and manila file folders. To the
right of the bookshelf stood a gray, metal, four-drawer locking
file cabinet.

Everything was metal. Firm. Dependable. Solid.

Fire resistant.

In the center of the room, a single 60-watt bulb dangled from
the ceiling, casting sharp shadows on the walls.

All four walls were covered with a collage of photos. A closer
look would reveal that all the pictures were of four women in
particular. One for each wall.

His four victims.

No, not victims. No way. They weren't victims. She was a
victim. Katie was. They were perpetrators. Guilty and getting
exactly what they deserved. Justice.

He stood, walked over to the wall behind the desk, and stared at a photo of a brown-haired woman in a miniskirt and halter
top. Amber. He knew everything about her. Probably more than
she knew about herself.

She got off work every night at ten. Took exactly thirty-seven
seconds to walk the forty-five yards to her car. Drove a late
model Chevy Cavalier that she bought from Prairie View PreOwned Cars eight months ago. License plate: LUV ME. Drove
the five miles to her second-floor apartment in just under ten
minutes, depending on traffic flow and traffic light patterns. She
was thirty-one, five-six, hazel eyes, and drop-dead gorgeous.

Drop dead, gorgeous.

She was lovely, though, wasn't she?

But it wasn't about love. No way. Not even about desire or
lust or hunger. He wasn't a pervert like some. Sure, he liked to
look as much as the next guy, but when it came down to business, it wasn't about the needs of the flesh. It was about justice.
And he was the judge and the jury.

That's why he called himself judge.

She was guilty. They were all guilty.

He smiled and stroked the tuft of hair below his lower lip.
He'd heard somewhere that it was called a soul patch. A fitting
name. His soul needed to be patched.

He then smoothed his mustache with his left hand and gently
stroked the photo with his right.

Justice would be served tonight. His heart beat a little faster
at the thought, and his stomach fluttered. This is what he was
born to do. Be an agent of justice. An enforcer of right.

An image flashed through his mind. A young girl, thirteen.
Katie. She was innocent, and they killed her.

And he did nothing. Cowering like a frightened kitten,
fighting the urge to vomit, struggling to find oxygen, he did
nothing but watch in paralyzed horror.

Well, no more.

He glanced at his watch-8:27-and tapped a picture of
Amber. "Soon."

The plan was ready, everything down to the last detail.
Details were good. He would carefully execute the plan, documenting everything.

Tonight. Justice.

It's gonna be a hot time in the old town tonight.

Amber Mann slipped off her apron and hung it on a brass hook
on the wall. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, stood on
her toes, and looked at herself in the small mirror that someone
had hung a little too high for the averaged-height waitress.

"You outta here, hon?" Marge, her co-waitress for the
evening, emerged from one of the bathroom stalls and went to
wash her hands.

Amber smoothed her eyeliner, puckered her lips, and applied
a thin layer of lip gloss. "Yup" She glanced at the clock on the
wall-the one with Bertha's Diner in fancy script painted across
the face. Someone had given it to Bertha for the diner's twentieth anniversary. She didn't particularly care for the style, so
she'd banished it to the lady's room. 9:57. "Three minutes and
I'm punching out. I need every minute I can get."

Marge chuckled and tilted her head to the side. "You goin'
out tonight?"

Amber shot her a sideways look and a devilish grin. "What's
it to ya, mommy dearest?" She quickly unbuttoned her uniform
shirt, slipped it off, and replaced it with a black tank top with
thin shoulder straps. Yanking her pants off, she pulled on a
black miniskirt that barely covered her fanny. She then slid her
feet into a pair of black pumps.

"Well, if you ain't, you sure look good for just sittin' 'round
your 'partment."

Amber laughed. "Yeah, I'm going out. Over to Bruno's, see
what kind of action is happening tonight."

Marge put her hands on her hips and gave her a motherly
look. "Well, be careful. Bruno's ain't the safest place for a girl
lookin' like you to be goin'. Lotsa tough guys tryin' to impress
the girls there."

Amber stuffed her uniform in a pink duffle bag. She grinned
wide. "Don't worry about me, mommy. I can handle myself
around the boys."

"You doin' anything special this weekend?" Marge said,
drying her hands with a paper towel.

"Tomorrow I'm going over to my sister's to spend some time
with my nephew. You should see him; he's so adorable. I just
can't get enough of him. How'bout you? Got any big plans?"

Marge humphed. "Yeah, right. All Jim wants to do is sit
around and watch football. The old goat. I'll keep myself busy
'round the house, though."

Amber looked at the clock again. "Hey, it's time. Gotta run,
Marge. Love ya, girl." She pulled on a red coat and gave Marge
a loose hug.

"Love ya, hon."

They left the bathroom, and Amber headed for the back door.
As she pushed through the door she heard Marge call out one
more time, "You be careful now."

She let the door close and breathed in a chestful of cool
autumn air. Bruno's should be hoppin' tonight. And Mitch
would be there. She could almost feel his thick arms around
her waist as they danced, her head on his chest, breathing in
his masculine scent. They would stay like that for hours, bodies
intertwined, moving in unison to the steady rhythm of the music, then go back to his place. It was perfect, heaven on earth
if there ever was one.

She strode across the parking lot toward her car, heels
clicking on the asphalt, echoing in the stillness of the evening.
She hadn't told Marge about Mitch. He was a tattoo artist, had
his own shop downtown. Mommy Marge would never approve.
She watched over Amber like a mother hen, closer than her own
mom did. Amber could just imagine what old Marge would say
if she ever found-

She started and took a quick step to her left. A man was
suddenly there, walking beside her, step for step. "Oh, hey. You
scared me."

The man stopped and faced her. "Amber Mann?"

She stopped too. One hand rested on her duffle bag, the
other hung loosely at her side. Somewhere in the distance, a few
blocks away, a car horn honked. "Yes. Is something wrong?"

"Can I ask you a few questions?"

Amber brushed some hair off her face and tucked it behind
her ear. She noticed her hand was suddenly shaking. "Uh, sure.
Is something wrong?"

"No, ma'am. Nothing's wrong. Just need to ask you a few
questions. It's about Mitch Young."

Mitch. Amber felt her stomach twist into a knot, like someone
had gut-punched her. She knew what she had with Mitch
wouldn't last. It couldn't. Her life didn't work that way. "Um"
She bit on a fingernail, not sure if she wanted to answer questions, not sure she wanted to know Mitch's secrets. "I guess."

"Let's walk to your car," he said.

"Oh, OK." She turned and headed toward her Cavalier. She
was within feet of the car when something exploded in the back
of her head.

It was nearly half an hour later by the time Judge dragged Amber
to the barn. He'd had to knock her several times to subdue her
enough to get the ether over her mouth and nose. She was quite
the feisty one. It was too messy, though, too sloppy. During the
time it took, someone could have driven by or come out of the
diner. But she was the first. Now he knew; he'd have to be more
careful with the others.