One Last Scream (2 page)

But tonight, Amelia wanted a beer—several beers, in fact, whatever it took to get drunk.

A few people had staggered out to the small backyard where Amelia stood with a beer in one hand, and the other clutching together the edges of her bulky cardigan sweater. She gazed up at the stars. It was a beautiful, crisp October Friday night.

She had a little buzz. This was only her second beer and, already, results. It happened quickly, because she’d been booze-free for the last seven weeks.

Shane didn’t understand why she needed alcohol tonight. “Before you drink that beer,” he’d whispered to her a few minutes ago in the corner of the jam-packed living room, “maybe you should call your therapist. Explain to her why you need it so badly.”

In response, Amelia had narrowed her eyes at him, and then she’d chugged half the plastic cup full of Coors. She’d refilled the cup from the keg in the kitchen and wandered outside alone.

The truth was she hated herself right now. She was lucky to have a boyfriend like Shane. He was cute, with perpetually messy, light brown hair, blue eyes, and a well-maintained five o’clock shadow. He was sweet, and he cared about her. And his advice, patronizing as it seemed, had been practical. She’d tried to call her therapist this afternoon. But Karen had gone for the day.

So Amelia was left with these awful thoughts, and no one to help her sort them out. That was why she needed to get drunk right now.

Amelia’s parents and her aunt were spending the weekend at the family cabin by Lake Wenatchee in central Washington. Ever since this afternoon, she’d been overwhelmed with a sudden, inexplicable contempt for them. She imagined driving to the cabin and killing all three of them. She even started formulating a plan, though she had no intention of carrying it out. Her parents had mentioned there was construction this weekend on their usual route, Highway 2. The cabin would be a three-hour drive from Seattle, if she took Interstate 90 and Route 97, and didn’t stop. Her parents and aunt would be asleep when she arrived. She knew how to sneak into the cabin; she’d done it before. She saw herself shooting them at close range. As much as the notion bewildered and horrified her, it also made Amelia’s heart race with excitement.

If only Karen were around, Amelia could have asked her therapist about this hideous daydream. How could she have these terrible thoughts? Amelia loved her parents, and Aunt Ina was like her older sister, practically her best friend.

The only way to get these poisonous feelings out of her system was to flush them out with another kind of poison. In this case, it was another cupful of Coors from the keg in the kitchen.

Amelia was heading back in there when a young woman—a pretty Asian American with a red streak in her long black hair—blocked her path through the doorway. “Hey, do you have a cig? A menthol?” she asked, shouting over the noise. “I can’t find another person at this stupid party who smokes menthols.”

“No, but there’s a minimart about six blocks from here.” Amelia had to lean close to the girl and practically yell in her ear. “If you want, I can go get some for you. I have my boyfriend’s car, and I’m looking for an excuse to bolt out of here for a while.” She drained the last few drops of Coors from her plastic cup. “Just let me get the car keys from my boyfriend, and then we can go.”

Weaving through the crowd, Amelia made her way to Shane, who was still standing in the corner of the living room. Apparently, he’d decided that if she could fall off the wagon, so could he. He was passing a joint back and forth with some guy she didn’t know.

“Are you drunk yet?” he asked, gazing at her with half-closed eyes.

“No,” she lied, speaking up over the party noise. “In fact, I want to get out of here for a few minutes. Give me the car keys, will you?” With her thumb, she pointed to the other girl, who was behind her. “I’m driving my friend to the minimart for cigarettes. We’ll be right back. Okay?”

But she was lying. She had no intention of going to the minimart. She just needed his car.

Shane dug the keys out of his jeans pocket. He plopped them in her hand. “Do whatever you want to do,” he grumbled. “I don’t care.”

Amelia gave him a quick kiss. “Please, don’t be mad at me,” she whispered.

Shane started to put his arm around her, but she broke away and fled. She could hear the other girl behind her, saying something about her boyfriend being cute and that he looked like Justin Timberlake. Amelia didn’t really hear her. Threading through the mob of partygoers, she made her way back to the kitchen.

“Hey, wait up!” the girl yelled. “Hey, wait a minute!” But Amelia kept moving. She spotted a half-full bottle of tequila on the kitchen counter amid an assortment of empty bottles and beer cans. She swiped it up, and then tucked it inside the flap of her cardigan sweater. Heading out the kitchen door, Amelia found a walkway to the front of the house. As she hurried toward Shane’s beat-up VW Golf, she heard the girl screaming at her from the side of the townhouse. “Hey, don’t forget the cigs! I’ll pay you back! I need menthols! All right? Did you hear me?”

Amelia waved without looking back at her, and then she ducked inside Shane’s car. Starting up the engine, she stashed the tequila bottle under her seat, and then peeled out of the parking spot. She didn’t look in her rearview mirror as she sped down the street.

Four minutes later, she saw Marty’s MiniMart on the corner. Only a couple of cars were in the lot in front of the tacky little store; there was plenty of available parking.

But Amelia kept going, and headed for the interstate. If she didn’t make any stops along the way, she’d reach Lake Wenatchee by about two in the morning. The gas tank was three-quarters full.

Amelia pressed harder on the accelerator, and kept telling herself that she loved her parents and her Aunt Ina. She’d never do anything to harm them.

Never.

Ina McMillan hated these sinks with separate spouts for the hot and cold water. Washing her face, she had to cup her hands under the cold, and then switch over to the hot water. It was either scalding or freezing when Ina finally splashed her face. Water ran down her arms to her elbows, dampening the sleeves of her robe. What a pain in the ass. It was a major undertaking just to wash her face here.

She didn’t like Jenna and Mark’s cabin, and she hated the country. Ina was a city girl.

Actually, her sister and brother-in-law’s “weekend getaway” spot wasn’t a
cabin
. It was a slightly dilapidated little two-story Cape Cod–style house built in the fifties. There was a fallout shelter in the basement, along with a furnace that manufactured more noise than heat. Ina’s bedroom, with its cute dormer windows, slanted ceiling, and creaky twin beds, had a space heater that might as well have had
FIRE HAZARD
stenciled all over it. She’d been instructed not to leave the heater on overnight. Fine. Whatever. Either way, the room still felt damp, cold, and drafty.

The house was just off the lake, and cut off from the rest of civilization by rolling wooded hills that wreaked havoc on cell phone service. There wasn’t a landline phone either. For emergencies, they were supposed to run a half mile around the lake to this old lesbian neighbor’s house and use her phone. There was also a pay phone at a diner about three miles away at the mountain road junction.

Just what her sister and Mark saw in this godforsaken shack was a mystery to Ina. For a spot that was supposed to be so relaxing, everything was an ordeal. They couldn’t even drive up to the place. Mark had had to park the car by a turnaround on a bluff, and then they’d trekked down a steep trail through the forest, lugging their suitcases all the way. And, of course, Ina had overpacked.

She felt like an idiot for bringing along her lacy burgundy nightgown and the matching silk robe. Flannel pajamas would have been more appropriate.

The sexy nightwear had been a Christmas present from George last year, back when he’d thought it possible to rekindle some romance in their marriage. He was home with the kids right now. They’d agreed this weekend away from each other might do them some good—a time-out from all the tension.

She was silly to think it would be any less tense here, with Mark and her sister.

Ina dried off her face and stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Even with her wild, wavy, shoulder-length auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail, and no makeup, she was still pretty. How often did other 38-year-olds get mistaken for college girls? Well, that still happened to her sometimes. She had clear, creamy skin and blue eyes. And right now, the burgundy nightgown showed off her willowy figure to good advantage.

Padding down the hall to her room, Ina glanced over her shoulder at the partially open bedroom door. Mark and Jenna still had the light on. She half expected, half hoped Mark would come to the door and see her.

He was the reason she’d packed the burgundy nightgown ensemble. Ina wanted to look sexy for her sister’s husband.

But Mark wasn’t looking at her in the hallway. He was where he belonged, in bed with her sister.

Ina retreated into her damp, drafty little bedroom and, once again, wished she’d packed her flannel pj’s. With a sigh, she bent down and switched off the space heater. She turned down her bedcovers. She was about to take off her robe, but hesitated. She heard a noise outside, and suddenly stopped moving.

She listened to what sounded like footsteps. A hand over her heart, she crept to one of the dormer windows and looked down. Ina gasped.

Just below her, a dark figure darted between some bushes.

Reeling back from the window, she turned and raced down the hall. “Mark!” she called, but the word barely came out. She couldn’t get a breath. Ina burst into their bedroom. “There’s someone outside!” she whispered.

Mark and Jenna were sitting up in bed. “Are you sure?” he asked, putting his book aside.

She nodded urgently. “I saw someone—something—in the bushes right below my window.”

“Some
one
or some
thing
?” he asked.

Flustered, Ina gave a helpless shrug. “I—I’m not sure—”

“It was probably just a bear,” Jenna said, a copy of
Vanity Fair
in her hands. She was wearing her glasses and one of Mark’s T-shirts. “They come around all the time looking for food scraps in the garbage. They’re harmless.”

Ina hated the way her sister was talking to her as if she were a scared little girl. “Well, whatever it is,” she replied, still shaking, “this
thing
is right below my window, and it scared the shit out of me. What, do you expect me to go back in there and just fall asleep now? It looked like a
person
, Jenna.”

“I better check it out,” Mark grumbled, getting to his feet. “Could be our uninvited houseguest is back.”

Biting her lip, Ina watched him throw a robe over his T-shirt and boxer shorts. Mark was balding and a bit out of shape, but he still had a certain masculine sexiness. He slipped his bare feet into a pair of slippers. The
uninvited houseguest
was another reason she didn’t like this damn cabin.

When they’d arrived there earlier tonight, Mark and Jenna had noticed several things out of place. Someone had tracked mud onto the kitchen and living room floors. A few empty beer bottles, some cigarette butts, and a crumpled-up potato chip bag littered the pathway from the front porch to the lake. The intruder had even built a fire in the fireplace. Jenna wondered out loud if their daughter, Amelia, had stayed there on the sly with her boyfriend. But Mark, trusting soul that he was, insisted Amelia hadn’t touched a drop in weeks, and neither had Shane. Both were nonsmokers, too. So the empty beer bottles and cigarette butts couldn’t have been theirs.

Rolling her eyes, Jenna said he shouldn’t believe everything Amelia told him. Their daughter had a good heart, but she wasn’t exactly reliable—or honest. That was why Amelia was seeing a therapist once a week, to the tune of eighty bucks a pop.

Ina had tagged behind Jenna and Mark. They’d continued to bicker while searching the house for further signs of this uninvited guest. “Well, whoever was here, they’re long gone,” Mark had said, at last. He’d assured Ina that the culprit probably wouldn’t be back. “If it’ll make you feel any better, I keep a hunting rifle in the bedroom closet. We’ll be okay.”

Now, Ina watched him reach into the closet for that rifle. Cocking the handle, he checked the chamber to make sure it was loaded.

“Better bag this
prowler
on the first shot, Mark,” Jenna said, still sitting up in bed. She tossed her sister a droll look, then went back to her
Vanity Fair
. “The great white hunter only keeps one bullet in that stupid gun. The rest are in the kitchen drawer downstairs. He hasn’t fired that thing since—”

“Oh, would you just give it a rest?” Mark hissed. “Can’t you see she’s scared?”

“All I see is a lot of
drama
,” Jenna remarked, eyes on her magazine.

Mark ignored her, then brushed past Ina and started down the hall.

Frowning at her older sister, Ina lingered in the bedroom doorway for a moment. Finally, she retreated down the corridor and caught up with Mark on the stairs.

Like a soldier going into a sniper zone, Mark held the rifle in front of him, barrel end up. He paused near the bottom step. Ina hovered behind him. She was trembling. She looked at the front door and then the darkened living room. Logs still smouldered in the fireplace, their red embers glowing. The cushy old rocking chair beside the hearth was perfectly still. Ina didn’t see any sign of a break-in. Nothing was disturbed.

Mark crept to the front door and twisted the handle. “Locked,” he said.

Ina put her hand on his shoulder and sighed with relief.

He squinted at her. “Did you
really
see something outside?”

Ina scowled at him. “Of course. Why would I make that up?”

“All right, all right, take it easy,” he murmured.

Heading toward the kitchen, Mark stopped to switch on a lamp. Ina stayed on his heels. He checked the kitchen door. “We’re okay here, too,” he announced. Then he unlocked the door and opened it. “Stay put. I’ll look outside.”

“No, don’t leave me here alone!” she whispered.

“Relax. I’ll be two minutes at the most. Lock up after me if you’re so nervous.” He ducked outside.

Shivering, Ina stayed at the threshold for a moment, then she closed and locked the door. What was she supposed to do if he didn’t come back? She imagined hearing that gun go off, and then nothing. She couldn’t call the police; she couldn’t call anyone, because they had no phone service in this goddamn place.

Ina gazed out the kitchen window. She didn’t see Mark, and didn’t hear anything outside. The refrigerator hummed. It was an old thing from the sixties. The avocado color matched the stove. Gingerbread trim adorned the pantry shelves. The framed “Food Is Cooked With Butter and Love” sign—along with the worn, yellow dinette set—had been in Ina and Jenna’s kitchen when they were growing up. But these familiar things gave her no comfort right now.

And it wasn’t much help knowing Jenna was upstairs—if she should need her. What could Jenna do?

Her sister was being a real pill tonight. Maybe Jenna knew what had happened between Mark and her. Had Mark said something? This was their first weekend together since she and Mark had “slipped.” That was how Mark described it, like they’d had an accident, a little catastrophe. “It was a mistake. It never should have happened. It never would have happened if we weren’t going through this awful time right now. We just—slipped, Ina.”

It had been a rough summer. Mark and Jenna’s 17-year-old son, Collin, had drowned in May, and his death had sent the family into a tailspin. Collin’s sister, Amelia, became unhinged and almost unmanageable. They had put her on some kind of medication, and that helped. But there weren’t any pills Mark and Jenna could take to remedy their confusion, anger, and hurt. In their pain, they lashed out at each other.

One afternoon in early August, Mark came down to Seattle from their home in Bellingham, and he met Ina for a drink at the Alexis Hotel. He’d come to her for consolation. But they ended up talking about her problems with George. They also ended up in a room on the fifth floor—and in bed together.

She couldn’t believe it. Mark, her brother-in-law, of all people. She’d known him for eighteen years and, yes, when he’d first started dating Jenna, she’d had a bit of a crush on him. In his late twenties, he’d been a cute guy, but he’d gained a lot of weight and lost a lot of hair since then. Appearances were very important to Ina, and she’d married the right guy for that. She loved hearing her girlfriends describe George as a hunk. He taught history at the University of Washington, and she relished walking in on his classes from time to time. Whenever George introduced her to the class as his wife, Ina could tell which ones had crushes on him. She’d get these dagger looks from several girls (and often a guy or two) sitting in the front row. She knew they wanted what she had. Her husband was six foot two and kept in shape with visits to the gym three times a week. Sure, his thick black hair had started to gray at the temples, and his pale-green eyes now needed glasses for reading, but those specs made him look distinguished—and even sexier. Mark couldn’t hold a candle to George in the looks department. Yet her slightly chubby, balding brother-in-law had made her feel incredibly desirable in bed that afternoon at the Alexis. She’d never felt so sexy and attractive, so validated.

Still, as they were leaving the hotel, Mark started saying it had been a horrible mistake. They’d slipped. They were nice people—and married to nice people. This shouldn’t have happened. He blamed it on his grief and the number of drinks he’d had. (Only two scotches; she’d counted.) But Ina knew better. He’d always been attracted to her, and what had happened in the Alexis that afternoon had been long overdue.

She, too, regretted “slipping,” but a part of Ina still wanted Mark to find her desirable. Even if nothing ever happened again, she wanted to be desired. And for that she deserved her sister’s snippy attitude tonight.

She took another look out the window. The trees and bushes swayed slightly in the wind. On a quiet night like this, she thought she should have been able to hear Mark’s footsteps. But there wasn’t a sound.

A chill raced through her, and Ina rubbed her arms. She glanced at the doorway to the cellar, open just an inch, and beyond that, darkness. They should have checked down there—in the furnace room and the fallout shelter. Mark and Jenna used it for storage. It was a perfect hiding place.

Moving over to the sink, Ina grabbed a steak knife from the drain rack. She checked the cellar door again. The opening seemed wider than before. Or was it just her imagination? She told herself that if someone was on those rickety old basement steps, she’d have heard the boards creaking. Still, she studied the murky shadows past that cellar doorway. With the knife clutched in her hand, Ina hurried to the basement door and shut it.

The clock on the stove read 12:20. Mark had been gone at least five minutes. How long did it take to circle around this little house? Something was wrong. “C’mon, Mark, c’mon,” she murmured, looking out the window again.

She thought about calling upstairs to her sister. Why should she be the only one worried? But Jenna was probably asleep already.

Ina unlocked the kitchen door, opened it, and glanced outside. The cold air swept against her bare legs and her robe fluttered. Shivering, she held on to the knife. “Mark?” she called softly. “Mark? Where are you? Can you hear me?”

She waited for a moment, and listened.

Then she heard it—a rustling sound, and twigs snapping underfoot. “Mark?” she called out again, more shrill this time. “Mark, please, answer me…”