Scream (41 page)

Mark slowed his Mustang and made a sharp left onto Dam
Road. He'd decided to look in this area, a six-square-mile block
of land light on roads and heavy on open field and woods. This
is where he would put all his cards. It was all he had time for.
He knew it was a gamble with Cheryl's life, but that verse ... that
verse-with God all things are possible-kept echoing through
his head, giving him the slightest bit of confidence that this
south-central chunk of Bedford County is where he would
find his wife. And if it wasn't? Then he'd have to live out the
remainder of his life cursing himself (and maybe God) for making such a foolish decision. But foolish or not, this is where
he'd chosen, and he'd just have to go with it.

And pray that with God, all things really were possible.

When judge had finished circling the barn, dousing at least
three walls with the gasoline, Cheryl watched as he casually
strolled back to the car, popped the trunk, and returned the
gas container. Leaving the trunk open and leaning against the
rear driver's side door, legs crossed like he was settling in for an
evening of studying the stars, he reached into his pocket and
drew out something. She couldn't tell what it was until he lifted
a hand to his mouth and struck a match. Holding the match
to his face, she saw the flame illuminate his sharp nose and
angular chin. His mouth was hidden by a full mustache and
tuft of hair beneath his lower lip. Moments later, he shook out
the match, and an orange glow tipped the end of a cigarette.

He was smoking.

They were about to die a horrible death, and their executioner was taking the time for one last smoke before lighting
them up.

Amber came and stood beside Cheryl. "What's he doing?"
she whispered.

Judge removed the cigarette and blew out a trail of smoke.
With the sky now clear, Cheryl could see the blue-gray smoke
curl upward and eventually disappear.

"He's smoking," she said.

Amber put her face to one of the gaps between the planks.
"Hey!" she hollered. But Judge didn't acknowledge her, didn't
even seem to hear her. He tilted his head back and blew out
another plume of smoke, replaced the cigarette, and inhaled.
The orange tip glowed brighter. "Hey! Did she suffer?"

If he heard her, which Cheryl was positive he had, he gave
no indication of it. He simply crossed his arms and drew on the
cigarette again.

"Did she suffer? The girl who burned? Katie?"

Cheryl jerked her head toward Amber. Was she nuts? What
was she trying to do, infuriate him so he'd get it over with
quicker? She opened her mouth. "What-"

Amber held up a hand and cut her off. "Wait" Then to judge,
"You loved her, didn't you? Katie was your girl. Your first love."

That got his attention. He pushed away from the car and
walked directly toward them, his feet falling in even, determined steps. Stopping ten feet from the barn, he reached up
and stuck the cigarette between his lips. The tip flared orange in
the Stetson's shadow. He stood there for a few seconds drawing
on the cigarette, removed it, and, holding it between his thumb
and index finger, said, "Are you ready to die?"

"No," Amber said, her voice remarkably calm. "I don't want
to die. Not yet. Not like this. I'm sorry she died. How did it
happen?"

Judge paused as if contemplating how much he wanted to
divulge. He took another long drag on the cigarette, blew out
the smoke.

Amber didn't give him time to think about it for too long.
"I'm sorry Katie died. I really am. It must have been awful. And
I'm sorry they blamed you while her murderers walked free."

Judge didn't do anything. Cheryl expected him to strike a
match at any moment and light the place up, but he didn't. He
just stood there, hidden in the shadow of his Stetson, puffing away
on that cigarette, while the Doberman sat at his side as man's
best friend should. Was she getting through to him? Was she
connecting with him on a personal level? Humanizing herself?

"We're not them," Amber finally said, her voice low and innocent. "We're not the ones who killed Katie. Let us go.
Please. We-"

"Enough," Judge snapped. He took two long steps forward,
held the cigarette in front of his face, and flicked it with his
middle finger.

"No!" Amber yelled.

Cheryl tried to scream, but the words got stuck in her throat.
She watched as the cigarette flipped through the air, end over
end. Her fingers dug into the wooden planks; an electric buzz
spread over her whole body.

The cigarette landed on the ground six inches from the barn
wall. Cheryl turned away and covered her face just as the wall
erupted in a thunder of flames behind her. She scrambled to
the far wall and frantically began using her hands to sweep the
straw to the center of the barn.

"Hurry!" she yelled, lifting her strained voice above the roar
of the flames.

Amber got the idea and sprang into action, clawing at the
floor, shoving straw between her legs. Somewhere, Cheryl heard
Ginny scream, a guttural, primal shriek, then a solid thump. She
looked to Ginny's corner, but she wasn't there. The flames were
eating up the perimeter of the barn at a quick pace. Another
throaty scream sounded and another sickening thump. Where
was Ginny-? There. To Cheryl's right, near where the dead dog
lay. She was throwing herself against the back wall, hitting it with
the force of a linebacker and bouncing off like a rubber ball.

Cheryl watched as Ginny picked herself up, scrambled back
fifteen feet or so, let out a shriek, and launched herself at the wall
again. Whump! She hit the planks and bounced off, landing on
her backside. The whole display reminded Cheryl of a sparrow
flying into a patio door.

Ginny got up, turned, and looked at Cheryl. And though the temperature inside the barn was steadily climbing, Ginny's
appearance made Cheryl's skin pucker with goose bumps. Her
hair was matted to her forehead and littered with straw. Her
face glowed red in the light of the fire and glistened with sweat
and smeared blood. Her lips were twisted into a panicked
frown, and her eyes were wide with fright. Cheryl had seen
fear before but never like this. The look in Ginny's eyes wasn't
fear ... it was terror.

Ginny held Cheryl's gaze for a second, reared up, and threw
herself at the wall again. Whump! She hit hard this time, crumpling into the solid plank wall and sliding to the floor. She rolled
over and shook her head, obviously dazed by the collision.

Realization dawned on Cheryl like a black sunrise and sent a
whole new wave of goose bumps over her flesh.

Ginny wasn't trying to get out. She was trying to kill herself.

Mark jammed the Mustang's brakes. The car fishtailed to a halt.
Something had caught his eye. To his left, in the distance. He
opened the car door and jumped out. Why hadn't he noticed it
before? There, just over the crest of a sloping field, a thin pillar
of black smoke rose into the twilit sky. He hopped onto the
hood of his car for a better look. The source of the smoke was
still out of sight, but it couldn't be more than a mile away.

His heart hammered away in his chest. It had to be them. Cheryl.
The barn was burning! But why hadn't he noticed it before? Had
he missed it? He couldn't have. It must have just started.

Mark jumped back into the car and stomped on the accelerator. The Mustang's engine roared, wheels squealed, and the
car lurched forward, rear end fishtailing.

Mark sped down Dam Road in a reckless panic, keeping his
eyes on the growing pillar of smoke. About a quarter of a mile down the road, he jerked the wheel to the left and turned onto
an unmarked side road even narrower than Dam Road. It was
more like a driveway, littered with potholes and debris from the
last storm. On either side lay acres of meadow, fields that hadn't
been farmed in years. This had to be it.

The plume of smoke was now directly in front of him. He
gripped the steering wheel tighter and pressed the accelerator to
the floor. Please, God. Please let me be in time. The Mustang
bounced over potholes like a golf ball on pavement, abusing the
car's suspension.

No more than a few hundred yards down the road a dirt lane
split off on the left. Mark took the turn without letting up on
the accelerator and almost lost control of the car as it slid on the
packed dirt and nearly landed in a shallow gully that ran along
the right side. The smoke now rose to his left again, and for
the first time he noticed an orange glow flickering at its base.
The Mustang rattled over the dirt lane, jarring Mark's eyes and
blurring his vision. Within seconds, he crested a low hill.

The barn was in full view now, no more than a couple
hundred yards away.

Orange and yellow flames licked at the old structure,
climbing halfway up the front and side walls. Billows of thick
smoke poured into the night sky like a black chimney.

Mark pounded the brake, and the car slid to a stop. He
opened the door and fell out, landing on his hands and knees.
He tried to scream, wail, anything to release the pressure in his
chest, but nothing could get past his tight vocal cords. Tears
spilled out of his eyes and dripped off his chin and nose.

Run.

The voice started as a whisper, somewhere in the back of his
mind. He rolled over onto his butt, propped himself on one
arm, and forced himself to look at the blazing barn. The fire roared and crackled and sent sparks shooting into the sky like
fireworks. To the left of the barn sat a white sedan, glowing in
the light of the fire.

Run. Go.

The voice was louder now, more urgent. But the barn was
burning like dry kindling. Could anyone survive that?

Run to the barn.

Without thinking, Mark jumped to his feet and started
toward the barn in a stumbling run. He pulled up, spun
around, and dashed back to the car. Reaching across the
driver's seat, he grabbed the shotgun, then tore off in a full
sprint toward the barn.

It took him less than a minute to reach the structure, but the
intense heat stopped him a good fifteen feet out. The roar of
the flames was growing. A steady blast of heat buffeted his face.
Mark fell to his knees, still holding the gun in his right hand.
His heart felt like a lump of rock in his chest; his throat was still
stuck in a vise. Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead and
coursed down his face, mingling with the tears.

What was he doing? The thought occurred to him that he
would also die here. And somehow, he didn't care. His life was
over anyway. First he'd lost Cheryl's love; now he'd lost her. The
urge came to rush the barn and die in the flames with her. It
wouldn't be painless, but he didn't deserve a painless death. He
deserved hellfire. The screams-those screams-came back to
him and streaked across his mind. Weeping and gnashing of
teeth. Utter torment.

But the screams were no longer coming from inside his head;
they were coming from in the barn. Were they still alive?

"Cheryl!" He yelled her name into the roaring flames. His throat
rebelled against the hot air, and he barked out a dry cough.

"Mark!"

He could barely hear her above the thunder of the fire, but it
was definitely Cheryl's voice. She was alive!

Mark jumped to his feet and ran around to the back of the barn,
where the flames weren't as intense. Sweat poured off of his forehead, pooling in his eyebrows and stinging his eyes. "Cheryl!"

"Mark!" His name was followed by a loud pop, then the
sound of cracking wood. Someone inside screamed.

The barn was collapsing! He had to find a way to get them
out. There had to be a way. What kind of God would bring him
here-

Mark stopped dead in his tracks. Panic crept up his chest
and gripped his throat like two bony hands. He couldn't do
this on his own, he knew that much. And it scared him. Pastor
Tim's words came back to him:

Trust Jesus.

Trust Jesus. That's what this was all about, wasn't it? Hell? He
was being given a second chance, a heads-up, Tim had called it.
He didn't want to die. He didn't want to suffer in hell. And he
knew the only way to rescue Cheryl was to trust Jesus. It was all
about Jesus. It always had been. An image of Tim, the tattooed
preacher, tapping his chest-It's gotta be in here-flashed in
his mind. He shut his eyes tight and cried out, "Jesus, help me!
Save me!"