The Absence of Screams: A Thriller

by Ben Follows

  “What do you mean?”

  “Put yourself in his shoes. You wouldn’t want to look weak in front of your men, would you? What if the doctor tells the soldiers?”

  The General nodded. “I’ll move some things around. I want to help you and Marcus in any way I can out of my respect for what you've done, but there is a limit to my hospitality."

  “Thank you,” said Angela, standing. “Two days is all I ask. The medication should be here tomorrow."

  The General nodded and looked wistfully out the window. “Tell Marcus to see me when he’s feeling better.”

  “In regards to what?”

  “I want to see him before he leaves."

  Angela nodded, feeling vaguely uncomfortable.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Angela left the General's office before he asked her any questions she wouldn't be able to answer.

  She kept a normal pace as she walked, but she kept glancing back. She managed to get back into their quarters without any issues.

  She locked the door behind her.

  The blinds were drawn, and Angela had to turn on a lamp to get any light inside the room.

  It seemed as though no one had noticed her car was missing.

  Angela had spent an hour that morning writing possible places that Marcus could have gone. It seemed to make sense that he'd gone to Shembly house, but he would be long gone by now.

  She fell into the desk chair. Beside her were the pages of the speech Marcus had given the previous day and the unopened letter from Jeff Condor. She glanced at the envelope then threw it to the side.

  If Marcus needed his pen pal to feel like he was doing good in the world, she wasn't going to stop him.

  She tapped her fingers along the desk for a few moments before picking up her phone. She knew how to solve this, but she didn't like it.

  17

  Angela scrolled through her contacts to a number she'd considered deleting many times but hadn't for reasons she'd never been able to articulate. She stared at the name on the screen for a few moments before hitting "Call".

  “Hello?” said the man who answered.

  “Ricky, it’s Angela. How are you?”

  “Angie!" Ricky's voice perked up. "How are you? I didn’t think I’d hear from you again. You changed your number.”

  “I did." Angela moved her hair out of her eyes and tucked it behind her ears. “Do you remember what we talked about a few years back regarding Marcus?”

  Ricky laughed. “That fucker's still alive? I thought he’d be dead or in prison by now. How much money have you two raised for your imaginary missing children?”

  “We're doing a good thing, Ricky."

  “If telling yourself that lets you sleep at night, go for it, girl."

  “Fuck you, Ricky. I need your help.”

  “I'm making a point. After you so unceremoniously dumped me, I looked into your claims," said Ricky. "It's pretty hard to back up that those kids were rescued because of your intervention. All of them seem like they would have been rescued anyway. Where’s the money really going? I was thinking there are three options. Either Swiss accounts, Cayman Islands, or a hole in your backyard.”

  “Shut up, Ricky.”

  “Did you invest it? You could get some good returns."

  “Fuck you.”

  “I want ten grand to help you with whatever issue you're having.”

  Angela paused, the sudden change of direction throwing her off. “Are you serious?”

  “You don’t have a choice."

  Angela rubbed her eyes. "I will get you ten grand and not a cent more.”

  “What do you need?” said Ricky.

  She recounted the events of the last few days. When she finished, she said, “I need a doctor at the military base to throw off any suspicion, a team to retrieve Marcus, and a cleanup crew."

  “Fifteen grand."

  “We agreed on ten.”

  “Angie, I didn’t know how much was involved. Even for someone who’s been scamming people with a fake paraplegic for a decade, this is another level. You're finally in over your head."

  “That price is ridiculous and you know it.”

  “Then spend the rest of your life in prison. Why would I care? You dumped me, remember?”

  “Ricky, is that what this is about?”

  “I’m just telling you what my rate is. I'm assuming you don't know anyone else capable of pulling this off."

  Angela gripped the arm of the desk chair. “The fifteen grand is non-negotiable?

  “Correct.”

  Angela stood and paced the room. After a few moments, she sighed. “You’ll get your money."

  “I’ll get started right away.” Ricky paused. “It was nice hearing from you, Angie. Call more often.”

  Angela hung up without another word. She ran a hand through her hair and took a deep breath.

  There was a knock at the door which made Angela jump.

  She readjusted the pillows and the sheets on Marcus's bed to make the form of a human being and shut off the lights before opening the door a crack.

  “Who’s there?” she said.

  General Thompson stood outside the door, holding a tray of food. On the tray was soup, crackers and ginger ale. “I figured you two would be hungry. I got Marcus some stuff to feel better."

  “Thank you so much,” said Angela softly, reaching out and taking the tray. “Marcus is sleeping right now. He was awake all night in pain."

  Thompson seemed to deflate. “Okay, I’ll drop by later.”

  “You don’t need to. I’m sure you have more important responsibilities.”

  Thompson scoffed. “I can delegate. I have too much respect for you and Marcus to let you take care of him by yourself.”

  Angela forced a smile. “Thanks."

  She began to close the door.

  Thompson said, “You’ll let Marcus know I came by?”

  "I will.”

  “Thanks, Angela.”

  The moment the door closed the smile dropped from her face.

  She looked through the blinds to make sure that Thompson was out of earshot.

  She walked over to the desk chair and kicked it as hard as she could. The chair flew across the room and slammed into the bed, disrupting the sheets and the pillows that had made up the fake Marcus.

  18

  Todd jerked awake. It took him a moment to realize where he was.

  He was lying on a bench in a jail cell. Brown leaves flipped through the air outside the window.

  Detective Matt Cockerton stood just outside the bars, watching him. When he saw Todd was awake, he turned and left the room.

  “Hey!” shouted Todd, trying to orient himself to what was going on. “What’s going on? Cockerton, are you mute? You can tell me if you are!"

  The door to the jail clicked shut and Todd fell back into the bench.

  An officer came and led Todd to an interview room, where O'Reilly and Cockerton were waiting.

  Detectives O’Reilly and Cockerton entered.

  “Nice to see you again, Todd,” said Detective O’Reilly, taking out a notepad and leaning on the metal table.

  “Did you catch him?” said Todd.

  “Who?”

  “The guy who attacked me.”

  “No.” She glanced at Cockerton. “There were footprints running from the back door, but we lost the trail.”

  “I saw him. He's the killer. He said his name was Paul but it's not his real name.”

  O’Reilly sighed. “We need to talk about something, Todd.”

  “What?”

  “You lied to us."

  “Do I need to call my lawyer again? I didn’t kill Mrs. Shembly.”

  “Tell the truth, Todd." O’Reilly crossed her arms.

  Todd threw up his arms. “Fine, I admit it. Danielle texted me a few times, but she stopped before I learned anything useful. I don't know where they went."

  Todd looked at the detectives, who were staring at him
wide-eyed and doing a poor job hiding their surprise.

  “That wasn't what you knew," said Todd, stating the obvious.

  O’Reilly looked away and wrote something on her notepad.

  “What do you know?” said Todd, waiting for a reply. “Tell me or I’m calling my lawyer.”

  “We know about you investigating on your own and visiting Marino's Pub. Then you went to the Shembly house. You need to start talking."

  He crossed his arms. “I don't know what you're talking about."

  “If you didn’t murder her, help us," said O'Reilly. " Either you're an idiot trying to solve the case yourself, or you're involved and trying to figure out how much information is out there. In that case, I would guess you and the mysterious Paul were in on it together, and you had a falling out while looking through the Shembly house."

  "These compliments are making me want to help you so much," said Todd sarcastically.

  O'Reilly leaned back. "We need to know why you were in the Shembly house.”

  “I’d like to call my lawyer," said Todd.

  O'Reilly tilted her head to one side, as though she was disappointed in him.

  “Don’t be like that, Todd," she said.

  “I’m calling my lawyer.”

  Cockerton elbowed O'Reilly.

  She nodded and turned back to Todd. “What about the texts Danielle sent you? What can you tell us about those?"

  “I want to see my lawyer.”

  “Fine, have it your way. Matt?”

  Cockerton stood, still not having said a word, and left. A few moments later O'Reilly followed him into the hallway.

  “Is he mute?” Todd shouted after them. "Is this like a good cop, mute cop routine?

  The door slammed shut, leaving Todd alone.

  He didn't have his phone. He thought of the pictures he'd taken of Mr. Shembly's bank records.

  They had been in a safe in Mr. Shembly's second floor office. Todd knew the combination because Charles used his wife's birthday as his password for everything.

  Todd had taken pictures the moment he had heard movement on the main floor, and it had turned out to be the right decision. Now he had proof of what he had found.

  The only oddity in the records other than the monthly retainer to Jameson had been the payments for a cottage in Frederick Sound.

  In almost three years of dating Danielle, he had never heard any mention whatsoever of the Shembly's owning a second property of any kind, let alone a cottage.

  19

  The door opened and Jameson entered, a briefcase in his hand.

  "Let's get out of here," said Jameson. "They can't hold you."

  Jameson turned and left the room. Todd followed a moment later. He retrieved his personal items, then walked through the bullpen and into the waiting area. A television above the front desk was playing a news broadcast on low volume.

  Todd's eyes passed over the television and he froze. He stared at the screen, not believing what he was seeing.

  “Talk to me, Todd," said Jameson, walking towards the exit. "What happened?"

  Todd stared at the television. “Turn this up.”

  The receptionist looked up at him. “Why?”

  “Turn it up, now!”

  The receptionist grabbed a remote from below the counter and turned up the volume.

  A reporter with a tightly pressed suit and blonde hair slicked to one side stood in front of a Military base which Todd recognized as McKinley Military Base. During high school, he and a few friends had tried to sneak inside. It had resulted in getting picked up by their parents at the police station.

  The reporter was saying, “Although he is too modest to ask for attention, more people should know about the heroics of Marcus Devereaux. I have General Henry Thompson to tell us about this great man."

  The camera zoomed out to reveal a broad-shouldered man in a military uniform standing beside the reporter.

  Jameson leaned over to Todd. “Why are we watching this?"

  "Pay attention," said Todd, turning up the volume. He had seen the picture accompanying the anchor's introduction of the story, and if the picture had been of the person he thought it was, he was about to give Jameson a great story about the real killer.

  “Thank you, Dave," said General Thompson. He adjusted his collar and looked toward and away from the camera a few times, as though unsure where to look. “I presented Marcus Devereaux with an honorary Military Commendation Medal yesterday. I have no doubt whatsoever in my mind he deserves it. Although he is unable to fight for the military in the traditional sense, once you've heard his story I'm sure everyone will agree he has a soldier’s heart."

  “Amazing,” said the reporter. He turned to the camera. “We have a clip of the speech Devereaux gave at the military base yesterday morning.”

  The screen was overtaken by footage of Marcus Devereaux, a paraplegic in a wheelchair, on stage at the front of a large military mess hall. He was speaking about the tragic loss of his wife and daughter and the charity that he started in their memory. Todd didn't listen to the words. It was probably all lies, just like the fact that Marcus couldn't walk.

  “Why are we watching this?” said Jameson. "We need to focus on your case."

  “That’s him,” said Todd.

  “Who?” Jameson looked from Todd to the television and back again.

  “That’s Paul, the man who attacked me at the Shembly home."

  Jameson frowned. “How could that be? Did he roll himself at you really fast?”

  “His legs worked fine."

  “Are you sure?” Jameson said. “Maybe they just look similar.”

  Todd shook his head. “I would swear on a thousand bibles that that man killed Mrs. Shembly.”

  Jameson stood and paced the waiting area, his hand over his mouth.

  The footage of the speech ended and the news shifted back to General Thompson and the reporter. Thompson was grinning.

  “Wow,” said the reporter, “that is powerful stuff. Marcus is here now?”

  “Yes. He's too modest to come out and speak to you himself, but I'm sure there would be no higher honor for Marcus than to receive more donations for his charity, which will help him reconnect more missing children with their families."

  The reporter turned to the camera and a website address appeared along the bottom of the screen.

  "We have the website address on the screen," said the reporter. "Thank you for your time, General.”

  “Thank you for reporting on this truly heroic story,” said Thompson.

  The reporter signed off and sent the news back to the anchor.

  Jameson stopped pacing and looked at Todd. "You are absolutely certain that Marcus is the killer?"

  “I would swear on my mother's grave that Marcus Devereaux attacked me in the Shembly house last night. He basically confessed he was the killer."

  “This could work,” said Jameson, stroking his chin. “If we can prove his charity is a scam and he isn't paralyzed, we could shift the focus of the investigation onto him.”

  “What do we need?”

  Jameson looked out the window. “We need more proof. We need to prove he wasn't on the base the night of the murder."

  Todd nodded. “We can also prove Marcus isn't paralyzed."

  Jameson nodded. "Devereaux is allegedly raising money to save missing children. If he isn't paralyzed and killed Tatiana Shembly, then he could be lying about other things as well. If that money isn’t going to find missing children, this could get messy.”

  “What about this?” He handed his phone to Jameson, who swiped through the pictures of the bank records.

  He looked back at Todd. “Where did you find these?”

  “In a safe at the Shembly’s house. Devereaux has the physical copies. He stole them from me.”

  “I’ll get one of my guys to look into them. Have you shown these to the police?”

  “No.”

  “Good. I’m running with the story that the Shembly's
gave you a key and you were retrieving something of yours. Come up with something plausible you could be retrieving.”

  "I can do that."

  Jameson zoomed in on the phone, looking at the bank records. "Then," he said, grinning, "we'll get to work on our case against Marcus Devereaux."

  20

  “I’m going to kill him!” Angela screamed.

  Her shoulders were up, her back was arched, and her hands were balled into fists.

  She paced back and forth across the small quarters, throwing anything she could get her hands on at the wall. A pile of broken mugs lay in one corner of the room.

  The news had shifted to another story, but all Angela cared about was the news report in which General Thompson had told the world about Marcus. She had spent the last decade walking a fine line between anonymity and publicity, and now it was all going to fall apart.

  She threw up her hands. "If it weren't for Thompson's love for Marcus, we wouldn't even be here, and now it's going to ruin everything."

  “Calm down,” said Ricky. He was sitting cross-legged on Marcus's bed. “He was trying to help.”

  Angela turned and stared at him. Ricky was skinny but muscular. He'd arrived about an hour earlier, getting onto the base as Marcus's doctor, Doctor Rick Hamlund. He wore black-rimmed glasses, a button-down shirt, and designer shoes. He didn't look much like a doctor, but somehow that made his claims more believable.

  Angela turned to him. “You don’t get it, do you, moron?”

  Ricky leaned back. “Angie, it's not that big a deal."

  “This could ruin everything!"

  “It’s local news, I don’t see what the big deal is. There's probably like twelve people watching and most of them are old women knitting."

  Angela stepped towards him. “You don’t see what the big deal is? Marcus has an inspiring story and tons of people are going to donate and want to see him! How is that not an issue?”

  “Just calm down, Angie.“

  Angela leaned over Ricky and held a finger up. Ricky didn't budge. “If one person saw him in the streets on the night of the murder then saw him on television, we are fucked. Find him and kill anyone who can ruin this!”