Scream a novel, p.13
Scream: A Novel, page 13
When they were no more than one hundred yards from the road, Amber pulled up. “Listen,” she said, breathing hard, each inhalation wheezing like the air was being sucked in through a straw. A trickle of sweat broke from her hairline and caught in her eyebrow. Her pulse thumped in her neck.
Ginny stood still, mouth open, chest heaving, eyes going back and forth along the pasture. Her cheeks were bright red, forehead glistening with sweat.
Amber listened closer, wiping the tears from her eyes. She knew she heard something. A whine in the distance.
There.
Her heart kicked against her ribs. The sound of a car’s engine.
Before she could form words to warn Ginny, the white sedan appeared on the paved road, slowed, and turned left onto the dirt lane.
Amber squeezed Ginny’s hand and yanked her off the road, diving into the tall grass. The sedan’s engine growled, wheels spun in the dirt. He’d seen them!
Amber jumped to her feet, grabbed Ginny’s arm just above the elbow, and yanked her up too. “C’mon. Run.” Then both of them took off across the pasture, grass slapping at their legs, rocks jutting into their feet.
Behind them, Amber heard the sedan’s engine settle and a car door close.
She didn’t dare look back. She wanted to, had to know how much of a jump they had on Judge, but fear kept her looking straight ahead. Her hand was still around Ginny’s arm, and she gripped it tighter, practically dragging the poor girl along. Where she was headed, she had no idea. A thought flashed through her mind to cut to the left and head for the road. Maybe a car would be passing by. Maybe a house was nearby. She dug her feet into the dirt and made a sharp change of direction, yanking Ginny along with her.
Then she heard it. A gunshot, like a crack of thunder, echoing off the trees to her right. She instinctively ducked and hunched her shoulders, waiting for the impact of the bullet. Ginny started crying.
“Duke! Buck!”
Judge was hollering for the Dobermans.
They were doomed. If he didn’t shoot them, the dogs would surely get to them. And the road was no more than fifty yards away.
Suddenly, from the tree line, the two Dobermans appeared, barking and cutting through the grass at full speed like black demons. Amber surged forward and lost her grip on Ginny. She swung her head around and saw Ginny sprawled in the grass, belly down.
She pulled up. She couldn’t leave Ginny. She just couldn’t. Either they both escaped, or they both stayed and took whatever fate held for them. The dogs were getting closer, barking and snarling. Judge was in a full run, barreling through the pasture, rifle in hands. It was over. The chase and maybe their lives. She fell on Ginny, who was now gasping for air between sobs, and covered her with her own body, tensing for the burn of the dog’s teeth or the punch of a bullet.
The gun exploded in her ears. She flinched and let out a scream. The dogs had arrived.
“Back off!” Judge hollered. “Buck! Back off! Back!”
Amber held her eyes closed tight, clinging to Ginny beneath her, pulling in air through her raw, swollen throat. The dogs were right there. She could hear them tamping the ground with their paws, slapping their jaws, panting heavily and whining. Judge was there too. She felt him hovering over them.
“Well, well,” he said, sucking in air between words. “We got a couple of runners.” Amber felt something hard nudge her in the ribs. “Get up.”
She lay still, unmoving, tears stinging her eyes.
The nudge came again. “Get . . . up. Or do I have to turn the dogs loose?”
Reluctantly, Amber pushed herself up and stood facing Judge. He was wearing his Stetson low as usual, faded jeans, and a red and yellow plaid flannel shirt. A large rifle rested comfortably in his hands, the barrel pointed at her. To her right stood the dogs, their dirt-brown eyes bouncing between her and Judge, waiting for permission.
Judge motioned toward Ginny with the rifle. “Get her up too.”
Amber bent at the waist and grabbed Ginny under the armpit. She choked the words out. “C’mon, Ginny. Get up.”
Ginny covered her head with her hands and screamed something. Amber couldn’t make out what it was, but it was defiant. She wasn’t getting up.
Redness crept up Judge’s neck. His nostrils flared and upper lip twisted into a snarl. “Get up, woman!”
Ginny screamed again and shook her head.
Judge glanced at the dogs, his eyes on fire.
“No,” Amber said. She was ready to beg. “Please, no. Let me talk to her.”
Judge just glared. The dogs kneaded the ground impatiently, tongues darting in and out of their mouths, whimpering occasionally.
Amber knelt beside Ginny and whispered in her ear, “Ginny. If you don’t stand up, he’ll set the dogs on you. We’ll get out of this alive. Trust me. Just do as he says.”
For a moment it seemed she wouldn’t cooperate, like she had chosen the fate of the dogs over the wrath of Judge. But after several unending seconds she wiped her eyes and nose with her sleeve and slowly stood. Her face was red and dirty, streaked with tears, smeared with mucus. Her hair was tangled and clung to her forehead in jagged bunches. She stared at Judge, lips thin, eyes narrow.
Judge’s mouth parted in a crooked smile. “Good. You do know how to listen. Now, here’s what we’re gonna do. You’re gonna march your little selves right back to that lane and back to the barn. I’m gonna follow in the car. Don’t get any ideas about running again. Remember, I’m the only obstacle between you and the dogs. And from the looks of things, they’re right hungry. Now move.”
Amber reached down and grasped Ginny’s hand. “C’mon. Stay close.”
They shuffled through the grass in no hurry, Judge following close behind, poking them with the tip of the rifle’s barrel. The dogs were somewhere back there too. Amber could hear them weaving through the grass, panting loudly, their paws falling softly on the ground.
When they reached the dirt lane, Judge nudged her with the rifle. “In front of the car.” He then opened the back door of the sedan and ordered the dogs in. Slipping into the front seat, he fired up the engine and hung his head out the window. “Now, ladies. March. And remember the dogs.”
Amber tugged on Ginny’s hand and began walking. “It’ll be OK. If he wanted to kill us, he would have done it already.” But she didn’t believe the words herself. She was sure they were marching to their deaths. What was the saying on death row? Dead man walking? A sense of doom settled over her then, and she almost broke for the road. Maybe it was better to die at the jaws of the dogs than the hands of Judge. Who knew what he had in store for them when they got back to the barn? Maybe something far worse than being eaten alive by a couple of ravenous dogs. If that was possible. Which she imagined it was.
Ginny plodded along in silence, head hung low, shoulders slumped, the picture of defeat. And that was just what Judge wanted, to defeat them. Amber straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and took deliberate strides, a sudden surge of stubbornness empowering her. She wasn’t dead yet, and until that moment came, she would give Judge no indication of the vortex inside her that was swallowing her hope. No way. She had to be strong. Or at least appear strong.
When they arrived back at the barn, Ginny began to whimper and cry again. The very sight of the wooden tomb sent shivers through Amber. Judge cut the engine and exited the sedan, letting the dogs loose. “Stay!” he ordered, though Amber wasn’t sure if he was talking to the dogs or them. She stood still, waiting for the death bell to toll.
Judge approached Amber and Ginny, his boots landing softly in the dry dirt. Amber noticed he was rifleless. He’d left it in the car. With arms hanging casually at his sides, he nodded his head toward the barn. “Inside.”
Amber clutched Ginny’s hand and pulled her through the cutout door in the side of the barn. Home sweet home. The first thing Amber noticed was the smell. Over a week of human waste. She knew it was bad before, but spending time in fresh air had made it seem even worse. She almost gagged but swallowed the bile that had risen in her throat. Be strong.
Ginny immediately headed for their corner nest and fell on her bottom, pulling her knees to her chest. Amber glanced at the open trapdoor then at Judge. He too was looking at it, eyes wide, mouth tight, jaw set, hands clenching into fists then relaxing, clenching and relaxing, like he was pumping the life out of two stress balls.
Finally, Judge shifted his eyes to Amber, held his gaze there for what seemed minutes, blinked twice, then sighed. He then spun on the heels of his boots and exited the barn, leaving the door open. Amber took a step to her left so she could see what he was up to. She saw him go around to the back of the car, the dogs circling his legs, and open the trunk. She had the sudden urge again to make a run for it. With the trunk open, she couldn’t see him, which meant he couldn’t see her. Could she slip out of the barn unnoticed and hide in the pasture? Maybe she could stay low enough to conceal herself in the tall grass, crawl on her belly all the way to the road.
She shook her head. Ridiculous idea. The dogs would track her down in no time. She had to think more clearly than that if she was going to survive this thing.
After a few seconds, the car trunk slammed shut, and Judge strode back to the barn with something in his right hand.
He marched over to the trapdoor, dropped it shut, and slipped a padlock through the iron ring, all without saying a word. When he was finished, he stood, glared at Amber, then at Ginny, and turned to leave again.
A scream pierced the still air of the barn. “Why?” It was Ginny.
Amber spun her head around and found Ginny standing in the corner, clutching her chest, eyes red and swollen, mouth turned down at the corners, an inverted U. She looked like she’d been through a war. And, in a way, she had.
Judge had spun around too and now stared at Ginny, a curious look on his face. Not anger or hate, not anything evil. More like . . . pain.
Ginny leaned forward and screamed again, “Why? Why did you take us?”
Judge took a step toward Ginny, then halted. His left eye twitched and his hands began pumping again. He opened his mouth, then clamped it shut and swallowed hard. His Adam’s apple seemed to be stuck in his throat. When he opened his mouth again, his lips trembled ever so slightly. “Why? Because . . . because I watched her burn. They burned her, and I stood there helpless and watched.”
Amber glanced at Ginny, who was staring at Judge with an open mouth and wide eyes. She obviously hadn’t expected an answer. She then glanced back at Judge and for a moment thought she saw something glisten in his eye. Was it a tear?
Judge continued. “Then I took the blame while they walked.” He shrugged his shoulders and frowned. And yes, there was a tear. It spilled out of his eye and ran a track down his cheek. Either he didn’t notice or didn’t mind because he did nothing to hide it. “Someone’s gotta pay.”
He turned without saying another word and headed for the door.
“How many were there?” Amber asked in a low voice. She was beginning to understand his motive. Peering into his mind reminded her of the time she paid two dollars at the county fair to see the “lobster people.” Intrigue and curiosity had pushed her there, but once she saw that the “freaks” behind the curtain were no more than normal people with some odd deformity that had fused their fingers into claws, she felt a mixed sense of guilt and revulsion and pity. And she wished she hadn’t looked in the first place.
Judge stopped with one foot through the door, turned his head to the side, and opened his mouth. He stood like that for at least three seconds, shifting his jaw side to side, then closed his mouth, turned his head away, and left.
Amber and Ginny stood in total silence as the door shut, the lock engaged, and the cinder block fell back into place. The car door opened, then shut, and the engine groaned to life. But the car didn’t move. No sound of tires grinding over dirt or engine fading into the distance. It just sat there, idling.
“What’s he doing?” Ginny asked.
Amber walked over to the door and peeked through a crack. The sedan sat in the dirt, white smoke puffing out of its muffler, the dogs circling it, noses to the ground. She could see Judge’s silhouetted Stetson-less head above the headrest, unmoving. “Nothing,” she said. “Just sitting there.”
➍
Judge eased the back of his head against the headrest, closed his eyes, and drew in a long deep breath, filling his lungs with cool air. His hands rested lightly on his thighs, fingers splayed. That hadn’t gone so well. Did he actually cry in front of them? No matter, the outcome would be the same. And besides, they needed to know, they needed to see it firsthand—he wasn’t a monster.
He thought about what he’d said in there. I stood there helpless and watched. He did watch too. Oh, he tried to turn away. The moment the flames licked at Katie’s skin and she shrieked in both terror and pain, he tried to turn his head away, but he couldn’t. Instead he leaned against the barn door, hugging it, digging his fingers into the wood until they bled, watching, watching the flames engulf her, watching her writhe in pain, watching her skin turn black like barbecued chicken. He hated himself for watching, knew he shouldn’t, but he just couldn’t tear his eyes away from the grisly scene. It was like some unseen hand was grasping his chin, squeezing his cheeks, holding his head there and a voice saying, Look! Look! You have to watch this so you will never forget. And he’d known then and there he would never forget. How could he?
It didn’t take long for the flames to spread throughout the rest of the barn, and he had to flee. He ran through the corn-field until he could run no longer. Then he collapsed on the ground, exhausted, and cried. Oh, how he cried, like never before. The tears seemed to be sucked out of him, pulling every ounce of fluid in his body with them, until he was completely drained and dry.
He had no idea how long it was before he finally heard the wail of sirens. Then, after some time, the wail of Mr. McAfee when he found out his youngest daughter—Katydid, he called her—was in the barn.
Judge had curled into a ball and covered his ears to block out the sound of the grief-stricken father. It was the first time he’d ever heard a grown man cry, and it sent eerie chills racing along his body. Cries and groans and curses rose into the air with the black smoke and floated up to heaven.
Days later he was confronted with the awful conclusion. Bethany had told her side of the story, and he was taking the blame. They were blaming him! Not that he did it intentionally; nobody was saying that. They were saying that he was playing with matches and must have been careless. Just a stupid accident. By a stupid kid. But from then on, none of the McAfees would even look at him. Accident or not, they blamed him.
He pulled his thoughts out of the painful past and ran a hand over the vinyl seat. Tears blurred his vision, and a lump sat in his throat like a tumor. A deep sense of loss had settled over him. He thought of Amber and Virginia in the barn. They had nothing to do with Katie’s death—murder—but, like he said, someone had to pay. They were like the lambs he’d learned about in Sunday school all those years ago. The ones the Israelites sacrificed. The lambs were innocent of the crimes of the people, but . . . someone had to pay. Virginia and Amber and the ones to come were like the lambs, a substitutionary sacrifice.
Justice had to be satisfied.
He sat a moment longer, thinking on that, turning it over and over in his head, like his grandmother used to churn butter. After a few minutes he reached up and turned the key, killing the engine.
➎
Ginny looked up. “What? What is it? The engine stopped.”
Amber returned to the crack in the door and pressed her face against it. “He’s getting out.” The car door shut, and Judge’s footsteps drew closer to the barn. The cinder block tumbled away, the lock disengaged, the door opened. Judge stepped one foot through the door and stopped. His Stetson sat even lower on his brow, and his face remained turned toward the floor. His shoulders were slumped, arms relaxed at his side. Anything but killer-like.
“What do you need?” he asked.
Amber looked at Ginny, whose face was expressionless, a blank slate, then back at Judge. “Some clean clothes would be nice, underwear. Maybe some new socks.” She looked again at Ginny, seeking a suggestion, but she still looked dumbfounded by Judge’s request.
Judge dipped his chin in a shallow nod, still facing the floor. “Anything else?”
Amber waited a few seconds, trying to decipher the motive behind Judge’s sudden interest in their well-being. Maybe he was softening some. Maybe there was some hope after all. Finally, she swallowed and said, “Something other than apples. Maybe some”—she looked at Ginny for help but got nothing but the same blank stare—“cereal or Pop-tarts or granola bars. And some tissues.”
Judge nodded again, backed out, and shut the door. Minutes later, the engine fired up and the sedan rolled away.
When the engine’s whine had faded, Ginny fell back in the straw, covered her face with her hands, and let the tears come, like a levy being breached. “He’s toying with us,” she sobbed, choking out the words. “He’s gonna kill us.”
Chapter 7
➊
MARK LEANED AGAINST HIS ’73 MUSTANG, COLLECTING his thoughts. Dad’s funeral yesterday had left him shaken. Depressing wouldn’t even begin to describe it. The thin, balding preacher went on and on about what a pillar in the church Dad was, what a godly man.
A devout family man and model for all of us to emulate.
He ran down the list of ministries Dad had been involved in over his fifty-odd years of church participation, then waxed eloquent about the eternal glory Dad was experiencing.
In the presence of Jesus. Experiencing perfect peace. Glory. Amen.
But the look on Dad’s face the moment before he crossed that line from life to death was anything but peaceful. It was one of terror and confusion. Panic. And it would stick with Mark for the rest of his life.
