Scream (24 page)

He'd scope the area out once more tomorrow and time her
so he knew exactly where she'd be along her course. He'd then
wait a day and pick her up. The girls will be happy to get some
more company.

Then hopefully, if everything went as planned, Kristen would
follow a couple days later.

By this time next week, it could all be over.

Justice served.

Case closed.

Mark pushed open the glass door of Ray's Family Restaurant
and heard the familiar jingle of bells overhead. He hadn't set foot in the diner since Cheryl found out about Rachel. He'd
made every effort to put this part of his life behind him and
forget about it... and Rachel. But the day had left him depressed
and confused and vulnerable. He needed to hear Rachel's laugh,
see her smile, smell her flowery scent.

After leaving Mount Savage Community Church and the
tattooed preacher, he went home and spent the better part of
the day milling around the house not really doing anything but
thinking. Tim's words had hit him hard, like a sledgehammer
to the chest.

Everyone has an appointment with death. When will your
appointment come due?

An appointment with death. And what then? Heaven or hell?
He had thought about it until his brain literally ached. Oh sure,
he knew all the proper Christian jargon for such pondering.
Saved. Born again. New creation. But what did it all really
mean? He remembered Pastor Dickson, red-faced and drenched
in a hot summer sweat, screaming from the pulpit, "Give your
life to Christ! Turn it over to Him, you sinners. Confess and be
saved!" But how? How does one come to Christ? And why would
Christ even want him? He'd done nothing with his life. Nothing
profitable, anyway. Just a series of bad decisions that wound up
hurting others. Here I am, Lord. Sorry my life is such a wreck.

There had to be more to it than that. There just had to be.

He stood just inside the door of the diner and looked around.
Nothing had changed. He could see Phil in the kitchen, hovered
over the grill, forehead glistening. Wanda was waiting on a
table, chewing hard on the gum in her mouth, and at the far
end, with her back turned toward him, was Rachel. He took
in the familiar shape of her body and allowed a subtle smile to
play across his lips.

"Mark!"

He snapped his head around to find the hulking image of
Jim Ray lumbering toward him. Jim was one of the largest, if
not the largest, men Mark had ever met. He had a chest like a
front-end loader and a belly like a cement mixer. His forearms
were thick and wound tight like bunched-up steel cable. When
he walked, he thundered forward with all the determination of
an earthmover. Jim pulled up in front of Mark, a thick smile
pushing his cheeks into balls of stubbled fat, extended his oversized roughened hand, and shook Mark's whole body. "Good to
see ya, buddy. Why don't you come 'round no more?" He had a
distinct Maryland accent that clambered out of his mouth with
no more gracefulness than a dump truck.

As far as Mark knew, Jim had no idea what had gone on
between Mark and Rachel and Cheryl, and he didn't need to
know. "Oh, I've just been really busy. Sorry I haven't stopped
in lately."

Jim gave him a sideways look, one eyebrow cocked in skepticism, then laughed and slapped Mark on the shoulder. "That's
OK, buddy. I know it's nuthin' personal. Hey, why don't you
have a seat right over here and I'll hook ya up with some grub.
Hot dog special, am I right?"

Mark nodded and laughed. "You have a good memory, but
not tonight. What kind of pie is fresh today?"

"Ahh. Straight for the good stuff. Phil made up some lemon
pies and his famous French apple. Personally, I'd go with the
apple. Very good."

"Sounds good. The apple it is then. And is it OK if I sit in
Rachel's section?"

Jim slapped Mark's shoulder again. "Sure, sure. Go have a
seat, and I'll bring the pie myself. And coffee?"

"Great"

Mark headed down the aisle between booths on his right and bar stools on his left and slid into a booth toward the back.
Rachel was nowhere in sight. Seconds later, she backed through
the swinging door from the kitchen, carrying two trays loaded
down with dinner plates. When she turned, her eyes met his and
she stopped, cheeks suddenly flushing a deep pink. She held his
gaze for a few seconds then walked right by him without saying
a word and served the family of five two booths down. When
she was done, she stood by his table, one hand on her hip, the
other tucking the two trays under her arm.

"What brings you here?" Her face was stone, and there was
no emotion in her voice at all.

Mark looked at her, studying the sloping angles of her face.
He knew them by heart. "I'm not sure."

She sighed and opened her mouth to speak but-

"Here ya go, sir," Jim said, swooping in from behind Rachel.
He slid the pie in front of Mark and set a cup of black coffee
next to it.

"Thanks, Jim," Mark said, then reached for the sugar.

When Jim had left to man his spot behind the register, Rachel
sat on the bench across from Mark. "What are you doing here?
I thought we agreed not to see each other anymore"

Mark dumped some sugar into his coffee and began stirring
it. "Look, I-I don't know. I had a bad day, bad week. My dad
died and his funeral was yesterday."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Really I am. But you shouldn't have
come here. What did you think was gonna happen?"

Mark set the spoon on the saucer and lifted the fork. "I don't
know. I guess I-I just needed ... wanted to see you, that's all."

Rachel lifted both hands, palms up. "Well, here I am."

Mark let the fork drop to the table. "Look, I'm sorry, OK. I
never even apologized to you. I'm sorry."

Rachel's eyes couldn't hide the hurt and guilt she'd probably carried with her since Cheryl caught them. "You never even
told me you were married. If I'd known that, I never would
have gotten involved with you. The last thing I ever wanted was
to move in on another woman's man and wreck their marriage.
I'm not that kind of person."

"I know you're not. I know. I was wrong. I know it, believe
me.

Rachel leaned back and crossed her arms over her chest as
if protecting her heart from more hurt. "Are you and your wife
still together?"

"Barely. She moved out and got an apartment over in
Lonaconing. I expect the divorce papers will show up any day
now.

Rachel's face softened, a look that used to warm Mark on
even the coldest days. "How are you doing?"

Mark blew out a sigh. Part of him wanted to play the role of
victim, the poor husband who admitted he did wrong and only
wanted to make amends with his wife who was too stubborn
and bitter to even try to understand his true feelings, but part
of him knew that even if it worked, it would only end in more
heartbreak. And he'd broken enough hearts already. "I've been
better. But I've got nothing to complain about."

Rachel slid out of the booth, stood, and smoothed her apron.
"Enjoy your pie, Mark. I hope things get better for you." She
hooked her thumbs in her apron and tilted her head to the left.
Her facial expression said what her mouth would not: Good-bye
for good. "I don't think you should come back here anymore.
And go slow with your wife, OK? She's been through a lot
too." She turned and, putting on a smile, asked the family two
booths down if everything was to their liking. They nodded in
unison, and she returned to the kitchen without even so much
as a glance in Mark's direction.

His wife. Cheryl. Mark cut off a piece of pie and shoved it in
his mouth. Why had he come here? What did he really expect
to happen? He had no business ever setting foot in this place
again, let alone coming here just to see Rachel. He needed to
talk to Cheryl, to win her back. And he'd do anything to do it.

EDNESDAY. THE DAY HAD TO COME SOONER
or later, and it had come sooner. Mark unlocked the door
of the garage and flipped the switch just inside. Four
fluorescent overhead lights stuttered to life. He then flipped the
switch to open the large bay door. He was gonna need some
fresh air today. First day back since Dad's death, and a pile of
work awaited him. A '95 Olds Cutlass sat on the lift, six feet
off the ground, where he'd left it. Outside, an '01 Accord, a
'97 Taurus, and a '99 Explorer all waited patiently, sitting like
gentlemen at the barbershop. Two brake jobs and a chunkchunk-chunk when the transmission shifted gears. Should be a
busy day. And a long one.

He entered his office, hit the lights, and threw his keys on the
desk. Looking out the large window, he eyed the Olds. What
was he even doing to the thing? He glanced over his schedule
book. Oh, right. New shocks. He'd gotten it last Thursday,
before that call from his mom Friday. Fortunately, Mr. Kasino
understood and didn't pressure him to get it done. Said he was
very sorry for Mark's loss and not to hurry, he had a backup-a
'69 Corvette. Mark tried to picture Mr. Kasino in a 'Vette, and
it just wasn't happening.

An hour later the shocks were in place. He just needed to tighten things up and drop her down. He looked at the clock on
the wall-8:05. So far, so good.