The Absence of Screams: A Thriller

by Ben Follows

  Marcus rolled into the office.

  General Thompson was sitting at his desk talking to someone on the phone. He listened for a moment then said, “Love you too.”

  He hung up and looked at Marcus.

  “Marcus!” he said, a grin spreading across his face. “You appear to be feeling better. We were all worried. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

  Marcus rolled up to the desk, between the two chairs set up for visitors.

  He reached into his pocket and took out his medal. He slammed it down on the desk.

  Thompson looked down at him and raised his eyebrows. “What's the meaning of this?”

  “I don’t deserve it,” said Marcus. “I’ve lied to you. I’ve lied to everyone.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Marcus took a deep breath. “I wasn’t paralyzed eleven years ago."

  Thompson stared at him, then leaned back in his chair. "Go on."

  “Angela and I made a plan,” he said. "It was mostly Angela’s idea. The Cassandra Devereaux Foundation was the best way for me to find my daughter, but we needed something to stand out from the crowd.”

  “What happened to your wife and daughter wasn’t enough?”

  “We needed a symbol. Someone in a wheelchair is a symbol, a story isn’t. We needed a way to catch people’s attention with one single image. We pretended I had been paralyzed and took advantage of the attention it brought us.”

  Thompson put his hands together. “Why are you telling me this, Marcus?”

  Marcus swallowed. “I found my daughter.”

  Thompson raised an eyebrow. “You found your daughter?”

  Marcus nodded. “While Angela and I were in Harper's Mill a few days ago, I saw the woman who kidnapped my daughter at a school. I followed her.”

  “You recognized her even though you hadn’t seen her in a decade?”

  Marcus gestured toward the picture of Thompson’s two daughters on the desk. “She took my daughter. If someone took your children, wouldn't the incident be engraved in your memory. She was the getaway driver. I remember seeing her drive past the house after they left. I committed her face to my memory."

  Thompson looked at the picture of his children then back at Marcus. He gestured for Marcus to continue.

  “I went to Tatiana's home. I was going to sneak in and steal my daughter back. She discovered who I was and she fled. I pursued her. In my anger, I killed her.”

  Thompson frowned and took a few seconds to gather himself. “Is that the woman who was killed in Harper’s Mill a few days back?”

  Marcus nodded. “I'm the one who killed her. The Shembly's disappeared after it happened. I wanted to go after them, and Angela tried to stop me. Last night, I stole Angela's car and tracked the Shembly family to Frederick Sound. Angela sent a man named Ricky, an ex-boyfriend of hers who works as a mercenary, after me."

  Thompson said, “Stand up.”

  “What?”

  Thompson crossed one leg over the other. “If you’re faking being paralyzed, stand up and show me.”

  “I was getting to that."

  “Stand up, Marcus. It shouldn’t be that difficult.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  Marcus sighed. “Ricky tracked me down at the cottage in Frederick Sound. He shot a blank at my spine. It was a warning and a reminder of what they'll do if I don’t listen to them. My legs are temporarily paralyzed. Ricky said it was Angela's idea. They're destroying any chance I have at getting my daughter back. It's why I need your help.”

  Thompson leaned across the desk, his hands together. He had the same expression as the cop who'd told Marcus his wife was dead.

  “Angela came in here last night," said Thompson.

  Marcus felt his stomach in his throat. “Whatever she said, it's a lie.”

  “I’ve seen this many times, Marcus. You’re experiencing PTSD flashbacks due to a traumatic event that happened to you. In your case, that night eleven years ago. Your mind is making up scenarios to deal with it. You’ve been in your quarters with a high fever for the last few days. Angela hasn’t left your side. A doctor by the name of Ricky Sanchez came through here and gave you new pain medication. He told me you were on the way to recovery. He was a kind fellow and gave me a complete rundown of your condition. He showed me your medical records and answered all my questions. I can call him up if you want. He's still in town. You must have overheard his name and incorporated it into your dream.”

  “That's not what happened!" Marcus shouted. He gripped the arms of the wheelchair so hard his knuckles turned white.

  Thompson rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Marcus, I know this is hard for you. You talk about the hardest time in your life on such a regular basis that it’s taken a toll on you. Doing that would eventually break the strongest of men. Why don’t you take some time off to recover? You deserve it.”

  Marcus wanted to jump across the desk and strangle the general. He was regretting not taking the chance to do so to Angela.

  “You don’t understand," he pleaded. "I killed Tatiana Shembly. I chased her down in the wheat fields around her house and strangled her until the life went out of her eyes. Then I saw Danielle and the woman who killed Cassandra drive past. I called Angela and she picked me up. Check with the police, please!"

  “Marcus.” Thompson sighed. "I called the Police in Harper's Mill. They informed me they’ve made an arrest in the Tatiana Shembly case. It wasn’t you, Marcus. You just saw a news report of it. Shembly happened to have a daughter named Danielle. You incorporated it into a fantasy where you got to see your daughter again. It has nothing to do with you. Your daughter is gone. She was never in Harper's Mill.”

  Thompson stood and walked around the desk. He put a hand on Marcus's shoulder in a fatherly gesture.

  “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this," he said. "I understand. If one of my children disappeared, I would spend the rest of my life seeing them in every reflection and in every shadow.” He knelt down in front of Marcus. "She's gone. You need to move on.”

  Marcus looked at his hand then at his legs. “Who did they arrest?”

  “Marcus, don't worry about this. It has nothing to do with you.”

  Marcus looked up and met the General's eyes. He spoke slowly and methodically. “Who did they arrest?”

  Thompson sighed. “They arrested Danielle Shembly's boyfriend, Todd Anderson."

  "That's my daughter's boyfriend."

  "No, it isn't. They're different people."

  “They’re the same person!” Marcus lunged at him, trying to grab the general by the collar, but his legs did nothing and he pitched forward toward the desk.

  Thompson sidestepped and caught him just before his face went into the desk. The general held him there, probably waiting to see if Marcus would try anything else.

  Marcus scrunched up his face and began to cry, tears flowing down his face and landing on the carpet.

  “Please,” he begged, “please believe me. I killed Tatiana Shembly. I'm a murderer. Call me whatever you want. I just need my daughter back.”

  Thompson placed him back in the wheelchair. “I’m going to call Angela. She has supported you. You owe her a lot.”

  “You have to believe me,” said Marcus, his voice weak.

  Thompson called in his secretary and told her to get Angela Weber. The general listened to Marcus’s pleas for the next few minutes without saying a word. He just leaned back and listened.

  Angela came into the office behind Marcus. He turned and sneered at her.

  After thanking Thompson, Angela turned and wheeled Marcus out of the office. Marcus continued to plead to Thompson, but the general turned and looked out the window.

  As they left the office, Marcus felt all his remaining strength drain from his body. He slouched in his chair and stared blankly forward.

  The moment they were outside and no one was within earshot, Angela leaned down beside him and whisper
ed in his ear.

  “Just remember,” she said, “it was nothing but a bad dream. Try anything like that again, and your next one will be a nightmare.”

  29

  Todd paced back and forth across the cell, wringing his hands. There were bags under his eyes and he kept glancing toward the front desk where they were keeping his belongings. He hadn't had a cigarette since they had brought him into the station twenty-four hours prior and it was starting to wear on his nerves.

  “Dude,” said Dennis, his cellmate. “Sit down. Pacing back and forth like a crazy person is making me anxious.”

  Todd glanced at the man sitting on the lower bunk. He was a scrawny middle-aged man wearing a white long sleeved shirt and torn jeans. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing white supremacist tattoos.

  “She could be dying right now,” said Todd. “That madman is going to kill Danielle.”

  Dennis leaned back and grinned. “This Marcus guy sounds like a wimp if you ask me. Give me a minute with him. He'll crumble.”

  “I need to get out of here.”

  “They don't have enough to hold you on which isn't circumstantial. Your lawyer will get you out. These detectives are idiots. I’ve dealt with O’Reilly before. As for Cockerton, don’t let his voice fool you. He’s a tough motherfucker.”

  Todd frowned. “He has a voice? I haven't heard him say a word.”

  Dennis laughed. “He's been pulling the mute act on you. His voice sounds like a dog whining. I heard he got into a fight a decade back and had his windpipe crushed. It physically hurts him to talk and when he does he sounds less manly than a five-year-old girl.”

  Todd laughed, then looked around the cell and his somber expression returned. He leaned against the bars. “They think I killed Mrs. Shembly.”

  “Did you?”

  “No," Todd said.

  Dennis stood and walked behind Todd. He draped his arm over Todd, pulling him into a brotherly embrace. Todd flinched and clenched his shoulders.

  “Don’t pull back,” said Dennis, pulling Todd close, until he could feel Dennis's breath in his ear. “I need to talk to you, Todd. I know how these people think, and I know how to beat it. Are you listening?”

  Todd's nose rankled. He nodded.

  “Don’t say anything,” said Dennis. “They want you to talk. Innocent people are the stupidest people on the planet. You think you need to tell the cops the truth or you’ll seem guilty. They’ll tell you they're catching the real killer, but they want you to incriminate yourself. Guilty people don't say a thing. They lawyer up. People like me know better."

  “What do you mean 'people like you?'”

  Dennis grinned wide. “I'm talking about People who know cops inside and out."

  Todd swallowed. "Go on."

  Dennis laughed. “Don’t say anything. Take a cue from Cockerton and shut up. Lawyers are magic."

  “I’m not a criminal.”

  Dennis looked at him, grinning. “I like you, Todd.”

  “I'm just trying to save my girlfriend."

  "Don't sound so offended. I’m offering to help, Todd.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I'm going to get out of here soon. I'll come back for you.

  "You'll pay my bail?"

  “Sure, why not?"

  "How?"

  Dennis shrugged. “I'll find a way."

  Dennis walked back to his bunk just as the door to the cells opened. O’Reilly entered with two patrol officers flanking her.

  “Dennis,” she said. “Your wife bailed you out again. I have no idea why.”

  “It’s a little thing called love, detective,” said Dennis. He stood and walked to the open cell door. “You wouldn’t understand, living in your ivory tower.”

  O’Reilly stepped back and kept her hand on her gun. Dennis walked past her to the main bullpen. Just before he was led out of the doorway by the two patrol officers, he turned back and smiled at Todd, shooting him a thumbs up.

  "Todd,” O’Reilly said, turning back to Todd. “Your lawyer is here. Come on.”

  30

  Todd followed O’Reilly out of the cell to the interview rooms. He looked out at the front of the station. Dennis was out the door with a woman and two young girls.

  Liam was standing at the front desk. He looked up from the form he was filling out and flipped Todd off with both hands. The officer handed Liam his car keys and he turned on his heel and walked out of the station.

  Todd felt a twinge of guilt. He would apologize to Liam when he got out. They'd been in fights before, and it was nothing that couldn't be solved with some beer and pizza.

  "What's the deal with Dennis?" said Todd, turning to O'Reilly.

  O'Reilly looked back at him. "Stay away from him," she said. "He's nothing but trouble."

  Todd nodded. O'Reilly opened the door to the interview and closed it once Todd had stepped inside.

  Jameson was waiting. He looked up from his notes when Todd entered and took off his spectacles.

  “Thank god you’re here,” said Todd, taking his seat. “You’ve got to get me out of here.”

  “You’ll get out of here,” said Jameson. "They haven't got anything solid. I have a judge looking at the charges against you. It should be thrown out within the next hour or so. That will make it so you're no longer being held for murder, only for fleeing the cops. The only risk is that the cops will say you're a flight risk. "

  Todd stared at him. "What do you mean? How can they arrest me if they don't have evidence?"

  Jameson returned his spectacles to where they perched on his nose. "The cops haven’t managed to explain how you were attacked at the Shembly house. They're working on the theory that you had an accomplice, the mysterious 'Paul'. We need to find him."

  “It was Marcus Devereaux."

  "I wanted to ask you about that. Is there any way it could have been someone else?"

  "It was him."

  “Todd, are you sure?"

  Todd crossed his arms. "I've never been so sure of anything in my life."

  "Okay," said Jameson, grinning. "It's time for me to go to war."

  31

  The sheets covered Marcus's legs. The almost empty bottle of pain medication sat on the dresser beside him.

  On the television the local news played, giving a report on the Shembly case. There had been no new developments, and the reporters were beginning to make outlandish claims to fill the time.

  Angela looked up from her magazine and said, “You shouldn’t watch the news so much. All this bullshit will rot your brain.”

  Marcus stared at her. “Look at that trash magazine you're reading. You're one to talk."

  Angela looked at him and frowned condescendingly. “Maybe I’ll just not feed you tonight? How does that sound? You’re going to tell General Thompson? He thinks you’re crazy, remember? Turn off the news.”

  Marcus hesitated for a moment, then shut off the television.

  Angela stood and walked to the door, folding her magazine and placing it on the bed. “I'll bring back some food.”

  "Can I ask you something?" said Marcus without looking at her.

  She stopped in the doorway.

  "What?"

  "Where is the money we raise going? Is it going to help missing kids?"

  Angela smiled. "Of course it is."

  She closed the door and locked it from the outside.

  Marcus needed to get out of here. He needed to save his daughter. Nothing that had happened with Ricky or Thompson changed his mind. His mind was a haze from the painkillers, and it took every ounce of willpower he had to look around the room and try to come up with an idea that could get him out of Angela's clutches.

  There were a few utensils, paperclips and butter knifes mostly, which he could use as a makeshift weapons

  His wheelchair was nowhere to be seen. Angela must have put it back into the car.

  He looked around the room until his eyes came to rest on Angela's bed, beside the folded-up mag
azine.

  Angela’s IPhone was lying on the sheets.

  Marcus stared up at the ceiling. He was trying to think of who to call. There was only one person he could think of, and it was someone that he had hoped he would never be in a position to ask for help, because it was a man he had always viewed as below him.

  He leaned over and grabbed Jeff Candor's letter off the desk. The letter had arrived a week prior and he'd never gotten around to opening it.

  He opened it and read through it. Jeff was getting back on his feet. He stated that he had begun walking around in small doses using a prosthetic leg and a wheelchair the military had provided.

  Jeff had gotten out of rehab for an addiction to painkillers and was living at a halfway house. He had been working part-time for a local gym. He hated it.

  Marcus grinned as he read the letter. It was an improvement from the suicidal addict Jeff had been when he'd first left the service with only one leg and a failed mission to join a long line of Candor's who died in war.

  At the bottom of the letter was the address and phone number of the halfway house.

  Marcus stared up at the ceiling. He'd never considered that he would be in a situation where he'd need Jeff's help. That wasn't how their relationship functioned. Jeff saw Marcus as an inspiration, as a reason to keep going.

  Marcus saw Jeff as a way to pad his ego.

  Now he had fallen far enough that he had to beg Jeff for help.

  Although, Marcus didn't feel like he had fallen. Maybe he'd been standing at the bottom of a mountain looking down on ants and thinking his size made him special.

  He took a deep breath.

  He shoved the letter into his pocket and pulled himself off the bed, his legs flopping onto the floor behind him like logs.

  Footsteps came from outside the doorway.

  Marcus froze, his ears on high alert.

  He remained on the floor, his elbows holding him up, until he heard the footsteps pass by the door and continue on in the other direction.

  He kept crawling.

  He made it to Angela's bed and grabbed her phone. The screen had dimmed, but it was still on, meaning he wouldn't need to enter a password. He grabbed it and touched the screen, making the screen turn bright and buying extra time.