One Last Scream (5 page)

A smile flickered across his face, and for a second he was her dad again. “Of course,” he whispered. “You’re my little girl.”

She gave his shoulder a squeeze. “That’s right, Poppy. Let’s get you cleaned up, okay?” She led her father toward the cafeteria doors.

Later, while the orderly got Mr. Carlisle changed and back in bed, Karen ducked into the employee lounge to check her phone messages. She’d been volunteering once a week at the Sandpoint View Convalescent Home for half a year now, and knew all the staff. It was one way to ensure her dad got special treatment, one way to keep from feeling so horrible for giving up on him and putting him in there.

In addition to her volunteer day, Karen saw her father at Sandpoint View about twice a week. She’d been driving over to visit him this afternoon when the call had come from Roseann, saying her dad was having an “episode.” Frank had slipped out of his room and under their radar a few times in the past; he’d even wandered off the grounds once. But this was the first incident in which he’d posed a threat to anyone.

Karen knew Roseann would have to take some measures after what had just happened in the cafeteria. They’d probably start him on a new medication, which would make him even more dopey and unreachable. Or maybe they’d move him into Ward E with the severe cases.

Karen didn’t want to think about that right now.

She nodded hello to a nurse, sitting at the table with her iPod and a sandwich. The small lounge had one window with the blinds lowered, and yellow-painted cinderblock walls that someone had decorated with these sappy, inspirational posters entitled Achievement, Friendship, and Tranquility. The photos of people watching the sunset, goldfish in a bowl, and kites flying against a blue sky were fuzzy and the poetic sentiments were written in script. Someone had scribbled
BLOW ME
in the top corner of the sunset Tranquility poster. There was also a slightly tattered brown sofa, a mini-refrigerator, and a vending machine, along with a coffeemaker on the counter, not far from the sink.

Karen poured herself a cup of their rotgut coffee. She leaned against the counter and checked her cell phone. Amelia Faraday had called.

She had thirty-one clients, and Amelia was the one she cared about the most. At first, Amelia had reminded Karen of someone else, someone she’d lost. Karen figured that maybe by helping Amelia solve her problems, she could help herself. It wouldn’t raise the dead, but maybe she could make some of her own pain go away.

She pushed a couple of buttons on the cell and played the voice mail. Amelia’s slightly shrill, panic-filled voice was like an assault: “Karen? Karen, I left you a couple of messages at home…” She let out a little gasp, then started to cry. “God, Karen, I’m in trouble. Something terrible has happened. I really need to talk with you. Please…please, call me back…”

She was about to hit the last call return button when Earl swaggered into the lounge. A gauze bandage was wrapped around his wounded arm.

“You!” the creepy little man growled. He stabbed a finger in the air at her. “You’re just lucky I don’t need stitches….”

Karen put down the phone. “Earl, I’m sorry about your arm—”

“‘Sorry’ doesn’t begin to cover it,” he said, cutting her off.

The nurse took off her iPod headset, sat forward in her chair, and watched them.

“I’m gonna make sure your old man gets some bed restraints. They ought to keep him tied up twenty-four seven.” Earl inched closer to Karen until he was almost screaming in her face. “Better yet, they should stick that crazy old fuck in Ward E with the rest of the lunatics before he kills someone. I don’t need this shit. That crazy old fuck, I’m gonna see to it they lock him up—”

“No,” Karen said resolutely. “No, Earl. You’re going to see to it the kitchen knives are locked up. Over a third of the residents here have Alzheimer’s or some other form of dementia, and you’re leaving knives out where anyone can get at them. My father isn’t responsible for his actions, but
you are
. What’s more, you wouldn’t have that cut on your arm if you’d let me handle him.”

His mouth open, he glared at her and shook his head.

“And one last thing, Earl, if you call my father a ‘crazy old fuck’ again, I swear, I’ll punch your lights out—or I’ll pay one of the attendants here to do it for me.”

The nurse watching them let out an abrupt laugh.

Earl kept shaking his head. “Listen, don’t you threaten me—”

“Earl?”

He swiveled around.

Her arms folded, Roseann stood in the doorway of the employee lounge. “Karen’s right about locking up the kitchen utensils. I’ve talked to you about that before. It better not happen again. Now, don’t you have some potatoes to peel or something?”

With a defiant grunt, he turned to glare one more time at Karen, then stomped out of the room.

Roseann raised an eyebrow at the nurse. “Show’s over, Michelle. So was your break, as of ten minutes ago.”

Nodding, the nurse took one last bite of her sandwich, gathered up her things, and ducked out of the lounge.

“Thanks for running interference,” Karen said, giving Roseann a weary smile. “How’s my dad?”

“Sedated.” Roseann plopped down at the table. “We’ll give him a rain check on the ice cream. Listen, you and I need to talk about making some adjustments to Frank’s routine.”

Karen nodded. “I’ve seen that coming for a while now.” She looked down into her coffee cup. Yes, she’d seen it coming, but hadn’t wanted to acknowledge the inevitable. It meant giving up on him a little more.

“Do yourself a favor,” she heard Roseann say. “Talk to a counselor or join a family of Alzheimer’s support group. In all this time, you haven’t gotten any help at all. And it’s not just about what’s going on with your dad. This last year has been pretty awful for you from what you told me about your breakup and what happened with that poor girl. What was her name again?”

“Haley Lombard,” Karen said quietly.

“Such a shame,” Roseann sighed. “Anyway, you’d be the first one to recommend counseling to somebody in your shoes.”

“I know, I know, ‘Physician, heal thyself,’” Karen replied.

Roseann was right, of course. But Karen made her living listening to people’s problems all day long. And it seemed like the rest of her time lately was dedicated to her father. She didn’t want to spend what little time remained in therapy or talking about Alzheimer’s. A DVD of a familiar classic was her therapy; it was like having an old friend over. An evening at home with Cary Grant and Eva Marie Saint, or Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn, wasn’t a cure for her troubles, but it was a Band-Aid that fit just fine.

“Who knows?” Roseann said. “If you joined one of those Alzheimer’s groups, you might meet a nice, single man.”

“Oh, yeah, right.” Karen took one last gulp of the bad coffee, then poured the rest down the sink and rinsed out the cup. “Like I’d want to hook up with some guy whose life is just as screwed up as mine is, thanks to Alzheimer’s. Talk about serious relationship baggage. No, thanks. Besides, I’d probably end up running the stupid meetings. You know I would.”

“Probably,” Roseann muttered, nodding. “But you’d do a damn good job of it. You’re not so terrific at helping yourself, Karen. But you really know how to help other people.”

Karen managed to chuckle. “Well, thanks a bunch. I—”

Her cell phone vibrated once more, and she checked the caller ID. Amelia again. Karen sighed. “I’m sorry, Roseann. I need to take this.” She clicked on the phone. “Hello? Amelia?”

“Oh, thank God!” the girl began. “I’m sorry to bother you, Karen. But something awful has happened—”

“Where are you?”

“I’m sitting in Shane’s car—in your driveway. I don’t know anybody else I can talk to about this. You’re the only one. I’ve had another blackout, and I think I did something—”

“It’s going to be all right,” Karen said calmly. She glanced at her wristwatch. “My housekeeper, Jessie, ought to be there very soon. Get her to let you in, and wait for me. If you want, help yourself to a Diet Coke in the fridge. I’ll see you in about a half hour. Does that sound okay, Amelia?”

“Yes, thank you, Karen. Thank you so much.”

“See you in a bit.” Clicking off the line, Karen shoved the phone back in her pocket, and gave Roseann a pale smile. “Sorry, Ro. About that talk regarding my dad, can it wait until later in the week? I have an emergency with one of my clients.”

Roseann nodded. “No sweat. Go help somebody. Like I say, it’s what you’re good at.”

Karen patted Roseann’s shoulder as she headed out of the employee lounge.

Before taking off, she stopped to peek in on her father. The orderly had cleaned him up, and now he looked so peaceful in his slumber. She wondered if in his dreams he was his old self again, if he wasn’t frightened and confused. She took a long look at him, and remembered back in high school when it had been just her and her dad in their big, four-bedroom white stucco house near Seattle’s Volunteer Park. Cancer had killed her mother when Karen was fourteen. Her brother, Frank, was married and living in Atlanta. Her sister, Sheila, was away at college. So Karen and her father looked after each other. They had a housekeeper, but Karen did most of the shopping and cooking. It was a lot of work, and took a bite out of her social life. Some afternoons, after school, all she wanted to do was nap. Her dad always let her sleep. He often snuck into her room while she was napping, and covered her with his plaid flannel robe. Then he’d wait a while and fix their dinner—either hamburgers or bacon and eggs. Those were the only things he knew how to cook. She remembered how she’d wake up to the smell of his cooking—and the feel of his soft flannel robe covering her. Sheila had brought him another robe years ago, a blue terry-cloth which he’d taken to the rest home with him. But the old plaid flannel robe still hung in his closet, and Karen sometimes still used it to cover herself when she took a late-afternoon nap.

She gazed at her father in his hospital-style bed and began to cry. She’d been miserable throughout most of her high school years. But now she missed that time—and she missed her father. Wiping her eyes, Karen bent over and kissed his forehead. “See you tomorrow, Poppy,” she whispered, though she knew he couldn’t hear her.

Stepping out of the room, she wiped her eyes again and peered down the hallway. She spotted Amelia—at least she thought it was Amelia. The young, pretty brunette at the end of the corridor locked eyes with her for only a second. Then she turned and disappeared around the corner.

As he dialed the number for Helene Sumner in Wenatchee, George felt like a fool. He was overreacting. He’d let Amelia’s weird premonition get to him. So Ina had promised to call this morning, and didn’t. Big deal. She’d broken promises before. This wasn’t the first time. Mark, Jenna, and Ina had probably decided to drive someplace else for breakfast. Or maybe they’d eaten at the house, then went hiking and lost track of the time.

Yet here he was, about to ask this old lady to schlep a quarter mile down the lake and check on his wife and in-laws. He listened to the first ring tone. Through the living room window’s sheer drapes, he could see the kids still playing with Jody’s friend.

“Yes, hello?” the woman answered on the other end of the line. She sounded frazzled.

“Hello. Is this Helene?”

“Yes. Is this the police? I thought someone would be here by now.”

“No, this isn’t the police,” George replied, bewildered. “I’m calling from Seattle. Your neighbors down the lake, Mark and Jenna Faraday, they’re my in-laws. My name’s—”

“They’re dead,” the woman cried, cutting him off. “He shot the two women, and then himself….”

George felt as if someone had just punched him in the stomach. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. Swallowing hard, he caught another glance of his children playing on the front lawn. Stephanie let out a loud scream and then laughed about something.

“I called the police twenty minutes ago,” the woman said in a shaky voice. “They still aren’t here yet. God, I still can’t believe it. But I was in the house. I saw their bodies—and the blood. They’re dead, they’re all dead….”

Salem, Oregon—1996

Twenty-six-year-old Lauren Tully felt like the walking dead. The pretty, slightly plump brunette worked as a paralegal, and she’d just helped her boss finish up the Bensinger complaint. They’d toiled over the case all week, right up until 9:15 tonight. Her boss would file it in the morning, and said she could take the day off, thank God.

Now that she was outside, Lauren realized what a gorgeous day she’d missed, buried in her cubicle. It was one of those warm, balmy late-June nights. She hadn’t had dinner yet, so she’d swung by Guji’s Deli Stop on her way home. The four-aisle store was in a minimall, along with a hair salon, a Radio Shack, some teriyaki joint, and a real estate office, all of which were closed at this hour. Guji’s was the only lit storefront. They closed at ten. There weren’t many customers, and the parking lot was practically empty. Lauren picked up a frozen pizza, some wine, and—what the hell, she deserved it—a pint of Ben & Jerry’s. She was coming out of the store when she noticed something a bit strange.

“Damn it!” the man yelled. “I’m sorry, honey. Daddy didn’t mean to swear.”

His minivan was parked over by the Dumpsters, near the bushes bordering one side of the lot. A big tree blocked out the streetlight, so Lauren hadn’t noticed him and a child moving in and out of the shadows until now. The minivan’s inside light was on, and the back door was open.

“No, no, no,” the man was saying. “Don’t try to lift that, honey. It’s too heavy. Maybe someone in the store can help us.”

Lauren opened her passenger door, and set the grocery bag on the seat. She glanced toward the minivan again. She could see the man now. He was on crutches. He and his little girl were trying to load groceries into the vehicle. One of the bags was tipped over, and two more stood upright. The man turned in her direction. “Excuse me!” he called softly. “Do you have a minute? I hate to bother you…”

Lauren didn’t move for a moment. Something wasn’t right, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Still, her heart broke as she watched the little girl struggling with one of the bags. She was about ten years old, and very pretty.

Lauren stepped toward them. “Do you folks need some help?”

“Oh, yes, thank you,” the man said. “You’re very kind.”

“It’s okay!” the little girl said—loudly. “I got it!” She loaded one bag into the backseat, and then quickly grabbed another. “It’s not heavy at all! Thank you anyway!”

This close, she could see the man on crutches shoot a look at the young girl. He had such a hateful, murderous stare, it made Lauren stop in her tracks. Nothing in his malignant glare matched that soft, gentle voice coming out of the shadows just moments before.

But the child ignored him and loaded up the second grocery bag. She glanced at Lauren. “Thank you anyway!” she repeated. “You can go back to your car! Good-bye!”

The man turned to Lauren and tried to laugh, but she could tell it almost hurt him to smile. “Well, thanks for stopping,” he said with an awkward wave. “It looks like my daughter has the situation under control. Good night.”

Lauren just nodded, then retreated toward her car.

On the way home, she wondered why they’d parked on the other side of the lot from Guji’s Deli when there were plenty of spaces right in front of the store. Why walk all that way when he didn’t have to? And the man was on crutches, too, though she didn’t remember seeing a cast on his leg.

If Lauren Tully had turned her car around and driven back to Guji’s Deli ten minutes later, she would have found that man on crutches and his little girl in the exact same spot. She would have seen the three grocery bags once again waiting to be loaded into the minivan.

If she had turned her car around, Lauren might have been able to warn 21-year-old Wendy Keefe that it was all a ploy.

The blond liberal arts major at Willamette University had ridden her bicycle to Guji’s for a pack of cigarettes. Never mind that her boyfriend made fun of her for being both a smoker and a bicycle enthusiast. She was emerging from the store with her bike helmet under her arm when she spotted the minivan, along with the man on crutches and his daughter. The little girl was crying. Wendy hadn’t been there ten minutes earlier, when the man had slapped the child across her face. And he’d slapped her hard. It was too dark for Wendy to see the red welt on the young girl’s cheek.

“Excuse me!” the man called. He had a very gentle tone in his voice. “We’re in kind of a bind here. I’m afraid we over-shopped. These bags are too heavy for my daughter….”

Tucking the Salems in the pocket of her windbreaker, Wendy approached the minivan. The little girl had been struggling with one of three bags. But now she stopped to stare at Wendy. The child kept shaking her head over and over. Tears slid down her cheeks. She seemed to be mouthing something to her.

“Yes, it looks like you could use an extra hand,” Wendy said.

Propped up on his crutches, the father smiled. “I really appreciate this. If you could just slide those bags into the backseat, we can take it from there.”

“No problem.” Wendy hoisted one of the bags into the back. The young girl stood by the open door. She whispered something, and Wendy turned to her. “What did you say, honey?”

“Run,” the child whispered.

Bewildered, Wendy stopped to stare at her.

The father cleared his throat. “If you could get in there and slide the bag to the driver’s side. Just climb right in there.”

Wendy hesitated.

“Run,” the young girl repeated under her breath.

For a second, Wendy was paralyzed. She squinted at the child, who began to back away from her. Wendy wasn’t looking at the man.

She didn’t see him coming toward her with one of his crutches in the air.

“Run!” the child screamed at her. “No!”

It was the last thing Wendy heard before the crutch cracked against her skull.

The nine-year-old sat alone in the front passenger seat of the minivan. Her face was swollen and throbbing. He’d parked the vehicle on an old dirt road by some railroad tracks. In all the times she’d sat alone in this minivan, parked in this spot, she’d never seen a train go by. And she’d spent many hours here.

Clouds swept across the dark horizon on this warm June night. She could only see the outlines of the tops of the trees ahead of her. The rest was just blackness. She couldn’t tell where he’d taken the bicycle lady. The screams seemed far away, maybe somewhere beyond the trees.

She’d had to endure his wrath all the way there, while the woman lay unconscious and bleeding in the back. Usually, he knocked them out with one quick, bloodless blow while they were inside the minivan. But she’d screwed everything up with that nice chubby lady, and he’d heard her trying to warn the bike woman. He kept saying it was
her
fault he had to hit the woman with his crutch. She’d bled on him while he’d loaded her into the back.

He repeatedly reached over from the driver’s side and swatted her on the back of the head. “Think you’re really smart trying to trip me up,” he growled. “That slap earlier was nothing. I haven’t even started with you, yet. Would you look at the blood back there? Shit, I think she’s hemorrhaging. I wouldn’t be surprised if she dies before we even get to the woods. If you’d done what you were supposed to, I might have had time to load her bike in the car. You might have gotten a new bicycle tonight. But, no, too bad for you.”

The young woman was still alive. He’d revived her while dragging her toward the darkened woods. Her screams had started out strong, but now they seemed to be weakening.

It wouldn’t be much longer.

The nine-year-old dreaded going home. She wished she were older, and knew how this minivan worked. Then she’d just start up the engine, drive away, and never come back. But she had to stay—and endure his punishment later.

She stared out at the blackness beyond the windshield and listened to the screams fading. She thought about how it didn’t pay trying to help some people.

That stupid woman had gotten her into a lot of trouble.

Seattle—eleven years later

She pulled over to the side of the tree-lined street and watched Karen Carlisle’s Jetta turn into the driveway. Karen may have spotted her in the hallway at the convalescent center, but obviously didn’t realize she’d been followed home. In fact, Frank Carlisle’s shrink daughter seemed to have no idea that for almost three weeks now, her comings and goings had been carefully monitored.

She knew Karen’s routines: when she ate and slept and walked the dog, and what she wore to bed. She’d figured out the housekeeper’s schedule, too. She knew when Karen was usually alone and when she was at her most vulnerable. She even knew where they hid the spare house key for emergencies (under a decorative stone in a garden by the back door).

Of course, Karen would wonder about seeing her in the hallway at the rest home today. She might even ask about it. Karen would get the usual wide-eyed, innocent denial, and a very sincere, “I was never there. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Actually, today was her fifth visit to that nursing home, observing Karen at work with the patients—and with her dad. The last time, a few days ago, she’d ducked into a room across the hall and spied on Karen saying good-bye to her senile father as he lay in bed. Only moments after Karen had left, she’d snuck into the old man’s room. She couldn’t resist. He was clueless, totally out of it. His mouth open, he stared at her and blinked.

Just for fun, she’d bent over and kissed his wrinkly forehead—the same way Karen always did. “I’m going to kill your daughter,” she’d whispered to him.

Switching off the ignition, she leaned back in the driver’s seat. She watched Karen climb out of her car and head toward the house. Despite some neglect, the white stucco held its own among the stately old mansions on the block. As Karen walked up the stairs to the front porch, there was some barking from inside the house. Jessie, the housekeeper, opened the door and let the dog out. His tail wagging, the black cocker spaniel raced up to Karen and poked her leg with his snout. She patted him on the head and scratched him behind the ears. Then he scurried down the steps to take a leak at the trunk of a big elm tree in the front yard.

Jessie stepped outside and said something to Karen. She was a stout, sturdy, grandmotherly woman in her late sixties with cat’s-eye glasses and bright red hair that was probably a wig. Jessie didn’t usually work on Saturdays. She must have been making up for the fact that she’d only put in a half day on Wednesday.

Watching from inside the car, she rolled down her window.

Jessie was shaking her head at Karen. “Nope, nobody here but us chickens,” she heard Jessie say. “I haven’t seen hide nor hair of Amelia, and I’ve been here about twenty minutes.”

Karen paused at the front door, muttered something, and then turned to glance over her shoulder. “C’mon, Rufus, let’s get in the house.” The dog obediently trotted to her.

“How’s your dad doing?” Jessie asked.

“Not so hot,” Karen said, leading the cocker spaniel inside the house. Then it sounded like she said, “Today wasn’t a good day.”

Sitting behind the wheel and staring beyond the dirty windshield, she smiled. “Poor thing,” she whispered. “Think today was a bad day? Just wait, Karen. Just wait.”

In the foyer, Karen took off her coat while Jessie and Rufus headed past the front stairs to the kitchen. The house’s first floor still had the original wainscoting woodwork. A few well-scattered, old, worn Oriental rugs covered most of the hardwood floor.

Karen draped her coat and purse over the banister post at the bottom of the stairs, and then followed them into the kitchen. She opened a cookie jar on the counter, and tossed a dog biscuit at Rufus, who caught it in the air with his mouth. Over by the sink, Jessie was polishing a pair of silver candelabras that had belonged to Karen’s parents.

Karen sat down at the breakfast table, which had a glass top and a yellow-painted wrought-iron frame and legs. It really belonged on a patio, but had been in the kitchen for decades. The matching wrought-iron chairs had always been uncomfortable, even with seat cushions. Her dad had bought all new white appliances about six years ago, and it brightened up the kitchen. But the ugly old table with the chairs-from-hell remained.

Rufus came over and put his head in her lap. He was nine years old, and had been her dad’s main companion most of that time. They’d taken care of each other. At least once a week, she loaded Rufus into the car and drove him to the rest home to see his old buddy. Then she’d walk or wheel her dad outside, and Rufus would go nuts, pawing and poking at her father’s leg, licking his hand. The visits with Rufus always cheered up her dad.

She thought about how much freedom her father would lose if they changed his routine and his medication. She replayed in her mind kissing him good-bye about twenty-five minutes ago. It was strange, seeing that young woman who looked so much like Amelia in the hallway, outside her father’s door.

“I can’t believe Amelia isn’t here,” Karen muttered. “She was so anxious to see me. I told her to wait.”

“Did she say what it was about?” Jessie asked, toiling away on the candelabra.

“Something horrible happened. That’s all I know. And that’s all I can say without breaking patient-therapist confidentiality.”

“Oh, yeah, like I have a direct line to Tom Brokaw. Who am I going to tell?” Jessie grinned at her. “You worry about her more than all your other patients. That Amelia is a sweet girl. The way she counts on you—and looks up to you. Three guesses who she reminds me of.”

Karen just nodded. Amelia and Haley were alike in so many other ways, too: the drinking problems, the low self-esteem, and a penchant for blaming themselves for just about everything.

She remembered a discussion she’d once had with Haley, in which the fifteen-year-old blamed herself for her parents’ breakup. “Hey, honey,” Karen had told her, with a nudge. “If anyone’s getting blamed for your parents’ breakup, it’s me.”