Scream (39 page)

"Ready," Amber said, her raspy voice coming out of the darkness. She had retreated to a far corner of the barn to "prepare the
bait," she'd said. She returned, smelling like decomposed flesh.

"Ugh! What did you do?" Ginny backed away and held her
hand to her nose. "Did you roll in a dead animal?"

Amber held up her hand. It was wrapped in a thick swath
of toilet paper and held a lump of brown fur. "I told you it was
gross. But it should keep the dog occupied long enough for
Cheryl to do her thing."

"What is it?" Ginny asked.

Amber looked at the thing in her hand. "A dead bat. I found it
a few days ago and buried it under some hay over in the corner.
Smells ripe, don't it?" She looked at Cheryl. "You ready?"

Cheryl nodded and swallowed past a dry lump. "As ready as
I'm gonna be."

Amber walked over to the wall and crouched down. It had
taken the three of them almost twenty minutes to feel along the
barn walls for the widest crack. It had to be wide enough for
Cheryl to get her hand and at least half her forearm through.
At least two inches wide. Ginny was the one to find it: an area
about two feet off the floor where a knot had been knocked out. It was a little tight, but with some encouragement, Cheryl could
wriggle her arm through.

"Okay," Amber said. "I'll call 'em."

Cheryl looked at her and nodded. Her mouth was too dry to
talk. This was it. This was the moment. She tried again to settle
her nerves by taking a deep breath. Amber's little treat smelled
awful, and Cheryl almost gagged. Either this would work or it
wouldn't. Simple. She then looked at Ginny. The youngest of
the three had made a remarkable turnaround since the phone
call. Cheryl was proud of her. She wanted to tell her how proud
she was, but her mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton, her
throat was constricting, and her stomach was in a state of its
own rebellion.

Cheryl swallowed back the fear that pushed bile up her throat
and looked at Amber. "I'll call them. Your throat can't handle
it. It'll kill you."

Amber nodded and forced a thin smile. "Thanks. I'm right
here."

Cheryl turned her face toward the outside world. "Hey!
Duke! Buck! Here doggies." She whistled and knocked on the
planks with her free hand. "Here, boys."

Within seconds they could hear the dogs' footsteps on the
dirt, then their panting.

"Here we go," Amber whispered. She glanced at Cheryl. "Be
quick."

The dogs drew closer, sniffing and growling.

Cheryl tensed.

"Here, boys," Amber said. She held her hand up to the crack,
almost at ground level. Cheryl stood above her and slipped the
belt through the crack with her left hand. Once the dogs were
sufficiently preoccupied, she'd lower the belt on one of the dog's
right side, slip her free hand past its face, and grab the other end of the belt under the dog's neck. Then yank with every ounce of
strength she possessed. If the dog didn't have her hand by then.

She swallowed again. Heaven or hell?

The dogs approached, cautiously at first, sniffing from a
distance of about three feet, their legs spread wide, necks
craned, noses high in the air, curious eyes shifting back and
forth. Amber punched at the crack with her wrapped hand.
"Here, doggy."

The larger of the two came first, pressing his nose against
the crack. He let out a low growl, then began pawing at the
plank, pressing harder, his pink tongue flitting in and out of
his mouth.

"Now," Amber whispered, teasing the dog with the dead bat.
"Do it now."

Cheryl lowered her trembling hand so the belt fell on the
right side of the dog's thick neck. With her right hand, she then
reached through the crack and under the dog's neck. She couldn't
see the belt, so she had to go by feel. Fortunately, the dog was so
preoccupied with the bat in Amber's hand it didn't notice what
she was doing. She groped some more, but still no belt.

"Hurry," Amber said. She was on her haunches, leaning away
from the wall, her hand extended just beyond the reach of the
dog's teeth. The dog was snarling and growling, pressing its
muzzle through the crack, pawing at the ground and planks.

Cheryl pushed her arm farther through the crack. Splinters
dug into the soft skin of her forearm. She grimaced and reached
for the belt. It had to be somewhere-

There!

In one quick motion, she grabbed the free end of the belt and
yanked back, falling hard on her rear end. The dog slammed
against the wall and yelped. Cheryl placed her feet on the
planks on either side of the crack and leaned back, gripping both ends of the belt in tight fists. This was it, the moment of
truth. Ginny's crazy plan had worked ... so far. Now it was up to
Cheryl to finish it. Choke the life out of this devil. She braced
herself, pushed against the planks, and leaned back. The belt
slipped and cut into her palms, sending pain through her hand
and up her forearm. But she wouldn't let go. She couldn't. She
squeezed harder, ignoring the pain.

The dog writhed and wriggled, wheezed and choked, trying
desperately to loosen itself from the death grip the belt had on
its neck.

The Doberman was powerful and stronger than Cheryl had
anticipated. It had managed to wedge its feet up against the wall
and was using it as leverage to free itself.

Cheryl fought to maintain her grip and groaned under the
strain.

"Don't let go," Ginny hollered. Her voice croaked with panic.
Cheryl let out a guttural grunt and jerked hard on the belt. It
slid at least an inch through her hand. Any more and she'd lose
her grip altogether. The dog coughed, a dry hack that sounded
like it had just squeezed by taut vocal cords. She jerked back
again. And again. And again. The dog coughed again, but its
strength was not waning.

"Help me!" Cheryl screamed through gritted teeth.

Amber sprang into action, gripping the belt with both hands.

"Hold it so I can get a better grip," Cheryl said.

Amber held the belt at the point where it passed through
the crack. Cheryl let go and quickly looped the ends of the belt
around both her hands, locking it against her wrists. "OK."

When Amber let go, Cheryl pulled back hard, feeling the
increased tension on the belt. But it did not slip. She pressed
her feet against the planks, leaned back, and bore down like
a woman in labor, contracting every muscle in her body. The dog wheezed and coughed, and Cheryl noticed it was finally
slowing down. It had lost some of its fight.

Cheryl had no idea how long she pulled on that belt. It could
have been five seconds or five minutes, but it seemed like five
hours. Five hours of wrestling a great white shark with a leash.

When the dog finally fell still and its lifeless body slumped
to the ground, Cheryl loosened her grip and let the belt fall
to the floor. Her palms burned; her forearms ached; her legs
shook with fatigue. But it was over. The beast was dead. She
was victorious.

Cheryl fell back, breathing hard. All was quiet save for the
distant sounds of the other dog alternating whimpers and
growls somewhere in the distance. And the rapid thumping of
her own heart in her ears. She let out a long, low moan and
began to cry. A sudden wave of relief washed over her, and
all the tension and fear and anger escaped through one loud
choking sob.

But hidden behind it all was the reminder: there was still one
more dog to go.

Mark raced down U.S. 220, his shotgun on the seat beside him,
box of shells on the dash. The wheels of the Mustang hummed
along the asphalt; the engine purred quietly. The speedometer
read almost seventy, and his heart rate had to be at least twice
that. He turned his wrist and glanced at his watch. The glowing
hands read 6:25. He was running out of time, but Cheryl was
still alive. He knew it. He could feel it. He didn't know how, but
he knew she was still alive. That was the good news. The bad
news was that he also knew-just knew-her time was expiring
quickly. He had to find her, and soon. A sense of urgency
gripped him, and he depressed the accelerator a little farther. The engine revved louder, and the Mustang lurched forward.
The orange pin on the speedometer crept toward seventy-five.

As he drove, Mark kept an eye on the sky to the right. He
was traveling north, and he knew the phone tower would be on
his right. Exactly where it was, well, that was the first hurdle.
He had no idea what he would do once he found it, but that was
the first item on his agenda: find the tower.

He pushed on for another minute, heart pumping as fast
as the engine's pistons, all 320 horses working overtime. A
blinking light caught his eye. Ahead and to the right, there was
a single red light floating in the sky. It had to be the phone
tower. Please, God, let it be the tower.

He slowed the car and looked for a turnoff, a road leading
toward those lights. A half mile later he saw a street sign glowing
green in the car's headlights. He slowed and made a right onto
Narrow Lane. And narrow it was. It was more like a driveway,
wide enough for one, maybe one and a half cars, with jagged
shoulders that just kind of crumpled into gravel. He couldn't
see beyond the swath of light cut by the car's headlights, but the
occasional lighted window said there were at least a few houses
in the area.

He worked the brake and accelerator through the sharp
curves, keeping an eye on the red light still floating ahead, but
looming closer. Within five minutes he was turning onto a dirt
service road that led back to the tower. A couple hundred yards
later, the Mustang's headlights fell on the base of the tower.

Mark stopped the car, left the engine and headlights running,
and stepped out. The tower rose from the ground like a threelegged Cyclops, its head only visible by the blinking red light
floating high above. It was surrounded by nine feet of chainlink fence crowned with three rows of barbed wire.

Mark walked around to the hood of the car, spread out the map, and clicked on his flashlight. He found Narrow Lane and
marked where the tower was. He had only been about a mile off
when he estimated its location back at the house.

Now what? He'd found the primary tower that was receiving
Cheryl's cell phone signal. She was around here, within twelve
miles in any direction of this very spot, clinging to life by mere
minutes. The thought struck him with the impact and finality
of a guillotine: in this darkness, she might as well be on the
other side of the world. No! Stop it! He couldn't, wouldn't allow
himself to think like that. He would find her.

He looked at the map again, studying the lay of the region,
the spiderweb of roads, the position of state forests and game
lands. Really, according the description Cheryl had given, there
were only a handful of locations that would work. There had
to be enough open land, unmarked by roads, for a barn to be
secluded, and there had to be wooded land nearby. That left some
land to the northwest by the state game lands and some land to
the southeast, near Buchanan State Forest. But what if the woods
Cheryl mentioned was only a small stand of trees, a wooded area
no more than fifty yards wide? That could be anywhere!

Mark let out a groan and slapped the hood with an open hand.
It was impossible. Impossible. Suddenly, a thought occurred to
him. No, more than a thought, a voice in his head, quiet and
small. It was a voice from his past, a child's. He knew the voice,
of course, because it was his own. He stopped and listened.
An image flashed in his mind like an old home movie. He was
seven years old, dressed in a light blue button-down shirt and
navy blue pants. The top button of the shirt was fastened, and
his hair was wet and parted neatly to the side. He was standing
at attention, arms straight and rigid at his sides, shoulders back,
chin tucked. A lady, elderly and very kind looking, sat in front
of him. It was Mrs. Leatherby, his first grade Sunday school teacher. He opened his mouth and, in that same small quiet
voice, said his Bible memory verse: With men this is impossible; but with God all things are possible. Matthew nineteen,
twenty-six.

Mark blinked and the image faded, taking the voice with it.
He swallowed past the lump that had risen in his throat. With
God all things are possible. What brought that memory on? He
hadn't thought about that for years. He looked at the map again.

The abductor would want to keep the women close enough
that he could reach them quickly. Secluded but close. Probably
within a half hour, forty-five minutes. He didn't know this for
sure, but it was a guess that made sense. That meant the barn
had to be south of the tower.

So south it was. He'd head south. Toward Buchanan State
Forest.