Scream (42 page)

Surprisingly, the words came out of his mouth like a cool
rush of water. He knew it was a foxhole prayer, but he didn't
care because he meant it. Every word of it.

Mark opened his eyes and looked at the flames, past the
flames. There, in the barn, he could see the outlines of three
women huddled together.

"Mark!"

"Cheryl!" He started toward the barn, not knowing what
he would do, then stopped. The heat was still intense. His face burned hot, and his clothes felt as if they'd spontaneously
combust at any moment. The gun burned too, and he let it slip
from his hand.

He shielded his face with his arms and backed up a couple
of paces.

That's when he heard it. A voice. Not the child's voice he'd
heard before, not Cheryl's voice, but a gentle, deep voice, so clear
it could have come from someone standing right next to him.

When you walk through the fire,

You will not be burned,

And the flame will not scorch you.

From somewhere in the barn, wood cracked and popped.
"Mark!"

Mark pulled his jacket up so it covered his face. He was going
for it. And somehow, he knew he'd make it. Jesus. Help me.
He ran at the barn, ducked his head, and hit the wall with his
left shoulder. It gave out like a piece of cardboard. He tumbled
through the flames, rolled twice, and stopped on all fours in the
middle of the barn.

Cheryl and another woman he immediately recognized as
Amber Mann were there, crouched low to the floor, finding
what oxygen was left in the barn. A thick cloud of smoke roiled
above them. Dazed, Mark pulled his shirt over his mouth and
stood. He looked himself over. Not a burn on him. Not even his
clothes were singed.

He quickly surveyed the situation. Cheryl and Amber looked
well, red-faced and soaked in sweat, but well enough. The other
woman with them, whom he recognized as Virginia Grisham
(Cheryl had called her Ginny on the phone), looked like she'd
been through hell already. Her hair was matted in clumps, her
face streaked with blood, eyes swollen from crying. And on the floor was another woman, lying on her side, apparently
unconscious.

"She's out but alive," Cheryl hollered above the roar of the
flames.

Mark looked back at the wall he'd just busted through. There
was a hole maybe four feet wide where the planks used to be.
But it wouldn't last long. The building couldn't hold up much
longer. He bent down and noticed the woman on the floor was
wearing a police uniform. No, dear God. He turned her over. It
was Foreman.

"Help me get her on my shoulder," he yelled.

Cheryl and Amber helped him lift Foreman to a standing
position. Her head lolled to one side like it was attached by a
string. Mark bent over and slipped her over his shoulder. Then,
turning to Cheryl and Amber, he motioned toward Ginny, who
was standing wide-eyed, hands partially covering her face,
watching the whole thing. "Take her and go."

Cheryl grabbed Ginny by the arm and pulled her through the
opening in the wall. Amber followed. Mark adjusted Foreman
on his shoulder, covered his face with his left arm, and ran
through the opening as well.

When he had cleared the barn, he was about to dump
Foreman on the ground when Cheryl stopped him with both
hands on his chest. "He's still here," she hollered.

"Who?"

"Him. Judge. He's still around here somewhere."

Mark scanned the area. No sign of anyone except Cheryl,
Amber, and Ginny.

"Judge?" Must be the maniac. "Where?"

Cheryl gripped his arm. "I don't know. But he's here. We
have to go."

Mark threw his head in the direction of where his Mustang was. "My car's over there. Go. I'm right behind you." He bent
over and scooped his gun up off the ground. It was still hot but
had cooled some in the tall grass. "Go!"

Cheryl grabbed Ginny's arm again and turned to head for
the car.

Suddenly a shot rang out, like a crack of thunder. At first,
Mark wasn't sure if it had come from the inferno or not. Something may have exploded in the barn. But then he saw him,
tall and lean, standing on the dirt lane by the Mustang, like a
gunslinger from the Old West complete with a broad-brimmed
Stetson. He stood facing them, legs parted, shotgun in one hand,
its stock resting on his hip. Looked like Chuck Connors-the
Rifleman. Judge.

Cheryl and the others froze. Ginny let out a loud whimper
and started to cry again.

Judge stood still for a few seconds, facing them, then turned,
pointed the gun at the rear wheel of the Mustang. A blast of fire
exploded from the barrel. The Mustang rocked side to side; the
rear tire sagged to the ground.

Mark's head throbbed. His heart was in his throat. He could
stay and make a stand against this nut-he had six shots in his
gun. But what about the women? They were defenseless. What
if this was how Cheryl died? A thought struck him like a rock
between the eyes: he'd saved her from the fire, spared her life,
but for how long? The repo man may have been delayed, but he
was still coming. He had to tell her about Jesus. She'd survived
this fire, but if she died, she'd still have to deal with hell's fire.
He had to tell her. But when? Here? Now? Not a chance. A wave
of frustration and desperation swelled within him, and he let
out a loud grunt.

Another shot pierced the air, above the roar of the fire.

Judge was on the far side of the car now. He'd just shot out the
passenger-side rear tire.

Mark looked at Cheryl, who was staring back at him with
wide eyes.

"The woods," he said. "Head for the woods. Go." They could
find some cover there. He'd put up a stand if he had to.

Mark looked back one last time at judge finishing off the last
of the Mustang's tires, then, repositioning Jess on his shoulder,
took off for the woods.

Cheryl and the others were a good ten yards ahead of him
and opening the gap with each step. Mark lowered his head and
pumped his free arm, trying to make up ground. Each heavy
step sent a jolt through his back. His lungs burned, and he was
sure his heart was going to pump right out of his chest.

He had no idea if judge was in hot pursuit or not. An image
of the Stetson-wearing outlaw, silhouetted against the glowing
flames, gun raised to shoulder level, sat in Mark's mind like
a lump. He kept expecting to hear the gun's loud retort and
feel the impact of a slug against his back. But it hadn't come
yet. Maybe Judge had been caught off guard. Maybe he had
to reload. At any rate, Mark knew if he didn't make it to the
woods, that would be it. His appointment with death would
come due.

A new wave of adrenaline surged through his arteries like hot
fuel, and he pounded his feet harder on the soft ground. Cheryl
was now close to twenty yards ahead and almost at the-

Something hit Mark in the back of the leg and he went down,
spilling Foreman onto the ground. She rolled once and lay
motionless, face up in the grass, arms splayed to either side.

Searing pain started in Mark's calf and shot up his leg. His calf felt like it was in a vise. A vise with teeth. He flipped
himself over, still gripping his shotgun, and came face to face
with the Doberman. The dog had a death grip on his calf and
was shaking it like it was a groundhog. Mark let out a throaty
scream and tried to kick the dog away. But the jaws on the beast
were like iron. The dog growled and snorted and gnawed on the
thick muscle, keeping itself low to the ground for leverage.

The pain was almost unbearable, like fire in his leg. Flashes of
white heat blinded Mark, and his head swam. This was it? This
was how he was going to die? Eaten alive by some crazed dog?

The gun.

The pain had been so intense, and he had been in such a panic
he'd forgotten all about the shotgun his left hand still gripped.
He quickly transferred it to his right hand, pumped it once,
shoved the barrel against the dog's chest, and pulled the trigger.

The barrel exploded, the gun jerked in his hand, and the
Doberman released its grip. For a moment the dog just sat there,
looking at Mark with glassy eyes, jaws ajar, tongue dangling to
one side like a pink ribbon as if to say, Hey, I was only kidding.
Why'd you go and do that? All the while, the gaping hole in its
chest vomited a pool of dark red blood.

Mark dug his legs into the ground and pushed away from the
dog. It teetered once, then collapsed to its side. Dead.

Mark quickly scanned the area. The barn had collapsed in on
itself and was a ball of raging fire, the Mustang still sat on its
rims like a junkyard jewel, but there was no sign of judge.

Mark turned and looked toward the woods. Cheryl stood at
the tree line, hands covering her mouth. The tree line was no
more than twenty yards away. He could make it. He reached
down and felt his calf. The pant leg was soaked with blood. He
tried to pump his ankle. The pain was intense.

"Mark!" It was Cheryl. He turned and looked at her again.
She was bent at the waist, waving him in.

Cheryl. Baby. He had to go to her. He had to make it to the
woods.

He pushed himself up, doing his best to ignore the pain
that shot up the back of his leg like a lightning bolt. Dropping his gun, he bent at the waist and grabbed Foreman under
both arms. He then hoisted her up with a grunt and dipped
his shoulder, catching her at the waist before she toppled to the
ground again. He had no idea if she was even alive or not. All
he knew was that she was dead weight and, for a woman her
size, felt like a sack of lead.

Turning toward the tree line, he squatted with his good leg
and grabbed the gun. He wasn't about to go into those woods
unarmed, especially with judge's whereabouts unknown.

Keeping his focus on Cheryl, Mark limped his way through
the pasture, left hand gripping the shotgun, right arm bracing
Foreman's legs against his chest. With each step his left foot
dragged on the ground like a dead fish and sent a new wave of
nauseating pain through his leg. Several times the leg buckled,
and he almost dropped, but one sight of Cheryl waving him in
like a third base coach kept him reeling forward. His gait wasn't
really a run; it was more a succession of falls, each one broken
by his right leg and started again by his gimpy left leg.

At the edge of the woods, another shot rang out. Mark burst
through the tree line and fell to his knees, dropping Foreman
on the leaf-covered ground. Looking over his shoulder, he
spotted judge's black outline walking through the pasture. Not
running, walking. His arms hung loosely at his side, one hand
balancing the rifle, as he took long measured steps, head up,
shoulders square. Like an outlaw, Mark thought. Wanted, dead
or alive.

"C'mon," Cheryl said. "We have to move." She looked at
Mark, and their eyes met.

Mark wanted to reach out to her there, take her in his arms,
and never let go. She was a strong woman, he knew, but he'd
never seen this side of her. God only knew what she'd gone
through in the past several hours. He wanted to tell her he loved
her, that he'd been a jerk, a cursed fool, and beg her forgiveness.
He wanted to shut his eyes and wish all this away. But it wasn't
going away, was it? It was no nightmare. And the screams that
had cut Cheryl off on the phone were still ringing in his ears,
reminding him that she still had an appointment to keep, an
appointment with the repo man. Odds were, she wasn't going
to make it out of this alive. There would be no morning.

Mark gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. He had to tell
her. He had to make her understand. She had to believe, make
things right with God, with Jesus. If she was going to die, so
be it; there was nothing he could do about it. But he had to
make sure she wasn't going to wake up in ... the place of those
hideous screams.

"We need to split up," Cheryl said. "Someone has to get out
of here and get help." She looked at Amber, who had one arm
around Ginny's shoulders. "You two go. Find help. Anybody.
Just get help."

Amber didn't say a word. Her eyes were wide, lips parted.
She glanced from Cheryl to Mark and back to Cheryl again,
then nodded.

Mark watched as Amber and Ginny disappeared into the
darkness of the woods, then turned his head toward the pasture
again. Judge was now jogging, but even in the cadence of his
trot there was a confidence that bordered on cockiness, as if he
knew something Mark and Cheryl didn't.

"Mark!" Cheryl was right in his face now, speaking in a
hushed tone. "Can you get the cop? Are you able?"

As much as he wanted to dismiss the pain in his leg, as much
as he wanted to carry her to safety, and as much as it killed him
to admit it, he could carry her no farther.

"I don't think so," he admitted.

Cheryl felt Foreman's forehead, then checked her pulse.
"She's got a steady pulse; it's weak, but there."

Mark combed a hand through his hair. "What can we do?"