The Scream Catcher

by Vincent Zandri

  Now, Lennox will use Parish as his victim in the next kill game.

  Why do you sell your soul?

  Because you are too afraid to bring Lennox down.

  No, that’s not right.

  The more accurate truth is that you are too afraid of going back to the nobody you once were, and in the end the scream catcher will not collect just one new set of screams, he will collect the screams of an entire family, including those of a pregnant woman and a ten year old boy.

  Blanchfield looks out over her left shoulder onto the pristine Adirondack Lake. The calm flat water shimmers now in the morning sunshine. For a split second, she considers throwing the soiled napkin out the window. Instead, she sets it down on the empty seat beside her.

  Give a hoot, don’t pollute.

  She inhales a deep breath. But even the sweet mountain air cannot cauterize the foul bile taste in her mouth. Restarting the engine, she thrusts the gear stick into first. Before pulling back out onto Lake Road, she catches sight of her own eyes looking back at her angrily in the rear view.

  She pulls away from her own eyes.

  But not before bursting into tears.

  Assembly Point Peninsula

  Wednesday, 6:45 P.M.

  Evening comes down hard.

  Jude plants a smile on his face regardless.

  He also sits down with his family for an indoor picnic. Which means that instead of firing up the grill, they cook cheeseburgers on the gas stove in a hot skillet filled with sautéed onions and mushrooms. They set out a bowel filled with Cape Cod potato chips. Beside it, a small platter of garden lettuce, slices of tomato, thick rings of Vidalia onion. From where he sits at the table, it’s impossible not to see out the picture window onto the lake and the L.G.P.D. patrol boat stationed out in the bay. Between Ray Fuentes and the patrol boat, the Parish family is guarded on two fronts should the unthinkable occur and Lennox somehow manage to free himself of his electronic guardian.

  Jack has constructed a gigantic cheeseburger, ketchup, mustard, and mayo running down its sides. His round face is wide-eyed.

  Conquer and destroy.

  “You’re not gonna be able to get your mouth around that,” Jude observes.

  “I’ll force it in,” the boys insists. Picking up the burger two-fisted, he attempts a sloppy first bite.

  Jude opens the tab on a can of cold beer, takes a long hard pull.

  Easy on the beer, Parish. Your family will get the wrong idea . . .

  Rosie is sitting across from him, with Jack between them at the head of the table. As afternoon progressed into evening, Jude has grown worried about his pregnant wife. Her color isn’t good. And since he arrived home earlier that afternoon she hasn’t managed a single smile. Her words have been few. Twice Jude tried asking her if something might be the matter. And twice Rosie raised her hand up as if to wave the subject away.

  When Rosie gives you that wave, it’s a clear signal.

  Back off.

  She could not have chosen a worse time for silence.

  Jude feels the need to run through the disaster of the morning’s crime scene reenactment. He wants to tell her about Blanchfield, about how the prosecutor challenged his every word. His system requires venting, which mean he wants to tell her how he feels lousier than ever about his demon. He wants nothing more than to prove himself a reliable witness. He wants to earn their trust—Blanchfield, Mack, Lino and Judge Mann. He wishes it were possible to say all of these things to Rosie. But he knows that she’s in no mood to hear them.

  Something’s wrong.

  On her plate rests a thin hamburger patty. Nothing else.

  While Jude begins to fix his burger, he notices that Rosie is merely picking at her plain piece of meat with the tip of her fork. It isn’t like Rosie not to be hungry, especially at dinner time. She’s four months pregnant, after all. Seems like she’s always hungry these days.

  “Rosie, do you feel sick?”

  No answer. But then she doesn’t have to answer.

  Because when her eyes roll back in her head and she falls out of her chair, Jude knows that his wife is in severe trouble.

  “Dad,” Jack screams.

  “Go outside. Get Ray.”

  Jude, down on his knees, ear pressed against Rosie’s chest.

  “Rosie!” he shouts.

  Her heart beats rapidly.

  When Jude puts his face to her mouth, he can feel warm breath circulating in and out. It’s clear she’s not fully passed out. He eyes are opening and closing. She’s trapped somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness.

  “Tell me what’s wrong, Rosie.”

  But she can’t speak.

  Ray bursts into the kitchen, Jack on his tail.

  “Let’s carry her out to the Jeep,” he presses. “No time for an ambulance.”

  They set out along the lake road for the five mile drive south to Glens Falls. Ray radios ahead to the L.G.P.D. with news of the crisis, then calls ahead to the hospital warning of their arrival. When they get there, Ray pulls up to the Emergency room. Even as they exit the Jeep-cruiser, two orderlies are grabbing hold of Rosie, setting her onto a collapsible gurney, wheeling her inside.

  Jude, Ray, and Jack follow close behind.

  But as they come to a room cordoned off with a green drape, a young nurse insists they back off, make room for medical staff. She orders them to sit tight in the waiting room. As soon as more information becomes available, she’ll let them know.

  Hurry up. Wait. Agonize.

  An impossibly long hour goes by before Jude receives anything resembling an update on Rosie’s and the baby’s condition.

  But then a doctor enters the waiting room, spots Jude, makes his way over. He is a tall, African American man. Heavy set. Dressed in green surgical pullover and matching draw-string pants. He holds out his hand, introduces himself as Tom Walsh.

  He says, “Don’t worry. Your wife and baby are doing okay now.”

  A wave of relief passes through Jude’s body. From brain to toes and back again.

  He swallows, asks the doctor what might have caused her to pass out.

  “Rosie is suffering from symphysis pubis or SP,” Walsh explains. “In lay terminology, her uterus is prematurely separating itself from the pubic bone. It’s not life threatening to either mom or baby. But as you can see it can result in intense pain, swelling and tenderness. The trauma induced a high level of toxicity in her blood, causing her to enter into a semiconscious state.”

  “My wife hasn’t been complaining of pain.”

  “She doesn’t seem like the complaining type to me, Mr. Parish. I’ve prescribed a safe and effective muscle-relaxant for her. But for now, I want you to get her back home, put her to bed. Make sure she gets a lot of rest. She can exercise, but nothing strenuous. She can take Tylenol for any further discomfort.”

  When the doctor excuses himself, Jack, Ray, and Jude make their way back into a side recovery space located off the emergency room. Rosie is in there, sitting up, a smile planted on her drawn, pale face, an intravenous line hooked up to her right forearm. Jude gives her a kind of gentle half hug. Jack holds her hand. Ray offers her a gentle kiss on the cheek.

  “You scared the daylights out of us, Mrs. P,” he says.

  It’s then Mack comes rushing in through the sliding Emergency room doors, face beaming confusion and worry. Rather than his usual uniform of blue blazer and khaki pants, he’s dressed in old gray sweats and sneakers.

  “What the hell happened?”

  “Right on time, Captain,” Ray smiles.

  “I was at Iron Mike’s when I got the call,” Mack says. “Wednesday night power-lifting.”

  Jude fills the old Captain in. Just the highlights.

  “Close call,” says Mack afterwards. Then to Rosie. “You take care of yourself. No more jogging, no more digging in the garden. I don’t even want to see you making jewelry. Not until my granddaughter is born. You hear me?”

  “Loud and clear,
Captain Mack,” Rosie smiles as her father-in-law bends down to kiss her forehead. “From now on my life is bed-rest and bonbons.”

  An hour later, the Parish family is back home.

  While Ray makes a check on the home’s exterior, Jude gets Jack to bed, brings Rosie up some Campbell’s chicken soup and crackers. But by the time he enters into the master bedroom, he can see that she’s already asleep. He sets the tray on the dresser. Then he pulls the comforter back over her, kisses her brow. She still feels warm. But the color has returned to her face.

  “Love you,” he whispers into her ear.

  Jude wonders if she can somehow make out his words in her sleep.

  She breathes gently.

  She is home now. Safe, dry, protected.

  Turning off the bedside lamp, Jude makes his way quietly back downstairs.

  Inside his study, he sits at his desk, pops open a beer. From his chair he can see the dark forest to the immediate south of his home. He can also make out the bay that surrounds the small peninsula. Although he can’t see them, he knows the lake patrol is keeping a solid watch on the home from the water. He knows that Ray is now back inside his Jeep-cruiser where he will keep watch until the early hours of the morning when the Lieutenant will be relieved by a uniformed officer.

  Jude swallows some beer, logs onto his email account.

  He wonders if his anonymous guardian angel has managed to email another warning. But there’s no message in the mailbox. Jude can only surmise that one warning was enough. Just a single warning about watching his back.

  No details.

  At this point, he can’t help but think that the message might have been a crank. His email isn’t all that difficult to get a hold of. His website address is printed along with his photo on the dust jacket of his book for all the world to see.

  He drinks some more beer, thinks about the day, about the disastrous morning crime scene reenactment, about the S.P. that nearly injured his wife, maybe threatened the life of his unborn daughter. He wonders if the pressure of his involvement in the Lennox case is already exacting more than its fair bite out of Rosie. He wonders if it’s all worth it. But then Lennox is a killer. He has to be stopped. The beast was tried once before and beat the system. If Lennox were to get away again, he might never be brought to justice. More people will die. Jude has to at least try to bring him down.

  That’s why he is doing this.

  Or is it?

  Maybe Jude’s reasons for testifying against Lennox have nothing to do with putting a murderer away. Maybe they have everything to do with his pride. But then does restoring his pride and destroying the demon justify placing the lives of his family in jeopardy? What’s more important? His reputation as a man? Or the lives of his family?

  He swallows more beer, feels the cool liquid entering into his system.

  But the alcohol isn’t having much of an effect. Up until tonight, Jude didn’t realize how much he cherished the thought of a baby girl coming into his, Rosie’s, and Jack’s lives. Yet, here he is placing everything that is dear to him on the line.

  By testifying he is gambling with his most precious possessions.

  Maybe he should have taken the doubting prosecutor’s hint and dropped out that very morning. He is an unreliable witness. His personal fear factor is well documented in his own published memoir. Maybe his testimony will never stand up in a court of law. Maybe he should get the hell out now while the getting is good.

  Fingering the now ratty bandage taped to his head, he yanks it off and tosses it into the wastebasket beneath the desk. It’s his last bandage. Downing the rest of his beer, he heads back to the kitchen, pulls down his bottle of Celexa anti-anxiety medication from the cabinet over the sink. He pops one pill, swallows it with some water straight from the tap. Outside the picture window, he can see the green and red running board lights of the patrol boat. They make him feel safer. At least, they should make him feel safer.

  Before making his way upstairs, he turns on the house alarm via the wall-mounted enunciator panel off the rear kitchen door. Heading for the staircase he wonders if Lennox is turning in for the night. But then as a former cop, he knows the cold hard truth: like all predators, the night will be the Black Dragon’s time to hunt, if only in his mind.

  Office of the Warren County Prosecutor

  Thursday, 9:00 A.M.

  It’s early the next morning and P.J. Blanchfield has called for a video-conference strategy session with the FBI Profiler. Jude, Mack, Blanchfield, and Lino surround a portable conference table that’s been set in the middle of the office floor, not far from the hoop star’s trophy cabinet. All eyes are concentrated on the far end of the table and the flat-screened monitor that’s been set up there along with an octagonal speaker system. Placed before them on the table are small cameras that will be transmitting their individual faces to the FBI Washington Bureau while semi-retired Profiling Agent Terrence MacSweeny beams his famous mug to them.

  For a time, they sit in tense quiet, Jude staring out the crescent-shaped window behind P.J.’s desk at the top of Tongue Mountain. Mack is seated to his right, index finger tapping the table. Across from him sits Lino, as always dressed in black, on occasion smoothing out his mustache with forefinger and thumb. Beside him sits Blanchfield, the stunning prosecutor dressed in a white blouse and black skirt. She nervously peers at her wrist watch before looking up.

  “Any moment now,” she says.

  The phone rings as if on cue.

  Answering it herself, P.J. sets the receiver back down in its cradle. She then fingers Enter on the keyboard. The key command produces an image that shoots up on the large flat-screened monitor.

  MacSweeney is live and up close, salt and pepper hair cropped short, just like it was when Jude briefly met him a couple of years back. The suited sixty-something man is blue eyed, clean shaven as if still touting the rules and regs of the full-time G-man.

  Without delay, Blanchfield makes the introductions, most of which aren’t necessary since both Mack and P.J. briefly worked with the profiler during Lennox’s first arrest. By the time he gets to Jude, the agent smiles, asks how Cop Job is faring in the literary marketplace.

  “Dead in the water,” Jude admits, remembering the quarterly statement he has yet to receive from his agent. “You seem to be hanging in there though.”

  “People love serial killers,” MacSweeney says. “Which is why we’re here.”

  P.J. jumps in with a summary of where they are in the case just twenty-four hours prior to a Prelim Hearing in which they must present convincing evidence to back up Lennox’s second arrest for Murder One. Failing that, Judge Mann is sure to dismiss the proceedings until more rock solid proof becomes available. She goes over the kill scene reenactment of the previous morning. In an almost disappointing tone, she reveals that her eyewitness’s account will most likely be challenged due not only to a lack of illumination surrounding the rear area of Sweeney’s gym, but also due to Jude’s having been knocked unconscious, not to mention a history of blackout when placed under great strain or duress.

  “How is forensics shaping up?” asks a smiling MacSweeny from the monitor. To Jude, it’s as if his optimistic manner is intended to dismiss the prosecutor’s doubts.

  “Still waiting on tox and ballistics,” Mack interjects. “As far as a gun is concerned we do not have one. Lennox’s getaway vehicle has been pulled out of the river however and has been impounded. Problem is, the interior is covered in silt and muck. If we get anything from it at all it’ll be a miracle.”

  “Registration and V.I.N.?”

  “No available registration; the V.I.N. number’s been ground off the windshield.”

  “Have it stripped and scraped,” the Profiler insists. “If Lennox is alive—and I presume he is—his DNA will be inside it.”

  “Already on it,” Lino jumps in.

  “Mr. Parish,” MacSweeney says, “how do you feel about your testimony? Do you feel that the man you picked out in a
line-up is indeed, Hector Lennox?”

  It’s about as basic a question as Jude can face. But he’ll be damned if he knows how to answer it. He decides to take the easy way out: by revealing the dismal truth.

  “At this point I’m not sure.”

  “But you did see a man running out of the gravel pit. And you did see a man with long hair chasing him before recording his screams and then shooting him dead. There’s no mistaking that fact, correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “Okay. That means someone had to have killed our convenient store owner and more than likely it was the same man now released on conditional bail. It also means I will have to do a convincing job of proving to the court that both the M.O and Signature of the man now in house custody is not Christian Barter, but in fact the real Hector Lennox.”

  “How exactly will you do that, Agent MacSweeney?” P.J. asks. Jude notices that the tone of her voice is verging on sarcastic. It’s as if she’s asking the expert…the man who has literally written the book on the subject…to prove himself in front of everyone.

  The monitor shows MacSweeney crossing his arms.

  “I don’t want to tell you how to run your investigation, Captain Mack, Prosecutor Blanchfield,” he says. “But assuming that forensics produces little workable evidence you are going to have to establish probable cause that in fact this surgically reconstructed man is not only the return of Lennox, but that he plans on continuing with his kill game spree as his alter ego the Black Dragon. In the end, it might take a full confession.”

  “So what do we do?” P.J. interjects, not without a laugh. “Hold him down, tickle him till he pees his pants?”

  MacSweeney lets loose with a fake courtesy laugh.

  “Strategically speaking, you have to educate the court. That will be my job as the profiler. I will describe the monster that is Hector Lennox, but I will do so in a most complimentary way. I will use terms like ‘sophisticated,’ ‘ingenious,’ and ‘stealthy.’ I will describe in detail his signature and his M.O. and the differences between them, including his obsession with collecting his victim’s screams. By the time I’m through I’ll have propped him up so far that he’ll want nothing more than to admit to being the brilliant mastermind he’s always thought of himself.”