Scream (9 page)

Reverend Dale Mahoney was an imposing man.

At six-three and well over two hundred pounds, his large
frame swallowed his leather chair and dwarfed his mahogany
desk. His jowls hung over his white collar like a bulldog's, and
his nose was bulbous and red. A full shock of ruffled snowwhite hair perched atop his large head. Yellow, coffee-stained
teeth peeked out from behind thick lips.

"Good morning, Mr. Stone," Mahoney said, his pockmarked
cheeks jiggling with each syllable. He stood and stuck out a
large, meaty hand.

"Good morning, Reverend," Mark said, shaking the man's
hand. Or rather, being shaken by the man's hand. "You can call
me Mark."

Mahoney laughed, a hoarse, wheezy kind of laugh, and rubbed his bulging belly with one hand. "Good enough. Good
enough. Have a seat, Mark."

Mark sat in a leather wingback chair across from Mahoney's
desk. The reverend's office was equally impressive as the man.
Three large, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves sat stuffed with books
of all sizes and colors and thicknesses. A large painting of a
Middle Eastern landscape framed in gold hung on the wall
behind Mahoney. Two wooden file cabinets stood side by side
to the left of the desk, and a small wooden computer table sat to
the right. A screen saver showing carved images of the Christ
flashed every five or so seconds on the screen. On the wall
to the left a large gilded crucifix overlooked the entire room,
reminding Mark where he was. The office smelled of dusty
books and old leather.

Mahoney eased himself back into his chair and laced his
fingers across his broad chest. "So what can I do for you?"

Mark suddenly felt very awkward. How should he approach
the subject of the screams without sounding like some escapee
from the local funny farm? Well, Father, I've been hearing hell
on my telephone. He forced out a nervous laugh and smiled. "I,
uh, was at both the funerals you did for Jeff Beaverson and Jerry
Detweiler. Jeff was a friend of mine, and I did business with
Jerry. I run Stone Service Center down on Chestnut Street."

"I see," Mahoney said, suddenly looking very serious. "I'm
sorry for your loss. They were both fine men, I'm sure. And
your purpose for this meeting?"

"Well, I, um, experienced something strange with both
Jeff and Jerry right before they died." Experienced something
strange? A little vague, don'tcha think? I'm sure the good
reverend will have no problem at all deciphering that one.

As though he could read Mark's thoughts, Mahoney
unclasped his hands and stroked his chin, tapping the deep dimple that parted it into two round halves. "Something
strange? Like what?"

Mark shifted his weight in the chair and twisted his hands
in his lap. "Like screams. Right before both of them died I was
on the phone with them, and I heard screams over the phone.
They heard it too."
"

"Who was screaming?" Mahoney seemed interested, but
maybe he was just playing the part of a good minister. Maybe
he was really debating on the quickest way to get in touch with
the psych ward.

I don't know. It wasn't just one person, it was ... a lot of
people, hundreds, maybe thousands. And they sounded like they
were in pain ... no, agony. Moaning and crying and screaming
and carrying on. I went to church a lot as a kid, and it sounded
like what the Bible says hell is like-"

"Weeping and gnashing of teeth?" Mahoney said. He had
leaned forward in his chair and now rested his elbows on the
desk.

"Yeah. Exactly. Weeping and gnashing of teeth."

Mahoney fingered the corner of a piece of paper, sliding the
edge under his fingernail. Without looking at Mark, he asked,
"What do you think it was?"

Mark shrugged. "I have no idea. That's what I was hoping
you could help me with. With Jeff we were on cell phones, so I
thought maybe our signals got crossed with something else, but
with Jerry we were both on landlines. I've been thinking some
pretty far-out things."

"Like what?" Mahoney abandoned the paper and was
back to tapping his chin dimple, showing interest. Or at least
pretending interest.

Mark chuckled and felt a mild warmth touch his cheeks.
"Like maybe someone is playing some high-tech prank, or... "

Mahoney leaned closer. "Or what?"

The warmth in Mark's cheeks intensified and spread to the
back of his neck. "Or I somehow tapped into another dimension or ... or hell itself. I know it sounds crazy. Believe me, I
think it's crazy."

Mahoney sat back in his chair. A smile parted his thick lips,
revealing those yellow teeth, like two rows of corn kernels. "Hell,
huh?" He tapped his chin with a fat index finger. "Personally,
between you and me, I have a hard time with the whole concept
of hell. Is it real? Is there really a place where the damned spend
eternity wallowing in fire and brimstone? Personally, I doubt it.
I find more evidence in the Scriptures that God just destroys
the wicked. Mark, think about it. How could a God that is pure
love, perfect love, sentence someone to hell, a place of unthinkable torment, for eternity? Doesn't it sound a bit contradictory?
A little out of God's character, don't you think? Judgment I
understand. Punishment I agree with. But torment for eternity?
Makes God sound like He's in need of anger management."

OK, so the reverend didn't believe in hell. But he did make a
good point. God is love; God punishes people forever and ever.
Could the two go hand in hand? "Well, what do you think it
could be?"

Mahoney lifted his big shoulders and let them drop. "Don't
know. Maybe just some bizarre transmission thing. Like you
said, crossed signals or something."

Mark wasn't buying it. He'd been over the possibilities in his
head a thousand times. Two thousand times. The chances of
him being on the receiving end of some bizarre transmission
thing and then both men dying mere seconds later was beyond
comprehension. What were the chances? He was no statistician,
but they had to be astronomically small. "And the deaths? How
do you account for them?"

Mahoney shrugged again and grunted. "Coincidence. Believe
me, when you've been around people and their problems as
long as I have, you see some pretty unbelievable things. I've
seen stranger."

Mark shifted in his chair and glanced at his watch. Time to
wrap this up. The good reverend wasn't exactly a well of wisdom
as Mark had hoped. He'd spouted a few deep words at the
funeral, but in person he was about as shallow as a creek in late
summer. Time to go. Definitely. "Well, Reverend," Mark said,
standing and straightening his jeans. "Thanks for your time."

Showing not even the slightest surprise at Mark's abrupt
termination of the meeting, Mahoney rose out of his chair with
a grunt and a quick snort and extended his meaty hand over
the desk. "Anytime, Mark," he said, grinning broadly. "It was a
pleasure meeting you. Do you attend services anywhere?"

Mark shook Mahoney's hand, then released it. "Nope. Church
isn't exactly my thing anymore."

"Well, so sorry to hear that," Mahoney said, running his
hands along the waistband of his pants before hiking them up
over his belly. "If you ever change your mind, you're always
welcome here."

"Thanks, Reverend. I'll keep that in mind." Mark turned and
exited the ornate office, waved politely to the secretary, and
pushed his way through the oversized doors out into the sunbaked parking lot.

That was a waste of time.

Just For You Salon closed its doors at 9:00 p.m. sharp. Last
appointments were at eight, eight fifteen if it was just a wash
and cut. That gave Ginny Grisham and Jody Landis exactly
thirty minutes to clean the scissors and combs, sweep the floor, wipe down the counters and chairs, and take out the trash so
everything was ready to roll in the morning. First appointments
were at eight o'clock.

"How's it coming, Gin?" Jody hollered from the back room.

Ginny dragged the broom over the green and white tiled
floor, gathering the day's hair clippings into a pile of what
looked like miniature tumbleweed-tumblehair. "Almost
done." She glanced at the clock on the wall. "Twenty after. How
you doin'?"

Jody, a short middle-aged woman with a perfectly round
moon face and upturned nose, appeared in the doorway, her
blue purse slung over her right shoulder, navy blue jacket draped
over her left arm. "Done. Anything I can help you with?"

"You can get the dustpan and hold it for me."

"No prob." She picked up the dustpan, placed it on the floor
next to the heap of clippings, and began humming a lively tune.

Ginny swept the hair onto the dustpan. "You doing anything
tonight?"

Jody dumped the clippings into the wastebasket. "Nope. Goin'
home and relaxing. Hopefully, Joe will have the kids in bed. He
better, anyway." She tapped the dustpan along the side of the
wastebasket, then placed it back under the front counter.

Ginny gathered the top of the plastic bag and hoisted it out
of the wastebasket. "Does he always put the kids to bed?"

"Ever since I been workin' evenings. He don't like it much,
but too bad, with him being laid off and all, we need this job.
It's all that's paying the bills right now. Barely paying 'em."

Jody slipped her jacket on, and Ginny did the same with
hers. "How's his job search going?"

Jody shrugged and popped a piece of gum in her mouth. She
held out the gum pack to Ginny. "Piece?"

"Sure."

"It's going, I guess. He's had a couple interviews, but no one's
called him back yet. I think he has one at the quarry over by
Ellerslie tomorrow. Sounds pretty promising."

Ginny hit the lights, and the two ladies walked out into the
cool evening air. A single streetlamp cast a dim glow over the
parking lot. The traffic light on the corner blinked red on one
side, yellow on the other. There wasn't much traffic in Mount
Savage after nine o'clock on a Wednesday, and the traffic lights
were timed to blink stop and caution after seven.

Judge had arrived at 42 Broad Court at nine fifteen and spent
fifteen minutes setting his trap. It was perfect. Everything was
going as planned.

Now he crouched by the side of the house, hidden in the deep
shadow of a boxwood. He lifted his sleeve and pushed the light
button on his watch. 9:32. She'd be here in eighteen minutes.
Give or take. He had some time to kill, but better to be early
than late. Late would not be good at all.

He blew out his cheeks, leaned against the house's concrete
foundation, and mentally visualized the events that would
unfold in the next hour. It was thrilling and frightening at the
same time and made his pulse race. There was a part of him
that knew what had to be done, longed for it, anticipated it like
a child at Christmas. But there was another part of him that
found it revolting, the shedding of innocent blood, one person
taking the punishment for another. Two extremes battling
within the same soul. Black and white. He loved it and hated it,
but he had found a way to make the two coexist. Heaven and
hell holding hands.

Of course, regardless of his feelings, it had to be done.
Someone had to pay for what they did to Katie.

Unfortunately, that someone was Virginia Grisham of 42
Broad Court.

Unfortunately for her.