Scream (17 page)

Trying to look around the girls' legs, he sees only glimpses
of two bodies tangled in battle (a struggle for survival, life or
death, winner takes all). A grunt sounds, then another smack,
and another cry. Within seconds the air in the barn is filled
with grunts and groans, cries and shrieks. It's difficult to make
out who is delivering the blows and who is receiving. Katie is a
tough girl; he knows that. He's seen her carry her own weight
around the farm for nearly three months now. But pitted against
Bethany's size and weight (four years older, three inches taller,
with a fully developed chest and child-bearing hips), Katie is
no match.

He tries to get up again. He has to help Katie. He can't just sit here and let her be beaten unmercifully. (She's gonna kill her,
beat her to death like a bad dog.) But another blow, this one to
the back, puts him on his stomach in the hay.

Anger seethes inside him. No, rage. Pure rage. He jumps
to a crouch and throws himself at the girls, releasing a primal
grunt. One of them catches him around the neck and holds
him while the other two land a barrage of punches to his torso.
Numbing pain thuds up and down his rib cage as he tries to
fight back. But it's useless; they're too big and have him in such
an awkward position.

But in the midst of his own beating, he suddenly becomes
aware that the brawl between sisters taking place just feet away
has slowed (a wind-up toy losing its umph). Someone is on the
floor, pinned in the corner, while the other delivers a steady
round of kicks. The thudding sound of sneaker against flesh
is sickening. He hears one of the girls, maybe the fat one, say,
"That's enough, Beth. Geez, don't kill her."

The beatings end abruptly, and he's tossed to the floor. The
girls step away from him, laughing and mocking as they turn
toward Bethany (devils gloating in the work of the devil).
That's when he gets a good look at Katie. She's pushed into a
corner, half buried in hay, curled on her side in the fetal position, hands over her head, whimpering. Bethany stands over
her like a victorious gladiator. Her hair is tangled, shirt torn
around the collar. Long scratch marks, like crimson lightning
bolts, stretch up her arm from elbow to shoulder. Her right
cheek is red and raw. Katie has put up a good fight (but, dear
Lord, not good enough).

Bethany points a finger at Katie. "You say one word about
this to Mom or Dad and I'll tell them about your little makeout session with butt face. You were foolin' around in the loft,
and both of you fell. Got it?"

With that, she spins around on her heels and stalks out of
the barn, her cronies following close behind.

Clearing the cobwebs from his head, he climbs to his feet and
stumbles over to Katie. She cowers in the corner like a whipped
dog, whimpering and crying. Her hair clings to her bloodied
face; abrasions mottle her arms and hands. She's been beaten
good (like a bad dog).

He gently places a hand on her forehead and swipes away
some of her sweat-soaked hair. Her left eye is almost swollen
shut. Tears burn his eyes, and the rage is there again. He'll
get them for this. (Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord-no,
vengeance is mine.)

Then he smells it. Something burning.

A ribbon of smoke lifts off the hay and floats toward the
loft above. He digs through the hay and feels a burning pain
against his hand. It's on fire! Fat Girl must've flicked her cigarette at Katie.

Before he has time to react, a small flame springs to life, just
feet from where Katie lies.

"Katie, c'mon. We gotta get outta here."

But she doesn't move. He doesn't think she can move. Probably has some broken ribs.

He grabs her by the wrist and tries to pull, but her dead
weight is just too much for him. (Dear God, help us.)

The flame grows larger, billowing smoke now.

He tries to roll her, but there is no time left. The flame has
reached his pant leg and singes the bottom of his jeans. He
jumps back and swats at the hem.

By the time he looks up again, the flames have surrounded
Katie in the hay. She tries to sit up, but it's too much for her. As
the flames surround her, she screams in terror, her face twisting with the recognition that she's going to die, burn to death. (Hellfire surrounds the wicked, but there's nothing wicked here.)

He has to do something, knows he has to do something, but
his mind is stuck in mud; it won't work. He's paralyzed, helpless
to rescue the girl that just moments before enabled him to feel
real love for the first time in his life.

Judge snapped his eyes open. Enough!

He couldn't relive any more of the horrors in his tortured
memory. He jumped out of his chair, reached over his desk, and
ripped the snapshot from the wall, tearing it into a hundred
pieces.

Tiny squares of paper floated to the floor.

That grin would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Mark lay on the sofa in his parents' family room, shoeless,
wearing torn jeans and a faded Led Zeppelin T-shirt. After Dad
slipped away yesterday, he'd spent some time with his mother,
making the funeral arrangements, then headed back to her
home, finally climbing under the covers of his old bed at a little
after 1:00 a.m. Sleep only came in restless spurts, though. His
mind was too active, and being in his old room in his old house
brought back a scrapbook full of memories. At six o'clock he'd
finally given up on any productive sleep and moved to the sofa
in the family room.

He planned on spending a few days here with Mom, make
sure the funeral went OK and she was settled in before going
back home. The service was Monday, the day after tomorrow... at his old church. He wouldn't go back to work until Wednesday or Thursday. The events felt like entries in somebody else's calendar book, scribbled engagements that had to be
kept to keep life rolling on. And it did roll on, didn't it? People
died, babies were born, couples wed then split up, but life just
kept truckin' on, merciless, unforgiving.

He'd spent most of the night thinking about Dad and the
things he'd said in those final minutes. Dad was a lot of things,
and one of them was religious. Too religious. That's what drove
Mark away. At the age of eighteen, he'd finally grown tired of
all the Bible quoting and finger wagging. That was when he'd
decided to tune Dad out. The old man could quote from the King
James all he wanted; he could judge and condemn and testify
until Mary had another lamb, and it wouldn't matter, because
Mark didn't care anymore. It was all just background noise.

Boy, was he bitter back then. A rebel teen out to prove the
self-righteous Christians wrong. And Dad was public enemy
number one. Over the years he'd matured and settled down,
lost his contempt for Dad and his overzealous ways, even tried
a few churches here and there. But none were a good fit for him.
The Episcopal church was too dead, the Assembly of God too
happy, the Baptist too pious. He'd grown up hearing the Word
preached, yelled, prayed, and sung. He knew the gospel message
inside and out. Could quote Scripture with the best of them.
What he needed, and to be honest, longed for, though doubted
he'd ever find, was reality. Christians who walked their talk in
the real world, fleshed it out in the midst of real people with
real problems, trudged through the muck and mire of life with
everyone else. That's what he wanted to see, that's what he'd
searched for but never found.

But what Dad had said, lying there so close to death, had
touched Mark in a way he'd never thought possible. It was
honest and raw, right from the heart. It was the most candid and transparent he'd ever seen Dad, ever seen anyone, for that
matter. Here was a man who'd spent his whole life trying to live
up to the impossible expectations of the Bible-bein' Christlike, he'd say-and, faced with death, admitted it was all lies.
Hypocrisy at its best. And worst.

What was Mark supposed to do with that? How was he
supposed to process such honesty? Dad's words still rang in his
ears-My whole life was a lie. I'm lost.

What a waste. What a horrible, tragic waste.

Tears leaked from Mark's eyes, and he let them come.

Dad's words continued to come as well. I don't even know
what's right anymore. What the truth is.

Somewhere in those dreadful words was a warning; he was
sure of it. Dad's words, spoken moments before death, tolled as
a warning bell, warning, warning him to reevaluate life.

And then there was the look in Dad's eyes as death crept
in and robbed him of life. The look would be forever tattooed
on the inside of Mark's eyelids. It was the look of fear-pure,
untainted fear.

A thought struck him then and tightened his scalp. The look
in Dad's eyes was the look of those screams. If the screams had
a face, Mark had seen it. And it was terrifying.

He had to talk to someone else about it. Someone had to
know how to make sense of it.

But first he had to call Cheryl. She deserved to know. He sat
up on the edge of the sofa, raked his fingers through his hair,
then over his stubbled face. Picking up his cell phone, he flipped
it open and dialed Cheryl's number. Her phone rang once, and
a sudden weight of anxiety settled over him. What was he
doing? She didn't want to talk to him. He couldn't just call her.
It didn't work that way anymore. She hated him. She-

"Hello?" It was Cheryl. Obviously.

"Hi, uh ... hi." His mind froze, locked up like dry gears.

"Mark?"

"Um, yeah. Hi."

Her voice turned cold. "What do you want?"

"Um, what are you doing? You sound out of breath."

"I'm jogging, OK? And you're interrupting me. What do
you want?"

Just like Cheryl to have her cell phone with her while she
was jogging. Never left home without it. "I, uh, just thought you
should know my dad died yesterday."

There was a long pause. Heavy breathing. "Mark, I'm sorry."
Her voice had softened some but still sounded labored and
edged in steel. "How? I mean, what happened?"

"Heart attack. They did surgery, but it didn't take or something. I don't know. He went downhill fast. I was there when
he passed. It was really hard on Mom" Why was he telling her
this? Because she was still his wife, that's why. They used to tell
each other everything. No secrets.

-Hey, babycakes, since it's our first night as man and wife,
let's make a pact.

-Anything for you, Cheryl. Name it.

-Let's agree to always tell each other the truth and never
keep secrets from each other.

-That sounds doable.

-Pinky swear?

-Swear.

-Good. This solemn pact is hereby notarized and effective
immediately to continue forever and ever.

-Forever and ever. Cross my heart-

-Hope to die.

"I'm sorry. Really, I am. It must have been horrible," Cheryl
said.

It was good to talk to her again without arguing. "It was. He
looked so frightened. The funeral's Monday here in Virginia.
Don't feel like you have to come."

He wanted to tell her about the screams, about everything,
but she'd think he'd totally lost it. She already didn't think too
highly of him. He was right up there with the mud caked into
the tread of her sneakers.

There was an awkward silence for a couple seconds. Cheryl's breathing was slowing. A car rolled by in the background,
gravel crunching under its tires.

"I miss you, Cher. Really." It was the truth too.

Cheryl didn't say anything at first, and Mark thought she
wouldn't, then, "Why?"

Why? He tells her he misses her and she asks why? "Because.
I still love you."

She snorted into the phone. "You love me, do you? You
cheated on me. Is that how you show love?"

Her question was like a sword in the heart. He had no answer,
no defense. She was right. He would admit his mistake, take the
punishment. "No, it's not. Look, Cheryl, I was wrong. I know I
was. And I'm sorry."