Scream (30 page)

She lay motionless, straining to detect her surroundings
through senses other than sight. Through her fingertips she
concluded that she was lying on hay or straw. She felt no breeze,
so she must be under some kind of shelter. And the odor
seeping into her nostrils was foul. The smell of waste, either
animal or human, she couldn't tell which. It wasn't revolting,
but bad enough.

She drew in a long breath of the unpleasant air and slid her
feet up so her knees were bent. She parted her lips and-

Wait a minute! Hay? Shelter? That odor? Didn't she fall asleep in her own bed in her apartment? What was wrong with her?
Why hadn't that detail registered before? Was she dreaming?
No, she wasn't. This was real. She tried again to pry her eyelids
open. Suddenly a hand rested on her forehead and gently slid
to the back of her head, smoothing her hair. That was certainly
real. Mark? Mom? Then a woman's voice, calm and soothing:
"Hey, are you awake?" The woman coughed, a deep-chested,
raspy cough that rattled in her lungs.

She tried again, and this time her eyelids cracked open. Light
blinded her, and she squinted hard.

"It's OK. Take your time," the woman said and brushed her
hair again with a gentle touch.

Her eyelids fluttered then opened a little more. Still squinting,
she could see the blurry outline of a woman's face hovering
above her. At first, it was just a face, no neck or body.

Slowly, her eyes relaxed, and the image came into focus.
Looking down at her was a woman she'd never seen before.
Brown hair hung loosely around her shoulders, but the hair was
limp and oily; hazel eyes, soft and kind, but sunken into deep,
darkened sockets; full lips that curved upward into a motherly
smile, but the lips were cracked and flaky and the smile ... it
wasn't real, wasn't genuine. Something was wrong with the way
the woman looked at her. Something was wrong with the way
the woman looked.

"Hey," the woman said. Her lips seemed to move in slow motion.
She turned her head and barked out another throaty cough.

Above her, past the woman's head, Cheryl saw a ceiling
arching upward and corrugated sheets of metal resting on large
wooden beams. Shifting her eyes from side to side she realized
where she was-in a barn.

The woman's hand was on her forehead again. "It's OK," she
said. "You're OK."

Cheryl pushed herself to sit up. Her head spun, so she shut
her eyes tight. Now the woman was rubbing her back. "Take
some time. You're OK."

After a few seconds she opened her eyes again and looked
around. She was indeed in a barn, and an old one from the
looks of it. The plank walls were striped with lighted cracks;
straw covered the smooth gray floor. Her blanket, the one from
her bed back at the apartment, was wrapped around her legs.
She raised a hand to her head and ran her palm across her forehead. None of this made sense. Where was she? How did she
get here?

She opened her mouth, then shut it and swallowed. Her
mouth and throat were dry, like the rotted boards enclosing
her. "Where-where am I?"

The other woman continued rubbing her back. "That's a good
question. For starters, you're in a barn, but you can probably
see that. Other than that, I'm not sure where we are."

She looked at the other woman. A complete stranger, but
beautiful features. She looked worn, though, tired. "How did I
get here?"

"You were probably drugged. What's your name?"

She had to think about that. Her mind seemed to be stuck in
quicksand. Drugged? Who would drug her? And why? Another
thought struck her then and swept a wave of panic over her.
What was her name? Her mind was a blank sheet of paper.
Name. Her name. She didn't remember her own ... Ah, yes.
"Cheryl. Cheryl Stone." She rubbed her eyes with the back of
her hands then looked at the woman. "What's yours?"

The other woman tilted her head to one side and smiled that
motherly smile again. A crack on her lower lip split open, and
she licked it. "I'm Amber Mann, and that's Ginny Grisham."
She motioned toward another woman, smaller and chunkier, sitting in a far corner of the barn, knees pulled to her chest,
head propped against the plank wall. Ginny didn't look at her;
she kept her eyes fixed on something outside. "She's having a
hard time with all this."

Cheryl blinked. "All what?"

Amber waved her hand around the barn in a circular
motion. "This" She looked at Cheryl, that smile now replaced
by a frown. "We've been abducted and put here in this barn.
I've been here for two weeks. Ginny's been here a week."

Abducted? That would explain a lot, everything, in fact.
Cheryl rolled onto her knees and slowly stood. She was a bit
wobbly at first but quickly gained her equilibrium and oriented
herself. She walked over to the wall to her left and peered
through one of the cracks between the planks. They were in the
middle of some sort of farm that, from the looks of it, hadn't
been used in years, maybe decades. The sun had already cleared
the tree line in the distance. A light breeze washed through a
sprawling meadow, bending the tops of the grass in rolling
waves. The sky was like blue crystal, dotted with big snowball
clouds. "Is it just the three of us?" she finally asked.

Amber was behind her, her hand on the small of Cheryl's
back. "So far. More may be coming. We can't be sure."

"Who did this?"

"We don't know. He comes by every couple days or so
bringing supplies-food, water, even underwear and a hairbrush. For some reason he wants to keep us alive."

Heat spread down Cheryl's neck and radiated through her
chest. She was being held against her will-they all were-by
some sicko. She spun around and faced Amber. "Why haven't
you escaped? How hard can it be to break out of this place?"

Amber took a step back but didn't seem the least bit surprised
by Cheryl's outburst. "We did," she said, her voice low and serious. "There's a paved road at the end of the dirt lane"-she
motioned to the other side of the barn-"and we almost made it
there. But he showed up and caught us. And there's the dogs-"

"Dogs? What dogs?" Cheryl turned back around and looked
through the crack again, scanning the meadow. "I don't see
any-" There, a movement to the left. Before she could say
another word, two Dobermans trotted out of the high grass,
running their noses along the ground. One almost ran into the
other and was sharply reprimanded with a low growl.

Dread sat in her stomach like a rock. They were in a wooden
cage. Like three rats. Cheryl looked at Ginny, who was in the
same spot in the same position with the same blank expression
on her face. Then she looked at Amber.

"He knows we can't go anywhere as long as the dogs are
there," Amber said. "Believe me, we-I-tried to think of any
possible way out. But there just isn't any. And even if we did get
out and got away without the dogs seeing us, we have no idea
where we are. The dogs have our scent, and it wouldn't take
them long to track us down."

Cheryl turned and pressed her face against the plank. High
above, a vulture carved an arc in the sky. She slipped her fingers
through some cracks and gripped the rough wood, a prisoner
wrestling the bars that confined her. "Then we think harder
and find a way out. There has to be a way. I'm not going to die
in here. I'm not."

Miles away, in the bay of Stone Service Center, Mark Stone bent
over the engine of a 1996 Ford F-150. It was Thursday, and he
was hard at work. The owner of the truck, Gage Riley, a local
brick mason, said it had been overheating. Mark's first thought
had been the radiator, maybe the water pump. They were the usual culprits when it came to temperature issues. But first,
he'd checked the thermostat. Easier to check and much cheaper
to repair than a water pump or radiator. And, sure enough, the
thermostat had been the villain.

Now, with hose removed, old thermostat resting in peace in
the trash bin, he needed only to scrape off what was left of the
old gasket, set the new gasket in place, drop in the new thermostat, tighten everything down, and reattach the hose. Simple as
that. A twenty-minute job total. Riley would be thrilled.

Fifteen minutes later, Mark tightened down the last screw,
securing the clamp to the radiator hose. He stood up and bent
backward, stretching his aching back, then tossed the screwdriver onto the workbench. Wiping his hands on an already
blackened rag, he headed for the office to check the mail. It was
half past three; the mailman should have come by now.

Finding the mail in its usual spot on the floor, Mark picked
it up and sorted through it. Two pieces: a credit card offer (0%
Introductory APR!) and the state registration renewal for the
Nissan. Cheryl's car. But it was still in his name.

Mark remembered when they bought the car. What a battle
they had. He never liked foreign cars. Still didn't. Too pricey to
maintain, parts too hard to come by. Sure, they had good track
records as far as reliability was concerned, but there was nothing
in the world like American muscle under the hood. For him,
it was about American ingenuity, history, and national pride.
For Cheryl, it was all about styling and colors and cup holders.
From the moment she saw that Nissan on the lot of Valley View
Pre-owned Cars she fell in love with it. Rushed right home
and told Mark she'd found the car of her dreams. Never told
him, though, that it wasn't American. Wise woman. He would
have refused right then and there. He would have known better
than to give way to her womanly powers of influence. Instead, he wound up standing on the cracked asphalt lot, fists in his
pockets, chest tight and tightening, as Cheryl and Herman the
toupeed salesman double-teamed him in a coup de sales pitch.

Mark tried to persuade her; for the next half hour he tried
to deflect each of Herman's tantalizing scenarios and empty
promises and tried to absorb each of Cheryl's pleas and puppydog looks, but it was useless. Cheryl had her heart set on the
Nissan, the rice burner. Arguing was pointless.

And besides, he never could say no to her.

He sat in his chair, swung around so his legs slid under the
desk, and pushed some papers (mostly customer work orders
and bills) out of the way. Propping his elbows on the desk, he
held the envelope in front of him and stared at it. He didn't
open it, just stared at it, as if it would say something to him,
tell him what he should do with it. He could pay it; in fact, he
would pay it for her, but sooner or later he'd have to see her to
give it to her. It belonged in the glove box of her Altima. But
would she want him to pay for it? Maybe she'd be offended. The
way she'd acted the couple times he'd spoken to her, she'd made
it clear she wanted nothing to do with him, and that probably
included favors.

-Cheryl, Cheryl. Baby.

-What do you want from me?

-What do I have to do to prove to you how sorry I am?

He set the envelope down and let his mind wander back to
the first time he and Cheryl kissed. They'd been dating three
months, and he hadn't been able to muster up the nerve to do
it. Really do it. He'd wanted to. Oh, had he wanted to, from
the first time his eyes found her in the crowd at Jeff's birthday
party. And several times he almost had. There was the time at
that same party, sitting next to her on the sofa, acutely aware
of her arm against his. He'd imagined sliding his arm around her shoulders, tilting his head toward hers, and leaning in for
the big move. Then there was the time, a couple of weeks later,
when they'd gone to the lake for a picnic, their second date. The
weather was perfect-cloudless sky, cool breeze-and a family
of ducks paddled peacefully around the lake by the shore, occasionally dipping beneath the surface in search of food. There
wasn't another soul in sight. And Cheryl was stunning. Her
hair, tossed by the breeze, danced around her face; her capris
and short-sleeve button-down shirt fit closely, accentuating
her lean figure; her eyes sparkled in the sunlight like precious
stones; her lips were full and inviting. Sitting on the blanket
with their half-eaten lunch still spread out between them, he'd
suddenly had the urge to lean forward and kiss her, really kiss
her, but for some reason he didn't. Later, after berating himself
all day for not seizing the opportunity, he'd come to the conclusion that he didn't because the day was too perfect. He didn't
want to ruin it with an awkward kiss that he wasn't sure how
she would react to. Better to leave well enough alone. But it had
turned out to be a perfect day still, even without the kiss.

The actual first kiss happened at a more awkward moment. It
was New Year's Eve, and she had invited him over to her uncle's
house to celebrate. At five till midnight her entire familyparents, eight uncles and aunts, twelve cousins-gathered
around the TV to watch the ball drop in Times Square. When
the ball touched down, all the adults in the room leaned in
for a kiss from their significant other. Except them. Mark and
Cheryl stood frozen in the center of the room. He remembered
the flush that settled in his cheeks when all her cousins started
chanting their names then, "Kiss. Kiss. Kiss. Kiss." After a few
seconds of the torment, he finally turned to Cheryl, smiled
timidly, shrugged his shoulders, and planted one on her lips.
It was nothing special. Just a peck, and then it was over. Not exactly the romantic lip-locked embrace he'd hoped their first
kiss would be. But it was ecstasy nonetheless. For the mere half
second their lips had touched, he had been raptured. His heart
soared on a cloud of bliss. The moment-