Scream (27 page)

The fifth floor of Frostburg Hospital was like any other floor
on the hospital-cold, sterile, gray tile floors littered with black
scuff marks, gray and white walls, harsh fluorescent lighting.
The air held the aroma of rubbing alcohol and body odor so
common in hospitals. Mark walked down the middle of the
hallway, sneakers chirping with each step, in search of Room
547, Andrea Kreiger.

At the welcome desk adjacent to the lobby the receptionist
had told him to take the elevator to the fifth floor, turn right off
the elevator, follow the hall to its end, and make a left. Room
547 was on the right-hand side. "Odd-numbered rooms on the
right, even on the left," she'd said, like she'd said it a million
times a day.

While waiting for the elevator, Mark had studied the hospital's floor plan and discovered that the fifth floor was the
psyche ward. They'd put her up with the crazies. He'd imagined
her immobilized by a straitjacket, crouched in the corner of a
padded room, ranting and raving about hellfire and demons,
sweat matting her hair to her forehead, eyes blazing with hatred
and fear.

Now on the fifth floor, he realized the psyche ward was
not that kind of place. The rooms looked like normal hospital rooms. Most of them were private, had a bathroom, a TV, and a
regular hospital bed in each one.

He came to the end of the first hallway, passed a nurse who
gave him a slight smile and a cordial nod, and turned left.
Andrea's room was the fourth one on the right. Mark paused
outside the room and listened. The heavy wooden door was
ajar by a couple of inches, allowing the tinny sound of the TV
to escape. A woman talking, then laughter. Sounded like some
afternoon talk show. Oprah maybe. He drew in a lungful of air
and pushed the door open a couple more inches.

He then knocked and said, "Hello?"

Just then a nurse opened the door the rest of the way, pulling
Mark off balance. He stumbled forward and almost fell into
her. She was a heavyset woman with short dark hair, deep-set
eyes, and baggy jowls.

"Oh, excuse me!" she said, placing a hand over her chest.
"You almost gave me a heart attack."

Mark straightened and tried to smile. "Sorry. You startled
me too."

The nurse smiled, her full lips thinning just a bit. "I was just
leaving. Are you part of the family?"

"No. Just an ... acquaintance ... from work."

She finally took her hand off her chest and fanned herself. She
was still breathing heavily from the encounter, and her cheeks
had blushed. "Well, you just missed the family. They left maybe
ten minutes ago." She leaned forward, peered around the door
at Andrea, and shook her large head. "Poor girl. Family said she
was perfectly normal until this morning. I guess you know she
almost died. Choked on something. Now she won't stop ranting
about monsters and fire. She thinks she's being burned alive."

Mark didn't say anything. He was certainly glad the family
wasn't there. He'd have a heck of a time trying to explain who he was and how he knew Andrea. Hi. I'm the guy who called
the cops because I knew your daughter was gonna die because
I heard the screams of hell while talking to her on the phone.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll just go next door and get back
in my bed.

The nurse gave him a smile and patted his arm. "Don't stay
too long, hon. She needs to get some rest soon."

"I won't," he said, returning the smile. "Just want to say hi
and then I'll be on my way."

Mark entered the room and quietly closed the door. The
lights were dim and cast soft shadows on the walls. Andrea was
lying in the bed, sheet pulled up to her chest. Her hair had been
pulled back in a ponytail, and she wore a blue and white flowered hospital gown, loose around the neck. She looked to be
about forty or so, but hospitals always made you look older than
you really were. Her skin was white like onion paper, and there
was a bandage where the emergency tracheotomy had been
done. Her wrists were fettered to the bed with canvas straps,
and by the looks of the same straps anchored to the foot of the
bed and disappearing under the sheets, her ankles were as well.
She lay perfectly still, eyes fixed on some invisible spot on the
ceiling. Mark took three light steps toward the bed and noticed
the tenseness in her muscles. Her hands were clenched into
tight fists, the cords of her neck taut. Her jaw muscles flexed
rhythmically. Like a ticking time bomb, Mark thought.

He took one more step toward the bed so she was close
enough to touch. He had no desire to touch her, though. Andrea
didn't seem to notice him or, if she did, was ignoring him. She
kept her eyes pinned to a spot directly above her, unmoving,
unblinking. He didn't know what to say, hadn't even thought
about it until now. He wasn't even sure why he had come. Curiosity? Obligation? Guilt? Concern? They all fit, and, if he was being honest, all more than likely played a role to some degree
or another.

But he should say something. He felt silly just showing up,
standing there dumbly for a few minutes, then leaving. What
purpose did that serve? Other than to satisfy his own curiosity.
Yep, she's nuts all right. Now I can leave and live my life in
peace. He shifted his weight to his right leg, slid his hands into
his pockets, and cleared his throat. "Andrea? Hi."

Andrea finally blinked and turned her head toward him, her
eyes trailing the movement of her head until they landed on his
face. Her facial muscles were still tight, lips thin and white. Her
breathing increased through her nostrils, and her chest began
to rise and fall at a quicker rate.

Mark was uncomfortable and getting more so by the second.
Her eyes seemed to look right through him, like they were
watching the inner workings of his soul, curious to find the
long-hidden secrets and forbidden desires that lingered there.
He shifted nervously, planting his weight over his left leg. "How
are you?"

Andrea's lips parted slightly, and Mark noticed a tremble
come over them. Tears welled up in her eyes and spilled over,
tracing polished rivulets down her cheeks. Her mouth turned
down in a twisted frown, and darkness clouded her eyes. Her
brow lowered, gathering in the middle and hiding her eyes in a
dark shadow. Her nostrils flared wide. What was he looking at?
What was this expression that had distorted her face? He knew
what it was. Fear. And not just the run-of-the-mill scared-ofthe-dark fear. What he was looking at was the face of terror. And
it was disturbing. So much so that he had to take a step back.

Andrea's facial distortion continued, growing more and more
misshapen. She looked as though she were about to scream
when a low groan escaped from somewhere deep in her throat. She opened her mouth wider. Dry and blistered lips peeled away
from her teeth.

"Help me," she pleaded. "They're coming for me." Her voice
was strained and hoarse and cracked on the word coming. A
fresh wave of tears rolled over her temples and disappeared in
her hair. "There's no escape."

Mark noticed he was holding his breath and let out the air in
his mouth. "Who's coming for you?" he said in a shaky voice.

Andrea tried to lift her right arm before realizing it was tethered. She turned her head away from Mark and fixed her eyes
on a darkened corner of the room. With her right hand she
pointed at the corner. "They are."

Mark followed her eyes but saw nothing in the corner but
a metal rolling cart. A chill tightened his scalp and buzzed
down the back of his head. He looked back at Andrea, who was
staring at him again.

"Go," she said, her mouth holding the 0 shape longer than
it needed to. "They're coming for you too. You can't get away
from them. They're everywhere."

Mark turned and looked back at the closed door. He needed
to ask her something. He took a half step toward her and leaned
his weight on his forward foot. Lowering his voice, he said,
"What did you see when you died?"

Andrea shook her head side to side so violently he thought
she'd snap her neck. She grimaced as if in tortuous pain. "No,"
she said, her voice choked with fear. "I can't. I won't." She pulled
at the canvas straps, the muscles in her arms bulging beneath
her pale skin, and moaned like a woman in labor. "Fire. Hot.
So hot. Burning me. And"-she jerked her head to the left and
glared into the corner again-"and them! Everywhere. Everywhere. Everywhere!"

She screamed the last everywhere like a warrior ready to charge to her death. Mark started and stepped back. Not three
seconds later the nurse threw open the door and rushed to
Andrea's side. She pulled a syringe out of a drawer, fastened
it to an IV line, and drained the contents into Andrea's blood.
Andrea's eyelids fluttered and every muscle in her body seemed
to respond in kind, relaxing like melting butter.

The nurse dropped the syringe in her pocket and looked at
Mark. She had to have seen the fear on his face. "It's OK. She's
OK now. She does that a lot, you know. Something put the fear
of God in her." She rounded the bed and stood beside Mark.
"Poor thing. She needs some rest now, hon. Why don't you
come back later."

Mark nodded. "OK. Later," knowing he had no intention of
ever setting foot in that room with whatever it was Andrea saw
in the corner.

HIS WAS TOO RISKY. HE WAS GETTING DESPERATE, AND
desperation led to mistakes, and mistakes led to failure,
and he couldn't fail. Not again.

Judge sat behind the wheel of his sedan, parked a block from
her apartment, uphill, waiting for the last light to wink out. His
dashboard clock said it was almost eleven. Any time now. The
one lighted window was the bathroom. She was probably doing
a little washing up before jumping in the sack.

'Course, he'd have to wait another hour after that to make
sure she was asleep.

Her apartment was on the ground floor, and a sliding glass
door opened to a concrete patio, all of which added up to easy
access. A patio door's lever lock was easy to disengage; any
bloke could do it. All it took was a little know-how and a pinch
of patience. The problem was going to be the neighbors. That
was why he'd originally chosen to take her during her secluded
morning jog. Homes were always risky business; too many
things could go wrong. Too many variables and unknowns.
Too little control. But he was here now, and risky or not, he was
going for it.

He took a sip of his coffee-Dunkin' Donuts, cream, no
sugar-and pulled in a long inhale. The steam filtered through
his nose, clearing his head of everything and filling it with the full aroma of the premium blend. He let his eyelids fall shut
and held the cup to his lips.

When he opened his eyes again the bathroom light was out.
He smiled. Nighty-night.