Scream (3 page)

"Over?"

Over. Finished. Kaput. I blew it, and now I have to live
with it. "Nothing official yet. But she pretty much made it clear
she doesn't want anything to do with me."

Jeff paused and sighed into the phone. "Man, I'm sorry. Is
there anything I can do?"

Mark slowed the Mustang around a hairpin turn. He didn't
want to talk about this now. He wasn't ready. And besides, it was
late, and he was tired. "No. I don't even think there's anything
more I can do. Can we talk about it in the morning?"

"Absolutely. I just... wait. Hang on a sec. What's this guy-"

The sound of screeching tires filled the receiver. Rubber
howling against asphalt. Then a low earthy rumble... Jeff grunt-
ing...crunching metal and shattering glass.

Mark leaned heavy on the brake, and the Mustang fishtailed
to a stop. The engine growled impatiently. "Jeff? You there?"

Nothing. Not even static. His pulse throbbed in his ears.

Mark dialed Jeff's number. Four rings. "Hello, this is Jeff."

Voice mail. Great. "You know what to do." A woman's voice
came on. "To leave a voice message, press one or wait for the
tone. To-"

Mark's thumb skidded over the keypad, dialing 911.

Sheriff Wiley Hickock sidestepped down the steep embankment, sweeping the light from his flashlight to and fro in a short
arc. Up above, a couple of firefighters were winding a hose; two
others were stripping out of their gear. Lights flashed in an even
rhythm, illuminating the area in a slow strobe of red and white.
Red, red, white; red, red, white. The pungent smell of melted
rubber and burnt flesh permeated the air. Three towers holding
four floodlights each lit up the area like a baseball stadium
during a night game.

When he reached the bottom, Hickock surveyed the ball of
twisted, smoldering metal that had once been a Honda Civic
before it bulldozed ten feet of oak saplings and wrapped around
the scarred trunk of a mature walnut tree. Tongues of smoke
curled from the misshapen steel and licked at the leaves of the
walnut. A large swath of ground had been dug up, exposing the
dark, rich soil.

Deputy Jessica Foreman headed toward him. Her dark russet
hair looked like it had been hastily pulled back in a loose ponytail. Her uniform was wrinkled, a road map of creases. Her
hands were sheathed in blackened latex gloves.

Wiley frowned as she approached. "Sorry to get you out here
on your day off, Jess. Thanks for helping out, though."

Jess tugged off the latex gloves and swept a rebellious lock
of hair away from her face and tucked it behind her ear. "Do
what's gotta be done, right?"

Wiley squinted and ran a finger over his mustache. "That's what they say. When did fire and EMS get here?" There were
still some firefighters milling around the wreckage, poking at it
with their axes. Two paramedics were standing off to the right,
talking and laughing.

"'Bout twenty minutes ago. Didn't take long to douse the
fire." She glanced at the paramedics. "No need for those guys.
Did you notice the skid marks on the road?"

Wiley nodded, keeping his eyes on what barely resembled a
car. The driver was still in there. He could see his rigid, charred
body still smoldering. Mouth open in a frozen scream. Lips
peeled back. Back arched. Fingers curled around the steering
wheel. He'd seen it only once before-a burned body. It was
revolting, and yet there was something about it that held his
gaze, as if the burnt stiff had reached out with those bony, black
fingers and grabbed his eyeballs-Look at me!

He shut his eyes tight, trying to push the memory of the
other burnt corpse from his mind. He knew it would never
leave, though. It was seared there by some psycho-something
branding iron.

Wiley opened his eyes and blinked twice. Concentrate. "Yup.
Two sets of 'em. But only one car. I don't like it. Loose ends.
What's your take?"

Jess shrugged and nodded toward the wreck. "Got run off
the road by a drunk or sleeper, lost control, and met Mr. Tree."

"You sound fairly certain. Got a witness?"

Jess turned and pointed over her shoulder. "Almost. See that
guy over there?"

Wiley looked up the embankment and saw a thirty-something
average joe in a faded gray T-shirt and grease-stained jeans
leaning against a classic Mustang, hair disheveled, arms crossed,
shoulders slumped, eyes blank. "Yeah. Who's he?"

"He was on the phone with-" She jerked her thumb toward the wreck and the stiff. "Said he heard the accident happen and
called it in. Got here before anyone else, but the car was already
a torch. Name's Stone. Mark. Said our friend here said something like `What's this guy doin'?' then he heard the wheels lock
up and busting up stuff, then nothing."

Wiley eyed Stone again. In the light of the cruiser's strobes,
his eyes looked like two lifeless chunks of coal. His mouth was
a thin line, jaw firm.

Wiley turned his attention back to the Civic. "Anything else?"

"No. Not yet anyway."

They both stood quietly, studying the remains of the car,
until a man's high-pitched voice from their right broke the
silence. "Sheriff."

Wiley turned to see Harold Carpenter, volunteer fire chief,
high-stepping through the tall grass, his chubby jowls jiggling
like Jell-O with each movement. With his sagging cheeks,
underbite, and heavy bloodshot eyes, the man looked like a
bulldog.

Carpenter stopped in front of Wiley, flushed and out of
breath. "Sheriff. What'd ya think?"

Wiley didn't even look at him. He kept his eyes on the
corpse sitting behind the wheel. "Just got here, Harry. Don't
think much yet."

Carpenter shoved a singed, brown leather wallet at Wiley.
"Here's the driver's wallet. One of my guys retrieved it from
the ... uh ... back pocket."

Wiley took the wallet and handed it to Jess. Opening it, she
slipped out the driver's license. It was singed around the top
edge. "Jeffrey David Beaverson."

"Did you run the plates yet?" Wiley asked.

Jess nodded. "Sure did. Same Beaverson."

It was a perfect day for a funeral. If such a thing existed.

The sky was a thick slab of slate suspended over the small
town of Quarry, Maryland, coloring everything in drab hues
of gray. A dense mist hung in the air, a blanket of moisture,
covering the region in a damp clamminess. The air was cool but
not cold, and there was no wind whatsoever.

Mark Stone walked from his car to the grave site, his black
loafers sinking into the soft ground. With the exception of their
little cluster of about twenty people, the cemetery was empty. Still
and quiet. Eerie, Mark thought. For acres, granite headstones
protruded from the ground like stained teeth, each memorializing somebody's loved one, lost forever. In the distance, maybe
a hundred yards away, stood a mausoleum, a concrete angel
perched on the roof above the doorway. Mark shuddered at the
thought of a body lying inside. Dead and cold.

Mark looked to his right then to his left. The other
mourners-friends and family of the Beaversons-were
climbing out of their cars and making their way across the wet
grass, shoulders slumped, heads bowed low. Men held black
umbrellas against their shoulders; women held white tissues
to their noses. A few trees dotted the landscape, their twisted,
half-barren branches reaching into the gray sky as if begging
for even a glimmer of life. But there was no life in a place like
this. Only death.

Mark swallowed the lump that had become a permanent
fixture in his throat and ran a sleeve across his eyes.

The reverend (Mahoney, was it?) stood beside the black,
polished casket, faced Wendy Beaverson, and opened a little
black book. He cleared his throat and began reading, "Jesus
said to her, `I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in Me, though he may die, he shall live. And whoever lives and
believes... "

Mark looked across the casket at Wendy. Her red, swollen
eyes leaked tears that coursed down her cheeks in long rivulets.
Her honey-colored hair was pulled back in a tight bun, accentuating the sharp angles of her face. She wore a black knee-length
overcoat buttoned to the collar. In her left arm sat little Gracie,
clinging to her mommy's neck.

Poor kid. She'll never remember her daddy. He was a great
guy, sweetheart.

Wendy's right arm was draped over Sara's shoulder. The
eldest daughter, just five, leaned against Wendy's hip, her head
fitting perfectly in the dip of her mother's waist.

A sob rose in Mark's throat, and he struggled to keep it
under control. Death was a beastly thing. Showed no mercy at
all. A daddy torn from his family; children left confused and
empty; wife suddenly bearing the burden of raising two daughters by herself, no one to share joys and heartbreaks with. What
a crock.

Reverend Mahoney continued talking, his monotone voice a
fitting backdrop to the dismal atmosphere. "And so, as we bury
Jeffrey today, it is true to say we bury one of us. We bury him
in a cemetery..."

Cheryl had an arm around Wendy's shoulders, holding her
tight. She always was the caring type. A real Mother Teresa.
Mark wiped at his eyes again and watched his wife comfort his
best friend's wife. Widow.

"...I have never yet heard anyone say there is a different
heaven for each faith..."

A splinter of guilt stabbed at Mark's heart, and he was
suddenly glad he and Cheryl had not yet had kids. He'd hurt her enough. Ripped her heart out and tossed it in the garbage
like last week's leftovers.

-It's over, Mark. Done.

-Cher-Cheryl, wait... I-

-No! Wait? Wait for what? Wait for what, Mark? Your
apology?

-Cheryl, please don't go-

-Shut up! You think saying you're sorry can make up for
what you... what you did to me? To us?

He would have never been able to bear knowing he'd not
only betrayed Cheryl but betrayed a son or daughter, or both,
as well. Hurting Cheryl was enough. More than enough. Seeing
her now, he could barely stand to be in his own skin. If only.
That's what he'd told himself a million times since she'd found
out. If only this. If only that.

"...we are all the same before God..."

Life was full of if onlys, wasn't it? But the kick in the gut is
that those if onlys become a phantom, a haunting, relentless
ghost that clings to the soul like a parasite, slowly sucking the
life from its host. But there's not a thing to be done about it. No
one can change the past. What's done is done. Live with it.

Mahoney was still droning, " ... we take nothing with us
when we die... "

Cheryl looked up, and her gaze met Mark's. A knot twisted
his stomach at the sight of her hollow eyes. They were once so
brilliant, so alive, so ... blue. The color of a Caribbean surf on
a cloudless day. From somewhere deep in his noodle (that's
what Cheryl would say) a memory surfaced. Mark didn't want
it to surface, not now. Save it for some lonely time when he was
parked on the sofa in front of the TV with a microwave dinner
on a little folding tray.

The memory: sitting on a blanket in the park, Cheryl by his side, her head on his shoulder, a cool breeze playing with
her hair, bringing the scent of her shampoo so close he could
almost smell it now. Cheryl tilts her face toward his.

-What d'ya know, babycakes?

-I know I love you.

-Really? Forever and ever, cross your heart and hope to die?

-Forever and ever. Cross my heart and hope to die.

But now those eyes were dull, muted by the pain of betrayal
and the ache of death. Her face was drawn and pale, thinner
than the last time he saw her.

I'm sorry, Cheryl. So sorry.

He wanted to scream the words, run to her and drop to his
knees, but she would never forgive him. She held his stare for
mere seconds, her eyes piercing his with a loneliness that he'd
brought on.

Cheryl. Baby. Babycakes. I'm sorry.

"... So as we bury Jeffrey, we bury one of us... "