Scream (31 page)

Stop it! He had to stop letting his mind wander back to those
days. They were over, long gone, and if Cheryl had it her way,
dead, never to be resuscitated. That thought shifted the gears of
his mind and shoved an image of Andrea to the forefront. She
had died, hadn't she? And gone to hell? Was it possible? If so,
it gave a whole new meaning to the phrase "been to hell and
back." And if she did indeed go to hell, what was it that she'd
seen in her room? The devil? A gaggle of old Lucifer's minions?
The Grim Reaper or whoever it was that came knocking on life's
door? Like the repo man, Mark thought. Coming to collect.
Time to pay up.

The very thought of someone actually escaping hell's flames
and living to talk about it put a knot in Mark's belly. What horrors
must haunt the inner workings of her mind? It was no wonder
she'd acted so strangely. He'd no doubt act the same way.

And then those words were there again, sitting in his mind
like a hobo who simply wouldn't go away:

Everyone has an appointment with death.

Maybe the appointment can be postponed, but sooner or
later death comes knocking.

Life's repo man.

His thoughts then shifted gears again and settled on Tim,
the tattooed preacher. The preacher who'd spent time on the
dark side and found Jesus in the slammer. He was odd. Odd
for a preacher, that is. And yet Mark had found himself drawn
to him. Why? Growing up around the performance of Christianity, Mark had grown cynical and calloused toward professors
of faith in Christ. Did they really have faith in Jesus to save them, or was their faith in their own ability to play the game
without a fault? But Tim was different. Way different. Not just
in appearance but in...well, he was just different. He was real.
Yes, that's what it was. Real. Transparent. It gave his words so
much more credibility than some red-faced preacher in a polyester suit screaming about damnation while his comb-over
flopped back and forth like a bird's lame wing. And what was
it Tim had said?

None of us is guaranteed tomorrow. You know that. That's
what this is really all about, isn't it? The screams and all?
Life is like a vapor. Here today and gone tomorrow. You know
what the Bible says, it's appointed unto man once to die. But
when will your appointment come due?

The appointment. When was his appointment with the repo
man? No one really knew, did they? That was life's greatest
catch. No one knows when death will come knocking. Some
never get a chance to live their lives before the flame is snuffed
out; others get to live full lives and experience more than some
whole towns experience. Why? Who makes the appointment?
Of course, he knew the answer. God did. And again, Tim's
words were there, knocking around in his head:

But when will your appointment come due?

But that was just it; he didn't know. But, of course, that
was the purpose of Tim's question, wasn't it? We don't know,
so we have to be ready. He'd asked Mark if he knew where he
would go when he died, when that appointment came due and
the repo man stood on his doorstep. And Mark had given the
typical performance answer: Well, I said a prayer, didn't I?
Even got baptized. Full immersion, of course. The only way.
Washed in the Spirit, cleansed by the blood. And he'd gone to
Sunday school and church, memorized Bible verses, learned all the stories, could repeat them forward and backward. But Tim
said that wasn't enough:

Mark, doing those things won't get you into heaven. It's
gotta be in here.

Mark could still see him lifting his tattooed arm and tapping
his chest, over his heart, with his index finger. Of course it did.
Mark knew that. But that was the problem, he knew what the
Bible said-man looks at the outward appearance, but God
looks at the heart-but for some unknown and bizarre reason
it never sunk further than his head, never made it to his heart.
Like there was some kind of levee there, holding back the truth
from flooding his heart and really changing his life.

Mark shook his head and stared at the envelope in his hands.
He'd think about that stuff later. Right now, he should call
Cheryl while he was thinking about it and let her know he has
the registration, give her a chance to claim it as her responsibility and pay for it. If she offered, he'd let her. If not, he'd pay
for it himself. Heck, it was only a hundred and twenty-eight
bucks. It was the least he could do.

After what he'd done to her, he owed her at least a hundred
and twenty-eight bucks.

"So this was how you got out before?" Cheryl said, rattling the
handle of the trapdoor. She lifted the padlock, inspected it,
tugged on it, then threw it down so it banged hard against the
metal ring to which it was attached.

Amber was pacing back and forth, arms folded across her
chest, one hand gripping a water bottle. She took a swig of the
water and winced as she swallowed. "Yeah. It was open. The
dogs were gone. Off in the woods I guess, looking for food." She
walked over to the wall and peered through one of the cracks. She then looked at Ginny, still huddled in her corner, forehead
pressed against a rough plank.

In the five or so hours since she'd awakened in this prison,
Cheryl had done some quick deducing. Amber had it together.
She'd been here two weeks and had not only survived but had
kept her sanity. And some hope. And she'd escaped once; that
was something. Really something. And from the way Amber told
it, they almost made it too. But she was seriously ill. She hadn't
complained at all, but Cheryl could tell. Her cough sounded
horrible, like a bear's bark, and her face was flushed and glazed
with a thin layer of perspiration. Sure signs of a fever. And when
she talked, her words were measured and strained. She still
showed signs of strength and spunk, but the facade wouldn't last
much longer. If they didn't get out of here soon and get her some
help, her condition would deteriorate quickly.

Amber had spent the last couple hours filling Cheryl in on
everything she knew about the man called judge, his tendencies, his mood swings, and his one almost-breakdown in front
of them. She seemed to think he could be reasoned with, that
somewhere in that demented mind was a soul that cared and
knew right from wrong. Either way, they were going to escape
again. Cheryl was going to make sure of that. It was just a
matter of time. But how much time did they have? Amber said
that judge never said how many women he was going to stuff
into this little penthouse. Was this it? Or were there more to
come? And if so, how many more? Knowing was everything-it
determined how much time they had to formulate a plan. But
there couldn't be too much time left. Judge had to know the
longer he waited to do whatever it was he was planning to do,
the better the chances were of getting caught ... of being found.

Oh, and then there was Ginny. She seemed young and was
definitely scared (but weren't they all?), and Cheryl felt a little sorry for her. She'd be no help, though. In the past five hours
she'd moved from her spot once, and that was to trudge over
to the corner, relieve herself, and trudge back. She hadn't eaten
any breakfast (Cheryl had a couple handfuls of Cheerios and
an apple), hadn't spoken more than five words, and hadn't even
hinted at having any real interest in getting out of here. She'd
be no help when the time came. They'd take her with them, of
course. But, as Amber had told Cheryl in a low voice in the far
corner of the barn so as not to be heard by Ginny, she'd be a
burden.

Amber turned from the wall and walked over, her feet shuffling through the straw. She lowered herself to her haunches
and sat next to Cheryl, long legs stretched out in front of her.
"Any ideas?"

Cheryl dropped to her backside, draped her wrists over her
knees, and shook her head. "Not at the moment." There weren't
a lot of options. They were in an empty barn, no tools, no
weapons, and only the bare essentials for survival.

Amber covered her mouth with both hands and hacked
loudly three times. Wiping her mouth with her sleeve, she
smiled weakly at Cheryl.

"That cough sounds bad," Cheryl said. "You doing OK?
I mean-"

"I'll be fine. It's just a cough. It gets cold in here at night, and
I'm always having sinus problems in cold weather."

Cheryl glanced around the barn. Ginny was in her spot,
glued to the wall, curled into a tight ball, hiding within herself.
She'd have to face reality sooner or later, and when she did, it
wouldn't be pretty. The bats were squeaking above them, jostling
for position, opening and closing their wings. They gave Cheryl
the creeps. She never did like bats. Now she had to share a barn
with them. "Where are you from?" she asked Amber.

"Frostburg. You?"

Cheryl hesitated. "Near Lonaconing."

"You married?"

Again, the hesitation. How deep was she going to allow this
woman to probe? Part of her wanted to protect her privacy, say,
Yes, I'm happily married and am sure my loving, devoted husband
has nothing short of the National Guard looking for us, but she
wasn't sure that was even true. One, Mark probably hadn't a clue
she was missing-how could he? And two, even if he did know,
would he care? He might see it as an opportunity to finally be
rid of her and fall into the arms of... Rachel. But another part
of her wanted to pour out her soul on the straw-covered floor
in front of Amber. She was cold, tired, scared, and homesick,
and though she had tried to push the sentiment from her heart,
she missed Mark. She needed someone to bond to, someone to
connect with. Mark had always been that person, the one to
whom she ran when life's worries and pains got too bad. Now
Amber would have to do. She looked at Amber. "Are you?"

Amber smiled. A genuine smile this time. "I asked you first."

After a deep sigh and brief tug-of-war with herself, Cheryl
decided that hiding her hurt forever would never ease the pain.
"Yeah, I'm married. Barely."

"Barely? Sounds like you got a story."

"Nothing I enjoy retelling. My husband cheated on me and
we're separated."

"Divorced?"

Cheryl shook her head and looked at her hands. "Not yet."

"Who was she?"

Cheryl shrugged. "Some waitress he knew." She looked up
at the bats again, wishing she could fly away as easily as they
could. "I caught them kissing. He ... tried to apologize, said he
was sorry and he'd never see her again. Said that was the first time he ever kissed her, ever even touched her. But it wasn't the
kiss that hurt, it was that ... it was that he gave himself to her.
He bonded with her on a level that I thought only we shared. It
was bad enough there was another woman in his arms, but it
hurt worse that there was another woman in his heart." Tears
puddled in her eyes, blurring the lines of the lighted cracks in
the wall. There. It was out. It was the first time she'd told anyone
what hurt the most. Mark had given his heart to her, and she
didn't even know he was sharing it with some other woman.

Amber placed a hand on Cheryl's back and rubbed in a slow
circular motion. "I'm so sorry. I wish it never happened to you.
What a jerk."

Cheryl shook her head slowly. "No, that's the thing. Mark's
not a jerk. I mean, what he did was jerkish, really jerkish, but
he's really not a jerk. That's why it hurts so much. I hate him for
what he did, and part of me never wants to see him again, but I
still love him too. I miss him. I miss the feel of his arms around
me, the smell of his cologne, the sound of his voice telling me he
loves me when we're lying in bed in the dark. Is that crazy?"

Now Amber was crying. She slid the sleeve of her sweatshirt across her eyes and coughed again. She grimaced as she
swallowed. "No, it's not crazy. I'm not married, but I have a
boyfriend. I think I care more about him than he does for me.
Everyone thinks I'm a bimbo, just running from boyfriend to
boyfriend looking for a good time, but I'm not. I just want to
love and be loved, that's all."

Cheryl forced a smile. "Looks like we're just two lost souls in
search of real love. I don't know if that's romantic or pathetic."

Amber gave a little laugh, her hazel eyes sparkling through
the tears. "I think I'll go with romantic. I like the sound of it
better." She leaned closer to Cheryl and lowered her voice. "I'm gonna go check on Ginny. We need to try to keep her spirits up
as much as possible." She stood and shuffled over to the corner.

Cheryl smiled. It felt good to talk to someone about how she
really felt, to be transparent. But how she felt wouldn't get them
out of the barn. The time for sentiment had passed; now she
had to find a way out.

Cheryl stood, her knees popping as they unfolded. She placed
her hands on her hips and looked around the barn, hoping for
some hidden escape route to suddenly appear so she could say,
Why didn't we see this before? She scanned the whole interior
of the barn and came up with absolutely nothing. Sure, they
could just bust through the wall; it wouldn't be that difficult.
She'd noticed some of the boards were rotting.