Scream (45 page)

No! No, no. Please God, no.

Mark dropped his gun and fell to the ground beside Cheryl.
Her eyes were closed, mouth open. He reached for her head and
felt something wet and sticky in her hair. Pulling his hand away,
he saw it was covered with blood. She'd been shot! Somewhere
along the left side of her head, hidden by her hair, Hickock's
bullet had found its mark.

Mark reared back and screamed at the sky.

Screamed at heaven. At God.

HREE WEEKS LATER

Mark stood by the grave site, hands clasped in front
of him, shoulders slumped, head bowed so low his chin
almost rested on his chest. The cemetery was still and quiet and
void of living souls with the exception of the small assembly
huddled around this one burial plot.

November had come in like a raging bull, bringing with it
temperatures dipping into the twenties and the first light snow
of the season.

Mark raised his head and scanned the cemetery, looking
for a familiar figure to arrive. A thin blanket of white covered
everything, skimming the surface of the ground so close that
only the tips of assorted blades of grass poked through, like
needles through a quilt. Rows of gray and white tombstones,
some dating back to the early eighteen hundreds, stood like
sentries, wearing soft white hats while they solemnly watched
over the land of the sleeping. Scattered trees stood leafless and
bare, their twisted branches reaching into the slate gray sky
like upside-down roots. The meteorologist was predicting more
snow, one to two inches.

A gust of bitter cold wind kicked up, biting Mark like icy
teeth and sending a wave of shivers through his muscles. He
reached out and put his arm around Cheryl's shoulders, pulling her close. She wrapped her arm around his waist and laid her
head on his shoulder.

It was good to have her in his arms again. No, more than
good. It was a miracle. He thought for sure he'd lost her. Back
in the woods, with Hickock on one side of him and Cheryl on
the other, Mark had lashed out at God, emptying himself before
his Creator, questioning, bargaining... even cursing.

But Cheryl had not died. Hickock's bullet had not found its
mark. The slug caught the side of Cheryl's head, penetrated the
skin, but only grazed the skull, wrapping around the side of her
head and exiting the back. The doctors said it was not unusual,
that the skull was harder than most people gave it credit for.
But to Mark, it was a miracle, plain and simple. In his heart
he knew Cheryl should have died that night. Her appointment
had come due. The repo man had knocked on the door and was
waiting on the stoop.

And while Cheryl underwent brain surgery to remove a blood
clot that had formed on her brain, then spent three days in an
induced coma to ease the swelling, the question had burned
in Mark's mind: Why hadn't she died? How had she escaped
death's sure grip?

Mark's mind went back to the day in the hospital when he
spoke to Cheryl for the first time since she had been brought out
of the coma, and he finally received his answer. She was glassyeyed and groggy. Her bangs were wet and stuck to her forehead.
The left side of her head was shaved, and a long stapled incision
arched over her ear like a railroad track, starting just behind
the temple and ending beyond the ear. Skin puckered between
shiny staples, and the length of the incision was crusted with
dry blood. Her skin was pale and almost translucent; her cheeks
were sunken and hollow. An oxygen tube snaked out from just above both ears and rested on her upper lip, pressed against her
nostrils. Multiple IVs hung from her arms like power cords.

She smiled when she saw him. "Hey," she said in an almost
inaudible whisper.

Mark pulled a chair to the side of the bed, rested one hand
on top of hers, and smoothed back her bangs with the other.
"Hey. Welcome back."

Cheryl just smiled again.

"How are you feeling?" Mark asked.

"Tired ... and my head hurts." She grimaced as she swallowed. "My throat hurts too."

"I'm sorry." Mark leaned forward and kissed her on the nose.
"You look beautiful."

Cheryl rolled her eyes. "You must be blind."

"I love you, Cher."

"I know." She smiled again and squeezed his hand. "I know."

"How's your memory?" Mark had been wondering if the
trauma to the brain had caused any amnesia. He remembered
hearing about people in accidents who didn't remember the
accident or any of the events leading up to it. God's grace. Most
people didn't want to remember the accident. He wondered if
Cheryl would remember that night in the woods or even being
in the barn with Amber and Ginny. He hoped not.

"Fine," she said. "I remember everything. I think anyway. I
guess I wouldn't know if I didn't remember something, huh?"

Mark laughed.

Cheryl focused her eyes on the wall behind Mark. "I
remember being in the barn and killing the dog. I remember
the fire, the flames ... it was so hot I thought my skin would
melt. I remember you busting through the wall like some kind
of superhero." She looked at him. "You weren't burned at all. I
remember thinking that was very odd. I remember the woods and Hickock and your showdown with him. And I remember
Amber falling over. That's it. That's where it ends."

Tears were running down Mark's cheeks now. He sniffed
and forced a smile. "You have a better memory than me. I can't
recall half of what happened that night."

"How's your ankle? I remember that too."

"It's going to be fine. I had surgery on it and have to wear
this boot for six weeks." He held up his foot to show her the
bulky brace Velcroed to his leg.

"Stylish," Cheryl said.

"I'm sorry you have to remember all that. It would probably
be better if you didn't."

Cheryl rolled her head from side to side. "No, it wouldn't. I
want to remember it. I also remember you telling me about the
screams." She swallowed again, and her Adam's apple bobbed
up and down slowly. "You told me I needed Jesus."

The tears were coming harder now, and Mark wiped at his
eyes with his sleeve. "Yeah. I did."

Cheryl smiled, and a tear spilled out of her eye and ran over
her temple, disappearing behind her ear. "Well, while you and
Hickock were playing cowboys, I did it. I trusted Jesus."

Mark coughed, and a sob escaped his throat. Of course!
That's why she'd escaped death.

Back in the cemetery, Mark shivered again and squeezed
Cheryl's shoulders. Light flakes had begun falling again. He
heard snow crunching behind him and turned to see Pastor
Tim, the tattooed preacher, making his way up the hill.

Tim came alongside Mark and placed a gloved hand on
Mark's shoulder.

"Thanks for coming, Tim," Mark said.

Tim smiled and patted Mark's shoulder. He then leaned
forward and nodded at Cheryl. "Good to see you up and about, Cheryl." Then, walking in front of Mark and Cheryl, Tim
approached the other two visitors and extended his hands.
"Amber, Ginny, I'm glad you could make it too."

Tim exchanged some quiet words with Amber and Ginny,
then nodded at Mark and fell in line beside Ginny.

Mark released Cheryl and stepped around to face the small
congregation of four. Tiny white flakes speckled their hats and
shoulders like a light dusting of confectioner's sugar on a cake.

Mark cleared his throat and stiffened his muscles against the
cold. "I know it's cold, so I'll make this short and to the point."

He looked at Ginny, Amber, and Cheryl, meeting each one
with a steady gaze. In the week following the showdown-as
it had come to be called-Mark had talked with Amber and
Ginny almost daily. Amber had been admitted the same time
Cheryl had and given a healthy dose of antibiotics to quell the
pneumonia that had overtaken her lungs. After a brief reunion
with her family and boyfriend, Ginny had sat at Amber's side
in her hospital room until the attending nurse told her she had
to leave.

Mark took the opportunity to share with them his experience with the screams, telling them about death and eternity
and challenging them to examine their own hearts and ask
themselves one simple question: Do I know where I'll go when
I die? There were always lots of hope-sos and think-sos and
maybe-sos but never a know-so.

Until the following week-last week.

Amber had been discharged with an improving bill of health,
and as soon as she and Ginny had walked into Cheryl's room,
Mark could tell there was something different about Amber,
something bright, something... new. It was much more than
just the absence of infection. He knew right away what it was.
She smiled, and light seemed to radiate from her eyes.

"I did it," she said, beaming with pride. "I trusted Jesus."

They hugged and prayed, and when he opened his eyes again,
Ginny was crying. She had looked at Mark with wide eyes and
trembling lips. "I want to, but I'm not sure I know how. Will
you show me?"

"-Mark?"

Mark snapped his eyes over to Cheryl and blinked twice.
"Oh, sorry." He looked again at Amber and Ginny, then at Tim.
"Thanks for coming. I thought this would be an appropriate
place to meet." He glanced at the grave marker before them, a
slab of cold gray granite with the name "Jessica Anne Foreman"
etched in big bold letters. With the exception of Hickock, who
hadn't escaped his appointment with death, she was the only
one who hadn't survived that night.

He sighed and wiped a tear from his cheek. "Tim, she went
to your church, so you knew her better than any of us, but I'm
confident we'll see her again. And for that I thank God."

Tim nodded and wiped at his own tears.

Mark looked down the row again, meeting each one of them
eye to eye-Cheryl, Amber, Ginny. They were all crying. "You
are my family now, and I wanted you to be the first to hear this.
Cheryl and I have decided to sell the garage and go into the
ministry full-time. I have to tell people about Jesus. It's not that
I want to; I have to. It's like a fire in my bones."

He shifted his gaze to a flock of blackbirds perched in a mess
of tangled oak branches and let his mind drift to Jeff, Jerry, Dad,
Andrea, and, yes, even Hickock. "You never know when you talk
to someone if it will be the last time you ever hear their voice."

He then looked to his left at the sprawling town of Frostburg,
Maryland. Homes and businesses squatted close to the ground
like neatly arranged milk cartons separated into even grids,
all covered with an untouched white blanket of fresh snow. Somewhere in the distance a child let loose a playful scream
that carried through the air on the tails of a gust of wind. The
screams. He hadn't heard them since that terrible night. And he
hoped he never would again.

"I have to tell them. I have to tell them all. And I won't stop until
I do ... until I've screamed it from the top of every mountain."