Scream (34 page)

"It's an abandoned barn in a valley, bordered by woods on
one side."

Foreman sighed. "That describes most of the hundredmile circumference. It's just too vague to call out that kind of
manpower. We'll wait a half hour, and when we make contact
with her, we'll be able to zero right in. Then we'll call in the big
guns. I have the state police on standby. OK?"

Mark didn't like it, but there wasn't much he could do. This
one was out of his hands. Frustration built inside him like
carbonation in a shaken soda bottle. He was a fixer, a problem
solver. It was why he was so good with cars. Find problem, diagnose problem, fix problem. Simple. But this was not so simple.
It was the kind of thing his parents would have said to pray
about. He could hear Mom now: Pray about it, Mark. It's in
God's hands now. God's able hands. But he was in no mood to
pray. He didn't want to talk to God. He wanted to scream. He
wanted to grab Foreman and Brinkley by the collars and shake
them until they understood the urgency of the situation. But of course they did. And Foreman was right; that barn could be
anywhere, as close as his own backyard, as far away as Ohio.
Pushing the irritation back and hiding it in some safe place
in his mind, he lowered his head and shrugged. "Yeah. OK.
Where's the coffee?"

"Down the hall, last room on the right. The lounge. I'll meet
you there in a few minutes."

Mark shuffled down the black and white tiled hall, past what
he assumed were two interrogation rooms, the men's bathroom,
and another room that had the door closed. He could hear men
talking behind the door, their voices muffled and serious.

The lounge was a small room equipped with a kitchenette to
the left with all the usuals: stainless steel sink filled with plastic
cups and ceramic mugs, blue Formica counter, microwave,
toaster oven, coffee maker, oak cabinets overhead. Beside the
counter stood a refrigerator, nothing special, just a beige, aging
fridge. The rest of the room was furnished with a plaid sofa
(well used and sagging in the middle), two upholstered chairs, a
short oval coffee table covered with magazines, and a boxy TV
on a spindly television stand. In the far corner sat a round oak
table surrounded by six unmatched chairs.

Mark poured himself a cup of coffee, added two packets of
sugar, and took a seat in one of the upholstered chairs. He wasn't
really thirsty, and his stomach would probably protest the intrusion of hot liquid, but he needed something to do. Something
to keep his hands occupied. Now if he could just keep his mind
occupied. He stood again and meandered around the room,
coffee in his right hand. On the wall, next to the door by which
he'd entered, were two sheets of paper with the word MISSING
across the top of each. In the center of each poster was a black
and white photo of a woman. The one on the left was an attractive woman with shoulder-length brown hair, sharp features, full lips, well groomed. Very pretty; model material. The one
on the right was a round-faced woman with short brown hair,
cut just below the ears and pulled back with barrettes. She had
a nice smile and a little upturned nose. Young. Looked like a
nice kid.

He dropped his eyes a few inches on the poster and froze. A
buzz started along his jaw and spread up both sides of his head.
He looked at the other poster. It was them. The other women
with Cheryl. Amber Mann and Virginia Grisham.

Amber disappeared two weeks ago. Oddly, that fact brought
a strange sense of hope to him. Apparently, their abductor was
in no hurry to get rid of them. But how much longer would it be
before he did? Sooner or later he'd do something. Unless he was
just collecting women for God only knew what reason. That
sent a new wave of chills over his head, mixed with hot anger.
Collecting women in some abandoned barn in the middle of
nowhere. Sick, just sick.

"It's been two weeks."

Mark started and looked at Foreman, who had just walked
into the room. "I saw. What are you doing about it?"

Foreman walked over to the counter and poured a fresh mug
of coffee. She rested her hip against the edge of the counter and
nibbled on her fingernail. "Not much we can do except let the
right people know. Both of 'em just disappeared. Poof." She
waved her hand in the air like a magician. "Mann left work and
no one saw her again. Grisham disappeared from her house.
No sign of forced entry. No fingerprints or shoe prints or tire
prints. Nothing. Just two missing women. Up until your call I
was starting to think they both just ran off."

Mark leaned against the wall. "Both of them?" He looked at
the posters again, quickly doing the math. "A week apart?"

Foreman stirred cream into her coffee. "Hey, stranger coincidences have happened. Believe me. I've only been on
the force three years, but I've seen it all. Come. Sit down." She
motioned toward the chairs, walked over, and sat on the edge of
the sofa. She placed her mug on the coffee table.

Mark pushed away from the wall and eased himself into the
upholstered chair he'd previously occupied.

Foreman rested her elbows on her thighs and interlocked her
fingers. "So ... did you hear the screams when you spoke with
your wife?"

Mark looked at her, wondering at first if she was mocking
him. But her face was as serious as his. "No. Thank God. Do
you have any idea who the pervert is who's responsible?"

Foreman reached for her mug and held it with both hands.
"Nope. Not a clue. Like I said, he left us nothing." She took a sip.
"He's good. I'll give him that." She eyed Mark long enough that
it made him uncomfortable. "Were you and your wife having
problems? Is that why she had her own apartment?"

The question stung, but it wasn't unexpected. Mark knew
sooner or later the subject would have to come up. After all,
a normal, healthy couple in love didn't live in separate houses
less than a half hour from each other. Mark shrugged, trying
to appear nonchalant. "We've been having some problems. She
thought it best if we split up for a while."

"Mind telling me what kind of problems?"

"Am I being interrogated?"

Foreman smiled and held up one hand in a half surrender.
"No." She reached up and removed her deputy badge, setting it
on the table in front of her. A symbolic gesture, Mark thought.
"Off the record. Just 'cause I care."

Mark cupped his mug in both hands. The warmth spread
through his palms like warm liquid. His eyes fell on the coffee,
black, reflecting the fluorescent lights above. "I cheated on her."

Foreman set her mug down and flopped back against the
sofa. "Wow. That was blunt. You don't seem like the type. Can
I ask why?"

"And that was personal," Mark said.

"Sorry. You don't have to answer."

Mark thought for a moment then said, "No, it's OK. I need
to own up to it sometime. Thing is, I don't really know why.
There was this waitress, and we got friendly, and one thing led
to another. It just all happened so naturally and ... fast. Before
I knew it, I was sharing my feelings with her. Stuff only Cheryl
should have known. And she was doing the same with me. We
got really close. Then, it just happened. We were alone. I walked
her to her car after her shift. And... " He paused. Tears were
building in his eyes. Reliving that moment, the moment that
changed, no, more than changed, ruined, his life was painful.
"And I kissed her. Took her in my arms and kissed her."

He forced a smile. A tear dripped out of his right eye and
caught on the corner of his nostril. The lights danced in his
coffee. "And wouldn't you know it? At just that moment, Cheryl
was driving by on her way home from a friend's baby shower
and saw the whole thing."

Foreman didn't say anything. Mark couldn't look at her, he
was too ashamed, but he could feel her eyes on him. What must
she be thinking? What a pig! That's what.

Mark thought back to that time, that moment, that instant
when he looked up and caught the look on Cheryl's face as she
drove past. It was the look of defeat-crushing, suffocating,
heart-ripping defeat. She might as well have caught them in bed.
He'd betrayed her, betrayed their love, betrayed his promise.
He never did sleep with Rachel, but he was sure that if Cheryl
hadn't caught them when she did, it would have been only a
matter of time. The kiss, one kiss-one moment in time, one mistake-was enough, though. Enough to rip her away from
him, to sever the love they shared. And now a gaping wound
was all that was left. Could it ever be healed? He would do all he
could to help it along, but the rest would have to be on Cheryl.
Could she forgive him? Could she accept his repentance? Only
time would tell.

"How long ago?" Foreman finally said.

"'Bout a month. Maybe a little more. I haven't been keeping
records."

"You're sorry you did it, aren't you?"

Mark looked up and noticed her eyes were glassy. "Yeah,
more than she'll ever know."

Foreman stood and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, be
real with her. She'll see how you really feel. OK?"

Mark nodded. It was all he could do. Tentacles of shame and
regret constricted around his throat, choking off his words.

Walking over to the counter and placing her mug in the sink,
Foreman said, "I'm gonna touch base with Hickock. Be back in
a couple minutes."

It was 4:48 p.m.

Twelve minutes. Please, God. The prayer sprang from some
deeply buried habit. It used to be instinct, when he was young
and striving to be "Christlike," whatever that meant. He'd
pray throughout the day: before meals, prior to tests at school,
walking the halls, walking home, before bed, first thing in the
morning. The Bible said to pray unceasingly, and that's what he
had aimed to do. Whether he actually meant any of it or not,
he no longer knew. There was a time when he thought he did,
but so had Dad, and look where it got him. But still, the prayer
he'd just spoken-Please, God-stirred something inside him. It was simple and easy, not the flowery, eloquent, high-andmighty King James prayers he used to send to heaven on a
dove's wings. This one came from his spirit, groaning, naked.

Please, God.

Mark paced the lounge, hands cupped around his third mug
of coffee, palms sweaty, heart tamping out an even rhythm.
Butterflies danced in his stomach. He felt like a fifth grader
right before his big part in the church Christmas pageant. But
the Christmas pageant never had someone's life in the balance.
Three lives in the balance. And one of them the love of his life.

God. Don't let anything happen to them. Please. "Call,
Cheryl. Call." Please, baby.

There was a knock at the lounge door. Mark spun around,
almost spilling his coffee, and found Foreman standing in the
doorway.

"Hey," she said, one hand on her hip. "You looked deep in
thought. I didn't want to startle you." She took a step toward
him. "I just got off the radio with Hickock. He's in the eastern
part of the county on another call but will be over as soon as
he can."

"Did you fill him in on everything?"

She nodded. "Everything we know so far. You nervous?"

Mark looked at his coffee, studied the ripples and that fluorescent reflection wriggling in the dark liquid, like the moon's
reflection on the open seas. "I'd be crazy not to be. I keep
thinking, what if she doesn't call? What if we never find her
and I never see her or hear her voice again?"

Foreman walked over to him and placed a soft hand on his
forearm. "You have to stay positive. If there's one thing I've
learned being a cop, it's that you can't give up. Ever. The minute
you give up, all hope is lost. She'll call. And we'll find her."

Mark looked at the clock on the microwave: 4:50. Please,
God.

The swollen sun hovered just above the horizon. The deep
purple sky was streaked with pastel pink clouds, like claw
marks across the heavens. For the past hour the mood in the
barn was a mixture of defeat and nervous anxiety. Several
times Cheryl had powered up the phone to check the time, and
each time she tried dialing 911 again. One never knew when the
winds of fate would change course and start blowing in their
favor, at their back. But each time the phone responded with a
weak beep when she pushed the 9 key and an empty stare when
she pushed the 1. She tried different numbers, different keys,
different combinations of keys, but got the same blank look
from the LCD display. Even the 4 was no longer working. And
there was now only a sliver of life left in the battery.