Scream (5 page)

He gripped her by the wrists and pulled her into a corner
where a bed of straw had been prepared. Outside the barn, the
dogs were barking like maniacs, over and over, nonstop. Judge
kicked hard against the barn wall. "Quit your bawling! Or I'll
roast you!" The racket ceased for maybe five, six seconds-long
enough to notice the sound of crickets in the distance-then
resumed in a flurry of yelps and coughs.

Removing a pocketknife, he flipped it open and cut the duct
tape from Amber's wrists and ankles. Just a precaution during
the long ride over. He didn't need her coming to and throwing
a hissy fit in the backseat while he was driving. Safety first.

She moaned and tried to roll over, but a grimace twisted her
face and she relaxed again, letting out a strained sigh. He could
see two goose eggs on her head but knew there were more. He'd
walloped her at least three times.

"Sleep tight, beautiful," he said, squatting beside her. "You're
gonna have one killer headache when you wake up."

The dogs continued their onslaught, like an old smoker
trying to clear fluid from his lungs. Judge stood and kicked the
boards again. "Shut up!"

Placing his hands on his hips, he looked around the barn.
Enough light from the full moon was seeping through the
cracks between the wall planks to dust the spacious interior with soft blue light. Straw, strewn across the floor like a loosely
woven carpet, glistened under each moon ray. It was actually a
very pleasant evening. What a shame to have to ruin it for little
miss LUV ME here.

He stared at her for a moment, taking in her graceful, feminine form. She lay on her side, hand resting on her head, long
legs slightly crossed. She was a fine specimen, indeed. But it
wasn't about that, he reminded himself. It was about justice and
justice only. Nothing more, nothing less. Don't personalize it.

But still, he couldn't deny the fact that she was beautiful.
Maybe just a peek under that skirt. She would never know-

No! It's not like that. I'm not a monster.

He went outside, walked around to the back of the barn, and
stopped in front of two metal dog kennels. Stooping to unlock
them, he said, "Now boys, you keep good watch over our guest.
And don't stray too far. She's gonna get lonely, you hear?"

Amber rolled onto her back and lifted both hands to her forehead. Her whole skull throbbed, felt like it would explode any
second. She peeled her eyes open and noticed the first rays
of light filtering through rough-planked walls, dust swirling
in the air. Something crunched beneath her. Where was she?
What happened last night? Her mind spun. She winced and ran
a hand gently over her head. Where did she get these lumps?
So tender. She moaned and tried to push herself to a sitting
position, but her body felt like it was filled with lead, and her
muscles refused to cooperate. Finally, she settled on scooting
herself back and propping up on the mound of straw.

Straw? Wait a minute. She was on a bed of straw. She looked
around again. Wooden planks rose vertically on either side
of her about fifteen feet into the air, held together by wooden beams. A few slanted bars of sunlight slipped past the gaps in
the planks and dotted the floor with golden light. Straw was
scattered over the worn flooring.

Amber's mind was slowly beginning to piece things together.
Straw. Wood. Beams. She was in a barn. For the first time since
regaining consciousness, she drew in a long breath. Yes, definitely a barn. The musty, earthy odor of straw and rotting hay
and who-knows-how-old animal dung was unmistakable.

She looked around. The barn was obviously abandoned.
There were no stacks of bales, no tools, no tractors, and as she
listened, no rustle of animals. As far as she could tell, she was
the only occupant. She leaned to her left and pressed her face
against a gap between two wall planks. Outside the barn, the
ground sloped away toward what looked like an overgrown
pasture. On the other side of the field, maybe a quarter mile
away, stood a line of trees that stretched as far as she could see
to the left and right. North and south. The sun peeked out just
over the treetops, and beyond that, fingers of pink light reached
into the pale blue sky.

A jolt of panic, like a thousand-volt shock, buzzed through
her nerves.

Where was she? How did she get here? And how did her
head get so banged up? The questions stood like giant bullies,
refusing to leave until answered. Like her dad. An image of
him towering over her, thick arms crossed, forehead wrinkled,
asking over and over again "How many bales today?" flashed
through her mind. How many bales? She was only nine. She
just wanted to do a nine-year-old's worth of chores and go play.
But he made her work and work and work. And if she didn't
make her quota? Well, well, "You're not goin' anywhere, missy,
until you finish your chores." He'd corner her and fire questions
at her, quizzing her on mundane farm facts-how many square feet in an acre, how many acres in a square mile, how many
quarts in a peck and pecks in a bushel-and wouldn't let her eat
or sleep until she answered every one correctly. The bully.

But this time she had an answer, one that made her shiver.
She'd been kidnapped. Taken against her will. Abducted.
Apparently beaten and ... she didn't even want to think about
what else. Instinctively, she tugged at her skirt, wishing she'd
worn pants.

Slowly, like a TV station slowly picking up the signal from a
rotary antenna, her memory faded in. She left work last night
and a man approached her in the parking lot. She remembered
his face, lean and angular, mustache and patch of hair under
his bottom lip. But that was all. Just his face. He'd asked her
a question, she knew that. But what the question was, was yet
another question. Unanswered.

And what about Liz? She was supposed to visit Liz and
Christopher today. Surely they'd miss her and report it, right?
They'd have cops looking for her before the day was over. Or
maybe not. Maybe Liz would just assume something came up,
something more important. But if Liz didn't report it, surely
Mitch would. She was supposed to meet him last night. Mitch.
He must have been worried sick when she didn't show. That
settled it in her mind. By the end of the day, there would be
a massive search effort underway. There had to be. Somebody
would miss her.

She pulled her knees up and looked out between the planks
again. Suddenly, a furry, toothy face appeared only inches away,
mouth curled into a snarl. A dog! Then another face appeared.
Two dogs! Dobermans. Outside the barn. The dogs began
clawing at the planks, snarling and growling. Amber tried to
push herself away from the wall, but her hand slipped on the straw, and she tumbled to her side. A jolt of pain shot up her
neck and pounded in her head, and she let out a scream.

"I see you're awake," a voice said from one of the far corners.
A man's voice.

Amber started and sat up straight, her head scolding her for
the sudden movement. She searched the far corners of the barn
and noticed a man standing in one. He was wearing jeans and
tanned leather work boots. The rest of his body was hidden in
the shadows.

"Good morning," he said. His voice was in no way cheerful
but not altogether sinister either. The voice from last night. This
was the man she'd met in the parking lot. And no doubt the
man who gave her the killer headache and brought her here.

Amber tried to push farther back against the wall, but she
was already pressed against it. She tugged again at her skirt.
"Who are you?"

The man shifted his weight and crossed one leg over the other.
"No need to bother with names here. Let's not make this personal.
You can just call me judge. There's a gallon of water and bag of
apples to your right. That should hold you over for now."

The dogs to Amber's left began chewing at the wooden
planks, snarling, their tongues flitting in and out of their
mouths. Amber shot them a wary look.

"Don't worry about them," the man said. "They can't get in.
They're to keep you from getting out. Don't even think about
making a run for it. We're miles from nowhere, and the dogs
are very hungry. Do you know what it's like to be eaten alive?
Meat pulled from your bones while you're still kicking and
screaming? No, of course you don't. And trust me, you don't
want to find out."

Amber covered her mouth with her hand and choked back a
sob. Her eyes burned with tears, and a lump the size of one of those apples had lodged in her throat. Fear had wrapped its bony
fingers around her neck and tightened its grip. "What-what are
you gonna do with me? Why am I here? What do you want?"

The man chuckled and uncrossed his legs. "Soon enough,
my dear. You'll get answers to all your questions soon enough.
You'll be getting some company too. I don't want you getting
lonely all the way out here. The dogs are good for some things,
but they're lousy conversationalists."

There was a long moment of silence, and though she couldn't
see them, masked by the shadow as they were, she could feel his
eyes on her. And it made her skin crawl.

Finally, he walked to a cutout door in the middle of the
larger, rolling barn door, opened it, and paused, still obscured
by a slanting shadow. "Until later, Amber." And then he was
gone. She heard a lock slide into place and something large and
heavy thud against the door at the bottom.

To her left, the Dobermans continued their gnawing and
chewing.

It was almost three o'clock in the afternoon when Mark finally
took a break to eat lunch. After the funeral yesterday he'd
gone to the wake and numbly stood in a corner of the den in
Jeff's home (the same den where he'd spent countless hours
playing poker, shooting pool, and rooting for the Washington
Redskins) nursing his iced tea and watching Cheryl mingle
with their friends. Correction, her friends. After she left him
and the news became public, their friends suddenly wanted
nothing to do with him. Jeff and Wendy were the only ones
who had remained loyal. The rest had proven to be fair-weather
friends-the worst kind.

He'd spent less than an hour at the wake, returned home, fell onto the sofa, clicked on the flat screen, and zoned out. How
long he sat there or what he watched he had no idea. But it
was late, wee-hours-of-the-morning late, by the time exhaustion finally overtook him. When he'd had enough, he trudged
into the bedroom, the one he used to share with his wife, and
collapsed on the bed, falling quickly asleep still wearing his
dress clothes.

This morning he'd debated whether to go into work or not.
It was, after all, Saturday. He could stay home and play zombie
all day, regretting how his life had turned out, regretting every
poor decision he'd ever made, regretting there was nothing he
could have done to save Jeff. Or he could go to the garage, lose
himself in some engine or transmission, and hopefully keep
his mind off the hopelessness of life and retain his sanity for
another day.

The prospect of sanity finally won.

Mark sat in a gray swivel chair in his cubicle-sized office
and opened his cooler. Ham sandwich, barbecue chips, and an
apple. He wasn't hungry, but he unwrapped the sandwich and
took a large bite anyway.

Jeff's death was a shock, of course, and Mark's heart ached
for Wendy and the girls. Every time he pictured the girls in
their pretty dresses standing beside that casket, a lump rose in
his throat, and his eyes burned with tears. But one thing that
kept hammering in his mind like a hyperactive woodpecker
was the phone call he had with Jeff just before the accident.
There was that awful scream that had interrupted the conversation. What was it? Where did it come from?

Mark took a long swig of Diet Pepsi, wiped the condensation
from his hand, and took another bite of his sandwich. In the
main shop area, his boom box belted out some guy singing.
"...you had a bad day... "