Scream (25 page)

Six miles away, along a secluded stretch of Jackson Mountain
Road, Judge sat patiently among a stand of serviceberries,
waiting. Waiting for her to jog past. This would be the place.
Less than a tenth of a mile into the woods a service road ran
parallel with Jackson. He'd slip in behind her, plant some cones
along the road along with a Road Closed sign, then jump on
the service road and get ahead of her. A half-mile ahead, the
service road joined up with Jackson around a blind turn. He'd
plant more cones there, another sign, and head straight for her,
without interruptions. But his timing had to be perfect. That's
why he was here, waiting.

Mark threw his wrench on the workbench and reached for a
rag. The phone rang. Grabbing the rag, he wiped his hands as
he walked into his office. He dropped the rag on his desk and
picked up the phone.

"Stone Service Center."

"Mark Stone?" It was a woman. Husky voice. Definitely a
smoker.

"Yes."

"Mr. Stone, my name is Andrea Kreiger and I'm calling
from Pro Auto Parts. I understand you're in need of an auto
parts supplier."

Oh, brother. Big-chain auto store moving in on Jerry's clientele now that he's gone. They didn't waste any time, did they?
"Yeah. I guess I am."

"Mr. Stone, we'd like to offer you an introductory discount
exclusively for repair shop owners. We call it our Gold Premium
Plan. If you sign up now for a Pro Auto Parts account, you'll get
20 percent off all your auto part needs for-"

Out of nowhere, a steady chill buzzed down Mark's back.
Andrea wasn't talking anymore; she was screaming. At least, it
sounded like she was screaming, but Mark knew it wasn't her at
all. It was them. The voices from hell. Wails and moans coming
and going, rising and falling, crashing together like symbols and
kettle drums bringing a symphony to its adrenaline-pumping
crescendo. It was an orchestra of agony, the individual parts
played by some of the most inhuman sounds to ever escape a
mortal throat. Guttural groans clashed with sickening howls,
and above it all, that scream, a full-throttle nerve-searing
scream that pierced the air like a horn's howl.

Mark clenched the receiver. It was slippery against his wet
palm. His hand was trembling, and a cold sweat had broken out
on his forehead. Tim's words came back to him and jabbed at
his mind: For some reason, you're being given a little headsup. This woman was going to die, he was sure of it. He pressed
the receiver against his ear and pounded his fist on the desk,
waiting for the screams to die down. C'mon. C'mon.

After several more seconds the screams finally ceased, and
the receiver was filled with silence. "Hello?" What was her
name? Angela? "Angela?"

"Andrea. What was that?"

"Where are you?" His voice shook with each word.

"Pro Auto Parts. Are you OK?"

"No, I mean, where are you? Are you in the store?" He'd
unknowingly grabbed a piece of paper off his desk and had it
crumpled in his hand. His pulse was working overtime in his
neck; he could feel the throb straight through to his spine.

"Yes. Mr. Stone? What's-"

"You're gonna die." Oh, that was good. She'd receive that
real well.

"Excuse me? Look, if this is your way-'

"Listen to me!" Mark pressed the receiver harder against his
ear. His whole body was trembling now; sweat leaked from his
brow and upper lip. "Those screams. You're gonna die. That's
what they-"

He heard a faint click on the other end followed by heavy
silence. "Hello? Hello? Andrea?" Slamming the phone in its
cradle, he cursed and slapped the desk with an open palm. This
can't be happening. Not again. He tried to think, run through
his options, but his mind was a blank, a void. He was in a dead
zone. He stood there, leaning on his desk, staring at the phone
for what seemed an endless minute, trying to formulate some
kind of action plan. He had to do something! She was going to
die. He was sure of it. Finally, a thought came. Call the police.
They could get there quicker than he could. He picked up the
phone and hit 911 with his index finger.

A male dispatcher answered.

"I need the police, and hurry."

"Is this an emergency, sir?"

"Of course it is!" His voice cracked. "Send the police to Pro
Auto Parts on East Main Street."

"And what is the nature of the emergency, sir?"

"Someone's gonna die! Andrea. A clerk there. Just get someone
there!" He dropped the receiver in the cradle. He didn't have
time for twenty questions. Andrea didn't have time. There was
no guarantee that she was going to die immediately, Dad surely
didn't, but there was no guarantee she wouldn't either. Death
didn't wait for the cops to arrive.

Everyone has an appointment with death.

He grabbed his keys and bolted from the office. His Mustang
was parked around the side. Pro Auto Parts was on the other
side of town. It would take him a good fifteen minutes to get
there, what with morning traffic and all. But he had to go. What
if the 911 dispatcher thought he was some kind of prank caller
and never contacted the police? But he had to contact them,
didn't he? Sure. It had to be part of their protocol. But what if
the cops didn't respond? No, they would. If they received a tip
that someone was gonna die, didn't they have to at least check
it out?

He rounded the front of the 'Stang, slid in behind the wheel,
jammed the key in the ignition, and turned. The engine rumbled
to life.

Fifteen minutes later, Mark pulled onto East Main, tires
squealing on asphalt. He'd stuck to side streets to avoid the
traffic and lights on Main, running more than one stop sign.
Fortunately, no cops were around to see his stunts. Hopefully,
they were responding to his call.

When he got to the five hundred block he noticed lights
up ahead, blinking lights, red and blue strobes. The light bars
of more than one police car. His hands tightened around the
steering wheel, and his throat constricted, the grip of death
reminding him of the frailty of human life. Please, no. Maybe
they were just responding to the call, being cautious, and
everything was still OK. But when he got to the seven hundred
block he noticed the ambulance parked at the corner of the
building. His heart dropped right out of his chest. No. No. No.
This couldn't be happening. Not again. The image of Jerry lying
on the floor behind the counter, blue face, bulging eyes, flashed
through his mind.

As Mark approached the building, he slowed his car and stopped
along the curb. There were two cops in the parking lot. One was standing stiffly, writing in a small notepad while an elderly man
in overalls talked, waving his arms like he was directing traffic.
The other cop was standing by the door like a sentry.

There were about five people outside the store, huddled
together, craning their necks for a view of what was happening
inside and talking quietly to each other, shaking their heads.

Something was going on inside, and it wasn't good. Hopefully, the paramedics had gotten there in time.

Mark joined the crowd. "What's going on?" he said to a
middle-aged man with a gray goatee, sharp nose, and small
round glasses.

The man looked at Mark, then back at the building. "The
clerk was choking on something. That guy over there"-he
motioned toward the elderly gent in overalls- "tried to give
her the Heimlich, but nothing happened. She turned blue
and ... and passed out, I guess. He tried to revive her, but she
was gone. A minute later the cops showed up. They worked on
her until the ambulance came."

Mark's body was numb. Choked on something? That was it?
His mind swam in a pool of mud, unwilling to comprehend
what was happening.

The man was talking again, shaking his head side to side.
"-thing was, nobody in the store even called the cops. They
just showed up. Like they knew they were needed."

If the man continued talking or not, Mark didn't know,
didn't care. The cop standing sentry suddenly jerked the glass
door open, and a gurney with two paramedics on either side,
one at the head, and one at the foot, rolled out of the store,
clanking through the doorway. A woman-Andrea-was lying
on the gurney, her shirt ripped open. One paramedic, a stocky
male with a thick chest, pumped away on her sternum with two
hands, his body pistoning up and down like an oil rig. Sweat glistened off his forehead and cheeks. The other, a short female,
worked a bag that fed air directly into Andrea's trachea, apparently bypassing whatever was wedged in her throat. The third
paramedic, a slack-cheeked man with short-cropped graying
hair, pulled the gurney from the foot, while the fourth, a pudgy
baby-faced male, pushed from the head.

Mark swallowed hard. This wasn't happening. Not again.

When they reached the ambulance, the medics at the head
and foot shifted to either side. The middle-aged one started to
say something when Andrea suddenly sat straight up on the
gurney. Her arms flailed about wildly, and she swatted at herself
as if slapping at bees. Head, torso, legs, arms.

The paramedics started barking orders at each other while
the two on either side tried in vain to restrain her. The bag
came loose from her throat and fell to the ground. Her shirt
hung open, exposing her bare chest to the world. But Andrea
didn't seem to care. Her arms kept flailing and swatting, her
legs kicking, like she was frantically fighting off some creature
only she could see. Fighting for her life.

One of the medics, the baby-faced one, placed both hands
on Andrea's shoulders and shoved her back into a supine position. And that's when Mark noticed the look on her face. Her
eyes bulged and her mouth hung open in a silent scream, but
there was more to it than that. There was a look of terror. That
look of terror. The same one that twisted Dad's face right before
he passed. A look like she was witnessing the horrors of hell,
peeking into the inferno, or maybe being suspended above it. It
sent chills right through Mark's body, head to toe, like someone
had opened his skull and poured in a bucket of ice water. His
skin crawled with goose bumps, his scalp tingled, hands went
numb. This couldn't be happening.

Andrea continued to claw at herself while the paramedics restrained her, fastening belts around her shoulders, waist, and
legs. She wrenched and jerked about, eyes looking like they
would pop right out of their sockets, tracheotomy sucking air
like a hose. One of the paramedics, maybe the middle-aged
one, yelled something, and they all lifted the gurney in unison,
sliding it into the back of the ambulance. Within seconds, siren
howling like a demon, the ambulance tore out of the parking
lot and disappeared in the East Main Street morning traffic.

Mark stumbled back to his car, his mind spinning in a thousand different directions. He threw the driver's side door open
and collapsed into the bucket seat. What just happened here?
Again, the screams proved to be prophetic. And again, Tim's
words echoed through the chambers of his mind:

For some reason, you're being given a little heads-up.

But what was the reason? He didn't even have time to save
her! But she hadn't died. That was the weirdest thing of all. She
should have, but she didn't. If Mark hadn't called 911, and if
the cops hadn't been on the way when she choked, she would
have. So he did save her ... in a way. Then there was that look on
her face when she came to. The look of someone who had just
been to hell and back. He'd heard of people having near-death
experiences, but they always talked about bright lights and soft
voices and heaven, not hell. But the look on her face was definitely not that of someone who had just spent a few minutes
in bliss. So maybe she had died, gone to hell, and was revived
again. Was that even possible? He raked both hands through
his hair and flopped his head back against the headrest. He was
getting a headache.

Crouching in the serviceberries, judge pushed a branch out
of his face and glanced at his watch. 8:43. She wasn't going to show. She should have been there by now, should have been
there fifteen minutes ago. He snorted, accepting defeat, and was
about to stand when he heard the faint steady rhythm of footfalls on asphalt, like a ticking clock. He peered out of the shrub,
looked right, and saw her coming on the opposite side of the
road, about a hundred yards away. She was wearing navy blue
jogging pants and a yellow loose-fitting T-shirt. Her hair was
pulled back in a tight ponytail. As she drew closer he could see
the redness in her cheeks, the sweat on her brow, the heaving of
her chest. She was going at a pretty good clip too.