Scream (15 page)

Jess walked up to the house and rapped on the front door
three times. Moments later she heard heavy footsteps inside the
house, then the door swung open.

A tall woman with a curvy figure and frizzy bottle-blonde
hair stood in the doorway. She was dressed in navy blue sweats
and looked like she wasn't accustomed to visitors dropping by.
Especially visitors in uniform.

"You Deputy Foreman?" she said in a harsh tone. A blondhaired toddler, no more than two, appeared at her knees, poking
his wide-eyed, food-smudged round face between her legs.

"Yes, ma'am, I am. And you must be Liz. We spoke on the
phone. I need to talk to you about your sister." Jess preferred to do interviews in person. Telephones were so impersonal, and she
liked the advantage of watching body language. Though some
could spin intricate tales with words, the body rarely lied.

"Did you find anything out yet?" Liz sounded half concerned,
half accusing.

"No, ma'am. Not yet."

Liz opened the door wider and stepped aside. "Well, come on
in. You'll have to excuse the mess. Christopher here is a little
tyrant. It's all I can do to keep up with him."

Jess laughed politely and entered the house. On Sundays, she
worked with the toddlers at church and knew all about keeping
up with them. Their energy was an endless storehouse of vigor,
and it didn't take much for a handful of two- and three-yearolds to have her running in circles and forgetting which way was
up. Christopher here looked like a bottle rocket of mischief.

The inside of the trailer was neatly decorated, everything
from the waist up had its place, but the floor was littered with
toys and books and puzzle pieces.

Liz weaved through the living room with a deftness that said
she'd done it too many times, sidestepping and high-stepping
through the maze of toddler-sized debris. "I feel like all I do all
day is pick up after Christopher and cook and clean." She shot
Jess a sideways glance. "My husband likes the place neat and
clean when he comes home from work. Have a seat on the sofa."

"Oh, I don't mind the mess," Jess said, trying to put Liz
at ease. She could tell by the tone of her host's voice and the
posture of her body that Mr. Fiddler was an overbearing person
to live with-or live under. She'd seen women like Liz so many
times she could spot them with her eyes closed. "I work with
the toddlers at our church, so I'm used to kids and messes." She
sat on a dark brown sofa and removed a small steno pad from
her shirt pocket.

Little Christopher waddled over to Jess and handed her a toy
car covered in saliva. Jess took the car with two fingers. "Thank
you very much. How thoughtful of you."

Christopher squealed and laughed and slapped at his legs,
then promptly fell on his bottom.

"So what do you need to know?" Liz said.

Jess studied the woman for a moment. Dark bags hung under
her eyes, her colorless lips were drawn thin, and there was an
emptiness in her blue eyes that was almost haunting. She'd
stopped taking care of herself a long time ago, Jess thought.
Her attention was now focused on cleaning up after Christopher and staying out of her husband's doghouse. There was no
time for herself. Jess had the sudden urge to steer the conversation in a different direction: Why don't you tell me about your
husband. Tell me why you're so afraid of him. But she decided
against it. Amber was the more pressing issue, and prying into
Liz's personal life might erect walls Jess would never be able to
disassemble. Instead, she sent a silent prayer to heaven on Liz's
behalf: Father, show this woman Your love.

"Officer?"

Liz was talking to her. "Oh, uh..."

Liz turned her attention to Christopher, who was about to
topple a lamp. "Chris-no! No, no!" She lifted her eyebrows at
Jess. "What do you need?"

"Um, tell me what you know about Amber's boyfriend,
Mitch Young."

Liz lifted Christopher onto her lap, rolled her eyes, and
laughed. "The loser. That's what I call him." She shrugged.
"That's what he is. Amber hates me saying that, but hey, it's the
truth. I call 'em like I see 'em."

"Do you know anything about him as a person, his
character?"

Liz gave another quick shrug. "He's a loser. What more do
you need to know?" She bent over and picked up a toy train,
handed it to Christopher. "Look, Amber is a good person. Kind.
Loving. Softhearted. She'd do anything for anybody. But she's
naive and gullible. Met this Mitch guy at some bar, he sweettalked her, told her how beautiful she was, you know, the
regular stuff most of us would just roll our eyes at. Well, not
Amber. She fell head over heels for the guy. He knew it and was
using her. I could tell. The way she talked about him... " She
turned her head and looked out the window at the field across
the road. "I know the type."

I'm sure you do. Jess's heart ached for Liz. Women like her
had lost all hope. They had been so beaten down-maybe
not physically (most of them weren't), but emotionally and
psychologically-that they lived in an empty shell, void of real
life. "Did she love him?"

Liz laughed. "I don't even know if Amber knows what love is.
Real love, anyway. She's been in one bad relationship after another.
I think she's in love with the idea of being in love. She's so nice
it's easy for men to take advantage of her. And they have."

"Mitch said their relationship was a mutual understanding.
They ...uh, met each other's needs and didn't expect anything
more than that."

Liz rolled her eyes again and shook her head. "And you
believed him?"

"Actually, no-"

"He's a jerk. OK? I met him once. Amber brought him by a
couple weeks ago. As soon I saw him I knew what he was after.
One of these wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am types. He may not
care about Amber, but I can tell you she's head over heels for
the guy. A sister knows these things. He's using her. Trust me,
I've seen it happen to better women than Amber."

Jess was going to question further but decided against it. It
was obvious both Liz and Amber grew up in a home where Dad
was king and Mom and the kids were his obedient servants.
They say women gravitate toward men that are like their fathers.
Here were two perfect examples.

"Is it like her to just up and leave?" Jess asked.

Liz's eyes widened. "You think she ran away or something?"

"I don't know what to think at this point. As you know, she
just disappeared. We have no evidence to support an abduction, but none to suggest a runaway either. Is she the type to
go off on her own for days on end and not tell anyone where
she was going?"

Liz shook her head emphatically. "No way. Amber is naive
and gullible and stupid when it comes to men, but she's responsible. She would never just wander off and get herself lost. Not
her. No way." She laid a hand on Christopher's head, and Jess
noticed moisture gathering in the corners of her eyes. "Something happened to her. And if I were you, I'd be lookin' real close
at that loser Young. I'd bet my last pair of socks he's involved."

Jess closed her notepad and pocketed the pen. Standing,
she smiled at Christopher and ruffled his hair. "For Amber's
sake"-she looked at Liz and felt the smile disappear-"I hope
you're wrong. But I will be keeping an eye on Mr. Young, and
I'll keep you updated."

Liz set Christopher on the floor and stood. "Thank you,
officer."

"Let me know if you remember anything else or hear
anything we would need to know about. And"-Jess placed a
hand on Liz's arm and gave a gentle squeeze-"pray, OK?"

Liz forced a smile and blinked away the gathering tears.
"I will."

Mark stood outside his dad's hospital room, leaning against
an off-white wall, staring at the black-scuffed beige and brown
tiled floor. The hall was busy with activity. Nurses hurried by,
flipping through charts and rearranging the contents of their
pockets. Food services staff pushed carts with squeaky wheels,
and doctors, backs straight, heads held high, cruised by in small
herds, whispering intently to one another.

Mark had stock-car'd it down Interstate 81 and in spite of
Friday traffic made the trip in just under five hours. He found
his dad's room easily enough and parked himself in the hallway,
trying to muster the nerve or courage, he wasn't sure which, to
enter the room and face his dad. Obviously, Dad was still alive.
He could hear Mom chattering on and on about what Mrs.
Guthrie, their neighbor, said about so-and-so down the street.

Mark rested his head against the wall and blew out a breath.
For some reason Cheryl came to his mind. He wished she were
here right now. She knew how to get through to Dad. She was the
only one who could hold a real conversation with him and not
walk away wanting to strangle him. Her easy-going temperament and quick wit were the perfect balance for his overbearing,
opinionated, legalistic attitude. He remembered the first time
Cheryl met Dad. She and Mark had gone to his parents' house
for dinner, and not five minutes into the meal Dad dropped his
fork on his plate with a loud clink and straightened in his seat.
He looked Cheryl right in the eyes and

-Are you fornicating with my son?

-Dad, really. I don't think-

-Hush, boy, I'm asking her the question, not you. Well?

-Dad. C'mon. Cheryl, you don't have to ans-

-It's a simple question, really. Are you fornicating with my
son?

She'd answered just as cool as if he'd asked her if she'd had
the tires on her car rotated.

-Not yet.

And it was the truth.

Dad went back to eating his dinner and didn't challenge her
again. At least not for the rest of the evening.

A slight smile parted Mark's lips. Cheryl. How he missed her.

Forever and ever. Cross my heart. Hope to-

Suddenly, Mom was standing beside him. "Mark! What are
you doing out here?"

Mark shrugged and gave his mother a hug. "I don't know.
Just collecting my thoughts, I guess."

Mom stepped back, leaving her hands on his shoulders. She
leaned in close and lowered her voice. The loose folds around
her eyes were puffy, and her nostrils were rimmed in red. "He's
doing real bad. Took a turn for the worse a couple hours ago. I've
been trying to stay positive around him, but even he knows the
time is close. Doctor says he could go anytime now. Honestly,
I think he's been holdin' on till you got here. He really wants
to see you."

Mark swallowed hard. The sound of the screams resonated
in his head. The sound of death nearing. "OK." He gave his
mother another hug, letting it linger just a little longer than
usual, then stepped back. "How are you doing?"

She shrugged and dashed a tear from the corner of her
eye. "I'm holding on," she said, but the emptiness in her eyes
betrayed her words. She looked old, Mark thought. Older than
her sixty years. Sooner or later she'd break down. Probably after
Dad was gone. She'd been putting on a front that everything
was wonderful for far too long, almost her whole life. At least her whole life with Dad. When he was gone, she'd be able to
take the mask off and be herself, and there was no telling what
would come out.

Mark released his grip on her and entered the room. The
smell of antiseptic, body odor, and urine hit him all at once and
reminded him how much he hated hospitals. Dad was lying in
his bed, propped up with pillows, a white sheet pulled up to his
waist. When he saw Mark, he smiled and waved him over.

If Mark thought his mother looked old, Dad looked even
older. He was sixty-four but looked a hundred and four. His
face was gaunt, eyes hollow. Transparent skin hung off his frail
frame like it was two sizes too big. It was amazing how many
years someone aged spending just one day in a hospital.

"Hi, Dad," Mark said as he made his way around the bed and
sat in the chair Mom had pulled up next to it. Mom leaned against
the wall next to the door, staying out of the way, letting him spend
some final minutes with his dad. "How are you feeling?"

Dad tried to laugh but hacked terribly instead, the long, thin
muscles in his neck becoming taut chords. "Like death is waiting
out in the hall. He's got a book with my name in it. I'm next on
the list." He tried to swallow, but his Adam's apple wouldn't
bob. Instead, he licked his lips with a dry, white tongue. "I'm
glad you came, Mark. I need to tell you something."

Mark sat stiffly, waiting for Dad to say what was on his mind.
He wasn't used to heart-to-heart talks with his father, and he
had the feeling that's exactly what this was going to be.

Dad reached for his water bottle, took a short swig, swished
the water back and forth in his mouth, and swallowed, wincing
as his Adam's apple finally broke loose. "Mark." He reached out
his thin hand and held it open, palm down. Purple veins wove
between rigid tendons. Mark took his father's hand in his.

"Son, my whole life was a lie."