Secret, Silent Screams

by Joan Lowery Nixon

  As soon as class was over Marti scrambled out of her chair, but Mr. Thompson said, “Marti, I'd like to discuss something with you, if you wouldn't mind staying. It won't take long.”

  “All right. In just a minute,” Marti answered, but she grabbed Charlie's arm, and tried to tug him out of earshot of the others. “Did Emmet ever ask you to copy something for him?”

  “No,” Charlie said. “Why should he?”

  “Marti?” Mr. Thompson called.

  “Just a second,” she said.

  “Tony joined them. “What was all that stuff you were doing before class started?! never did get those quotes we have to look up.”

  “Marti,” Mr. Thompson said again.

  “Both of you, listen to me,” she whispered. “If Emmet asks you to write anything, don't do it. I'll explain later.” To Tony she added, “Forget Emmet's list. We don't have to look up anything.”

  “Then, what—”

  She began to turn, then remembered something else. “Does either of you know if Emmet has a ear?” she asked.

  Tony nodded. “His parents bought him one the year he got his driver's license.”

  “What kind is it? What does it look like?”

  “I'm not sure. Ford sedan, I think. Light gray.”

  “It had to be,” Marti murmured to herself. She walked to Mr. Thompson's desk and took the seat beside it. She saw Charlie glance back at her with such a puzzled, disturbed expression that it frightened her. He thinks I'm crazy,she thought.

  Mr. Thompson tapped a pencil on the desk and abruptly asked, “I'll get right to the point, Marti. Are you getting any kind of counseling?”

  “No,” she said.

  “I hope you won't object if I call your parents and suggest that they find a reputable counselor or psychologist for you.”

  The ache in her chest grew almost unbearable as she saw the concern in Mr, Thompson's eyes. “Do you think I'm crazy too?” she murmured.

  “Of course not,” he answered. “I think you've had more sorrow and stress than you can handle. Wouldn't you like someone to help you work through it?”

  She let out a long sigh. “Yes, I would,” she said. When all this is over.

  “Then you won't object if I call your parents?”

  “You can call them. They'll agree with you.”

  Mr. Thompson got to his feet. He looked relieved. “How about a ride home again?”

  “No, thanks,” Marti said. “I'm going to meet Kim. I promised to go to the mall with her.”

  He smiled. “That's a place I try to avoid as much as possible, especially the section around the video store. I'm too old for all that blaring music.”

  Her mouth opened as the thought zapped her mind. The video store. It's where all the kids go to get records and tapes. It was probably where Emmet would have gone to buySudden Death. A copy for Barry, one for Tony, and one for Charlie. Three tapes ofSudden Death.

  Marti became aware that Mr. Thompson and she were walking out of the classrom. He was laughing and saying, “You don't have to look at me like that. I'm not that old.”

  “I-I know you're not,” she stammered. “I just-just thought of something else.” As Mr. Thompson turned to lock his door, Marti ran down the hall, where Kim was patiently waiting by their lockers.

  “Hi,” Kim said. “Are you ready to go?”

  Marti didn't answer the question. “Can you get me last year's yearbook?” she asked.

  “I've got one at home,” Kim said. “So do you. What's this all about?”

  “I need a yearbook right this minute. Can you take one from the yearbook office?”

  Kim shrugged. “I guess.”

  Marti tugged at Kim's arm. “Then let's get it—now.”

  “I thought we were going to the mall.”

  “We are. As soon as I get a copy of the yearbook.”

  “Why do you—”

  “Please, Kim,” Marti said, “don't ask questions now. I'll tell you everything in a little while. Okay?”

  “Well—okay,” Kim answered reluctantly as Marti led her down the hall.

  The yearbook office was still open, with no one around to question why Kim was taking the copy; and as soon as they arrived at the mall, Marti insisted that they had to go to the video store first

  The store was just as noisy as Mr. Thompson had said it was, and it was already filled with kids.

  “I think I'm going to get that new Cyndi Lauper album,” Kim said. “Let's go look at it.”

  “You go,” Marti told her. “I'll be with you in just a minute. I have to ask the man behind the counter something.”

  She knew this balding, overweight man was the owner of the store, and she had never seen him leave his post behind the checkout counter. He'd probably be the only one in the store who could answer her question, As soon as he had rung up a sale and there were no other customers at the counter, Marti approached him.

  “Gould you tell me about any of your customers who've bought videotapes of Sudden Death?”

  “We've sold lots of tapes and records of Sudden Death/9he said, his face screwing into a look of disgust. “Why, I don't know.”

  “Could you remember who bought them?”

  “Are you kidding? How could I remember all those customers?”

  “Would you remember someone who bought three copies ofthe videotape at the same time?”

  “At the same time?” His eyes were narrow slits as he thought. “Well, yeah. I guess. About three or four weeks ago. There was a kid who bought three of the tapes. Said they were for friends.”

  “Do you remember what he looked like?”

  There was a long pause while he tried to remember. Finally, he said, “I dunno. Kind of thin, I think. I'm not sure.”

  Marti fumbled through the yearbook until she came to the page with Emmet's picture. “Was it one of these people?”

  The owner put on his glasses and bent over to peer at the page. “Yeah,” he said, putting his finger under Emmet's picture. “It was him.”

  “Thanks.” Marti snatched up the yearbook, her heart pounding in her ears, and hurried to Kim. “I have to make a phone call,” she said.

  “What are you doing?” Kim frowned. “I saw you showing the yearbook to the store owner. What's this all about?”

  “Please trust me,” Marti said. “I have to make a phone call, and then I'll need you to take me home.”

  “I thought we were going to have fun this afternoon. You promised—”

  “Please,” Marti begged.

  Kim put back the album she was holding and, without another word, walked out of the store.

  “Don't be angry,” Marti said, following her. “This is something I have to do.”

  Kim leaned against the wall, her arms folded tightly. “I don't understand you anymore,” she mumbled.

  “If you'd just …” Marti stopped She didn't have time to explain. She ran to the pay phones, dropped in some change, and asked the operator to connect her with the Farrington Park police station.

  “I have to speak to Karen Preseott,” she told the officer who answered.

  “Officer Prescott's on duty,” the man said.

  “This is terribly important,” Marti told him. “Do you know where she is?”

  “Matter of feet, I do. he said. “She's over at1-10 helping direct traffic around an eighteen-wheeler that jackknifed and closed down three lanes.”

  “When dan I talk to her?”

  “Why don't you leave a message?” he asked. “As soon as she calls in, I'll give it to her.”

  “Okay,” Marti said. “Please tell heir that I have the proof. It's Emmet's gray car. It's Emmet who bought the videotapes.”

  “Hold on,” he said. “I'm getting this down.”

  “I'm going right home,” Marti said. “Ask her if she can come there as soon as possible.”

  “What's the address?”

  “She knows it.”

  “What's your name?”

  “Name? Oh, it's
Marti Lewis.”

  There was a pause and his voice became brusque. “When she's free,” he said, “I'll tell her you called:”

  “Please ten her!” Marti cried. She heard him hang up, and she leaned her head against the wall phone. What if he didn't give Karen the message? Marti wondered if she should just go to the station and wait for Karen.

  No. She couldn't sit there for an hour or so under disapproving eyes. She'd wait for Karen at home. Later, if she didn't hear from Karen, she'd try calling the station again.

  She walked toward Kim, hating the closed-away look on her friend's face. “Could we go home now?” she asked.

  “Why not?” Kim said, and walked as quickly as she could to her car in the parking lot, Marti meekly keeping a step or two behind her.

  It wasn't until they pulled up in front of Marti's house that Kim spoke. She turned to Marti, and there were tears in her voice. “I'm not being a very good friend,” she said. “I want to help you, but I've been wanting you to do things my way. I'm sorry, Marti. I'm not angry anymore. Honest. Want me to come in with you?”

  “No, thanks,” Marti said.

  “But something's bothering you. Don't you want to have someone with you?”

  Marti sighed. “Yes, but not right now. There are things I have to work out.”

  “Can't you tell me about them?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  Kim shook her head in frustration. “Why not?”

  Marti fought against the tears that burned her eyes. “Oh, Kim, don't you see? I don't want you to get involved in this. I don't want you to be in any danger.”

  Kim couldn't disguise the flash of horror that momentarily distorted her face.

  She thinks I'm over the edge, Marti thought. She watched Kim struggle to disguise her feelings and cried out. “Please, Kim, trust me. I'll call you later. I'll tell her everything.”

  “Okay,” Kim said, unable to keep her voice steady. “Why don't you do that. Til be home. I'll be waiting.”

  “Thanks,” Marti said. She picked up her books, climbed out of the car, and ran up the walk to her house, unlocking the door.

  As she paused, reluctantly watching Kim drive away, she suddenly noticed that a gray car was parked halfway down the block. Marti ran a couple of steps down the walk, shouting, “Kim!” But Kim's car was already turning the corner. Kim hadn't heard her.

  As she rushed into her house and shut the door, Marti wished with all her heart that her parents had listened to her, that they had installed dead bolts. Knowing how easy it was to break into this house, she felt so terribly unprotected.

  She put her books on the hall table and stood silently, aware of the small noises of the house as it stirred and settled around her. She wouldn't allow herself to be afraid. Karen would call soon—surely she would. Marti would tell her what she had discovered and how she had postponed, at least, Emmet's plan for Tony.

  Shivering, Marti wondered if Emmet had used the same Ime on Barry: You can copy this list. Maybe he had tried something different, something just as diabolical. At least Barry had been the only one to write something, at Emmet's request, that could pass as a suicide note.

  Into her mind came the scene in English lit, with Emmet holding out his torn textbook: You've got time now, Marti. Write it down for me. Just the first two lines.

  Marti gasped and held on to the table for support. Tony wasn't the next target. Neither was Charlie. She looked into the hall mirror at the girl with terrified eyes, whose face was as pale as her cloud of hair, and whispered, “Emmet's next victim is supposed to be me!

  CHAPTER • 15

  Karen! She'd have to reach Karen as fast as possible!

  The telephone in the den was the nearest one, so Marti made a dash for it, stumbling into the room, banging her leg against the coffee table as she stopped short, staring at the television set.

  The picture was on, but the sound had been turned off. And the red lights of the VCR were on. Who had turned on the VCR?

  Marti let out a cry as she recognized the wild gyrations of the musicians on the tape. This was Sudden DeatM

  Maybe a light sound or shadow suddenly alerted her. Marti didn't know. Overwhelmed by a wild panic, she flung herself to one side. She landed on the sofa and rolled as the poker from the fireplace came crashing down on the spot where she had been standing.

  She crouched, facing Emmet, who was on his hands and knees, carried down by the force of his blow. “I'm not going to let you kill me!” she cried out.

  As he rose, poker held high, Marti scrambled to her feet and grabbed the large brass table-lamp, jerking its cord from the wall, holding it out as a shield.

  Tensely they waited, studying each other. “Why did you kill Barry?” she asked. “What did he ever do to you?”

  “What did he do to my brother?” Emmet snarled. “The Cuatros sent him to prison.”

  “Thad sent himself. He's the one who robbed the store.”

  “They should have stuck by him. They were traitors.”

  His eyes glittering with anger and hatred, Emmet took a step forward. Marti stepped back, her shoulders striking the wall. “Does Thad know what you've done?”

  “No,” he said, “and he doesn't need to know.”

  “He'll find out. Everyone will.”

  Emmet chuckled. “They'll believe what they want to believe. You've already found that out, haven't you?” He moved a little closer.

  “Listen to me, Emmet,” Marti said, trying to keep her voice steady, “no matter how angry you feel, killing doesn't do any good.”

  “Of course it does,” he said. “It's the perfect revenge.”

  Marti couldn't budge. The wall was against her back, the sofa on one side, the table with the telephone on the other. “If you hit me with that poker, the police will know it wasn't suicide.”

  “I'll take care of that. They'll never see the marks. I've got plans.”

  “What plans?”

  “Nothing you need to know.”

  The telephone rang, and she involuntarily reached out toward it, but Emmet snapped, “Don't touch that!”

  Afraid not to obey him, terrified of what he might do next, Marti waited through the rings until the phone was silent. Could that have been Karen?

  “Copycat suicides,” Emmet said. “It fits the theory so well. Barry and you and Tony and Charlie.”

  “Listen to me, Emmet,” Marti pleaded.

  “Nobody listens to you, Marti. Nobody. Dr. Granberry will be on television again, and Dr. Emery will have more ammunition for his crusade. Poor Flesh. They may be put out of business.” He laughed again.

  Softly the house clicked and popped as though it were disturbed. Emmet paused, listening intently. Marti could smell the sourness of her own fear, and it was hard to breathe. Maybe this was her chance, her only chance.

  “Someone's in the house. Someone's coming,” she whispered.

  “No, they're not,” Emmet mumbled, but for just an instant his glance flicked toward the doorway, away from Marti.

  In that second Marti screamed at the top of her lungs and raised the heavy brass lamp. She leapt forward, whacking at the poker with the solid end of the lamp.

  Emmet shouted in pain as the poker fell from his hand. But he grabbed Marti around the neck and jacked out trying to knock her off-balance. The lamp flew to one side.

  He was stronger than she had thought His arm pressed hard against her throat, forcing her head back while she struggled. She stomped with the heel of her shoe on the top of his foot, bringing it down as hard as she could. She felt something in his foot crack as he screamed in pain.

  She had pulled against him with such force that when he suddenly released her she flew forward, falling against one of the chairs and landing facedown on the floor. Crying out, she tried to rise to her hands and knees and scramble away from him as he limped toward her.

  But he had the poker again, raising it high.

  Again Marti rolled, and she heard the poker crash against
the edge of the coffee table.

  The lamp. She dove for it and swung it up just as the poker came down again. The loud clang of the metal reverberated inside her head.

  She jumped to her feet and faced Emmet. He lifted the poker over his head. In an instant he'd bring it down again. The lamp was her only protection, but it would deflect the blows just so long. Marti knew she had to take a wild chance and try not just to defend herself but to stop Emmet. She suddenly twisted as though the lamp were a baseball bat. She swung it up and sideways, leaving herself completely vulnerable. Emmet's eyes gleamed, and he grinned as he aimed the poker at her head. But Marti leapt to one side, staggering off-balance as, with all her strength, she slammed the lamp into Emmet's ribs. The poker merely stung as it slid against her left arm.

  Emmet collapsed into a heap, choking and moaning and sobbing. Marti snatched up the poker and lamp and dropped them next to the telephone. Crying, as the terror that consumed her rushed like ice water through her trembling arms and legs, she dialed the Farrington Park police station and in a rush of words asked for help, “Don't break the connection,” a voice said. “Someone's on the way.”

  She waited, afraid to leave the telephone, afraid to move closer to Emmet, until she heard a familiar voice saying, “It's all right, Marti.”

  Marti focused on two uniformed officers who were suddenly inside the room. One of them bent to Emmet. The one who came toward her was Karen.

  “Stop shaking. You're all right now,” Karen told her. She put an arm around Marti's shoulders, and Marti leaned against her.

  “I didn't want to hurt Emmet,” Marti whispered. “But he was trying to kill me. I had to stop him.”

  The officer who was kneeling beside Emmet looked up. “Well get the paramedics,” he said. “He's going to be okay.”

  “I know how Emmet got Barry to write the suicide note,” Marti told Karen. “He was going to kill the other Guatros too, and he told me that—”

  “Take it easy. You can make a statement later,” Karen said.

  The telephone rang, and Marti reached for it.

  “Oh, there you are,” her mother said. “I called just a few minutes ago, but you hadn't come home yet.” Her voice changed, a hopeful, pleading note entering it. “Your English teacher, Mr, Thompson, called me, dear. He's quite concerned about you. He feels you should get therapy. I told him that we'd discussed it I hope you—”