Scream (23 page)

"Are you from around here, Mark?" It was small talk, and
Mark hadn't come for small talk, but something about Tim made
it seem like more than small. Mark could tell this unorthodox
preacher was sincere, probably sincere in everything he did.

"I live in Pineville. Grew up in Virginia."

"What do you do for a living?"

"I own a garage, Stone Service Center. Been doing it for ten
years now." He'd opened the garage a month before he and
Cheryl exchanged vows. They had such high hopes then, for the
garage and their marriage. Ironically, the business was doing
better than their marriage.

"I'm looking for a new mechanic," Tim said. He motioned out
the window. "My beater out there likes the attention, I think.
Spends more time in someone else's garage than my own."

"Why are you looking for a new mechanic?"

Tim wrinkled his forehead into a washboard and smiled. "It
seems the guy I had working on it liked finding things to fix.
Things that didn't necessarily need fixing, if you know what I
mean.

Mark knew exactly what he meant. It was those kind of
mechanics that gave the rest of them a bad rap. Most mechanics
were hardworking, honest men, but there were a few out there
who cast a shadow over the profession. When Mark got into auto
work, he'd hoped to be one of the honest ones who changed the
perception. "Unfortunately, they're out there. But not as many
as you think."

"Stone Service Center, you say?"

"Yeah. Right in Pineville."

Tim smiled. "Mark, you just got yourself a new customer."

"Thanks. I hope I can give your car a comfortable visit."

Tim laughed, then glanced at Mark's ringless left hand. "You
got a girlfriend or something?"

Mark was afraid the subject would surface sooner or later,
and he didn't want to get into his marriage problems with Tim.
That wasn't why he came here. With his thumb, he rubbed the
empty space where his ring should have been. "No, I've been
married ten years. Don't wear my ring, though. It's a safety
thing. I met my wife, Cheryl, at a friend's birthday party. We
dated a few years, then got married." The party was Jeff's. Mark
knew him through high school, Cheryl through Wendy, who
was dating Jeff at the time. Their first words came back to Mark
like a torrent, sweeping up emotions he did not want to show to
Tim or anyone else.

-Great party, huh?

-Yeah. Good cake. Real... chocolaty.

-My name's Cheryl. I'm a friend of Wendy's. We've known
each other since third grade.

-Nice to meet you. I'm Mark. Friend of the birthday boy.
Good cake.

"What does she do?"

Tim's voice was like a lifeline, saving Mark from the flood of
emotion carrying him off to that shipwreck of a memory. "She's
a graphic designer."

"Any kids?"

"Not yet. Maybe someday." Mark swallowed to bury the tears
that burned at the back of his eyes. This wasn't why he came
here.

As if he could sense Mark's uneasiness, Tim said, "So what
do you want to talk about, Mark?"

Mark uncrossed his legs, shifted in the chair, then met Tim's
steady blue eyes. "Do you believe in hell? That it's a real place?"

"Whoa," Tim said, arching his eyebrows. He sat back in his
chair and flexed his jaw muscles, narrowing his eyes. "It's not
often I have a stranger show up on my doorstep asking me if I
believe in a place of eternal damnation. That's deep stuff."

"I know it's an odd question, but..." He let the words trail
off, hoping Tim would step in and finish whatever thought he
had had and lost.

"But what?" No such luck.

Mark opened his mouth to say something, then clamped it
closed. The explanation wasn't that easy.

Tim let him off the hook. "But it's something you've been
pondering, wrestling with. How can a loving God send someone
to such a horrible place? Is that it?"

Mark shrugged. "Sort of. I just want to know if it exists. If
it's a real place."

"Do you go to church anywhere, Mark?"

Mark dropped his eyes to the floor. "Not recently. I grew up
in a Baptist church. Left it when I was a teenager."

Mark didn't look up but felt the weight of Tim's stare. "Then
you know what the Bible teaches about hell. Eternal separation
from God. Weeping and gnashing of teeth. A place where the
worm doesn't even die. Darkness. Fire. Unquenchable thirst.
Does it sound like the Bible is describing a real place to you?"

"I guess. I mean, yes, it does. I always believed it was a real
place, anyway."

Tim dipped his head so he could meet Mark's eyes. "So why
the question? If you believe it's a real place, why does it matter
what I think?"

Suddenly a lump rose in Mark's throat, and tears began to
burn his eyes. He didn't want this to happen, but he'd been
thinking about it a lot lately. Hell, that is. If the screams were
really from hell, that meant Jeff, Jerry, and Dad were all there. And if they were there, that meant Mark was surely headed
there too. If it was a real place. And if the screams were real.

Tim leaned forward again and picked up a pen. "What is it,
Mark? I know there's more to it than just wondering if hell is a
real place." He twirled the pen through his fingers. "That's not
the real reason you came."

Mark wiped at his eyes with his sleeve. "What would you say
if I told you I've been hearing hell? The screams, the weeping,
the agony."

The pen stopped twirling and fell to the desk. "What do you
mean? In your dreams?"

"No. On the phone." Mark then told Tim everything, starting
with Jeff's call and ending with Dad's death. He told him about
the screams and the way they had sliced right through him
like ice water in his blood and how they had always preceded
death, like an eerie warning. Tim nodded occasionally and
grunted frequently, but he never took his eyes off Mark. His jaw
remained firm and his blue eyes intense, hardly even blinking.
When he was done, Mark sat back and sighed.

Tim didn't say anything at first. He sat there behind his
metal desk and stared at some papers, looking like he was deep
in thought. Finally, he raised his head. "I thought you said you
were raised in a Baptist church. Was your dad a believer?"

"I always thought so. And apparently he did too. But at the
end he admitted it was all just a game, a show he put on, fooling
even himself. Tim, if you could've seen the look on his face right
before-" Mark pressed his fist against his mouth, holding back
a sob that was pushing up his throat.

When he looked up again at Tim, there were tears in the
preacher's eyes. "I'm sorry, Mark. Really, I am. I know it's hard.
I lost my dad two years ago, and to my knowledge, he didn't
know Christ. I know what you're going through. I do."

"What do you think they mean? The screams, that is."

Tim lowered his eyebrows and frowned. That intense look
again. "Honestly, Mark, I've never heard of anything like this
happening before. It gives me chills, you know? But my best
guess is that they're a warning."

"A warning. So what should I do?"

Tim picked up the pen again and starting twirling it. "Let's
start with this. Do you know where you will go when you die?"

Mark had never been asked that question before. Not pointblank like that, anyway. Growing up in a Baptist church he
just assumed he was on the straight and narrow. After all, he
was Brother Ed's son. Was there any question about the state
of his soul? He'd always thought he was going to heaven, but
then again, so did Dad. He needed some time to think about
it. "I-I don't know. I'd like to think I'll go to heaven. I mean, I
was born again as a kid. I said the prayer and went forward in
church and everything. Was even baptized when I was twelve."

Mark remembered the day well. The baptism took place in
a waist-high pool along Cody Creek. It was a muggy summer
day, and the water felt cool as it soaked through his Wranglers and wrapped around his legs. He remembered standing
next to Pastor Dickson and Pastor Dickson asking him several
questions (all of which he had answered yes to), then saying
something about the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,
then grasping him with one hand on his chest and the other
behind his neck. He remembered the feeling of helplessness as
he slipped under and the muddy Cody Creek water engulfed
his face and filled his ears and nose. He remembered Pastor
Dickson pulling him up and his feet slipping on the creek bed
and the mixture of laughter and hallelujahs and praise the
Lords from the onlookers. It had felt so good at the time. So
right. The way the water ran off his face and the sun warmed his skin. But thinking about it now, was it just more of the
game? Hollow, meaningless motions?

"-Mark." Tim was talking to him.

He looked away from his hands and found Tim's blue eyes.

"Mark, doing those things won't get you into heaven. It's
gotta be in here." He tapped his chest with his index finger.

Mark knew he was right. After all, wasn't that really what
Dad was saying? He had done all the right things, lived the
right kind of life, but the truth of it never made it to his heart.
And in the end, he didn't even know how to get it there.

"I know," Mark said. His voice sounded tinny and hollow in
his own ears. "I-I need to think about this."

Tim leaned further forward on the desk and looked Mark
right in the eyes. "Don't spend too long thinking about it. I
think God's trying to get your attention. But before you can
help anyone else, you have to help yourself. Trust Jesus. Mark,
none of us is guaranteed tomorrow. Remember that. You know
that. That's what this is really all about, isn't it? The screams
and all? Life is like a vapor. Here today and gone tomorrow.
You know what the Bible says: it's appointed unto man once to
die. Everyone has an appointment with death. For some reason,
you're being given a little heads-up. But when will your appointment come due?" He raised his eyebrows and tapped the desk
with the palm of his hand. "Think about it. Pray about it. You'll
find your answer."

By the time Tim was done, there were tears in Mark's eyes
again. Tim's words had pierced him deeply. He knew they were
true, every one of them. He'd known it all his life. But he wasn't
ready to dig that deep into his own soul yet. Not here. There
were things there he needed to confront in private. Things that
needed to be wrestled with and brought out into the light. Dark
things. Hurtful things.

"Thanks, Tim." He stood and headed for the waiting room.

"Hey."

Mark turned around at the doorway, one hand resting on
the jamb.

Tim was still seated behind his desk, pen laced between his
fingers. "You know you're welcome to join us Sunday morning.
Ten a.m."

Mark smiled, but his heart wasn't in it. He knew he wouldn't
show up, and from the look on Tim's face, the tattooed preacher
knew it as well. "I know it."

The single naked bulb hanging from the ceiling cast a dull
yellow hue over the room. The windows were covered with
black cardboard. He didn't need any nosy kids discovering his
lair and running home to mommy and daddy blabbing about
the freak down the street.

Judge stood in the middle of the floor, hands on his hips,
surveying the change he'd just made. The pictures of Shelley
had been removed, shredded, and burned. She was a lost cause;
she'd seen his face. There would be no element of surprise. Not
to worry, though. She was replaceable. When it came right
down to it, they were all replaceable. Really, wasn't everyone?

Everyone except Katie. There would never be another Katie
McAfee.

But as far as Shelley was concerned, she was disposable. He
had a backup. Kristen Willit. Twenty-five. Single. Average looks.
Maybe below average. Second shift material handler at Exco
Industries. Still lived at home with mom and pop. A leech.

He only had a few grainy photos of her leaving work, getting
in her car, and taking a smoke break. She would do, though. But
she'd have to get in the rear of the line. The face looking at him now from the wall behind the desk was anything but average.
Now there was natural beauty. Thick, honey-blonde hair. Small,
nicely shaped nose. High cheekbones. Full lips. And stunning
blue eyes. But there was a sadness in those eyes. A woman so
beautiful should have nothing to be sad about, he'd thought the
first time he noticed the emptiness. He knew she was married
but lived in a small apartment in Lonaconing while her husband
lived in a Cape Cod outside Frostburg. Married but separated.
Probably the source of that sadness.

She worked as a graphic designer for Prizm Printing in
Frostburg. Eleven to seven shift. Picking her up after work
would never do. She always left with three other employees
who all parked together. Safety in numbers. Smart woman.
But she jogged every morning along Jackson Mountain Road.
Two miles out, two miles in. Of course, there was the problem
of other traffic on the road. Nothing a few orange cones and
the use of a service road that ran through the Dans Mountain
Wildlife Management Area couldn't take care of. With a little
preplanning, it would be easy.