Dark Screams, Volume 1

by Dark Screams- Volume 1 (v5. 0) (epub)

  And so it began. Kara didn’t just roll over and play best friend again. But…yes, ultimately she let Ingrid back into her life. She didn’t have a choice.

  “I know who you really are,” Ingrid had told her, a week later, when Ingrid announced she had a new job in Seattle and wasn’t leaving. “That’s just our little secret, though, right?”

  “If you mean Gavin, he already knows—”

  “Of course he does. But I’m sure you don’t go around telling people here that you spent three years in jail for murder.”

  “No.” Kara looked her in the eye. “And if you’re threatening to tell—”

  Ingrid hugged her. “Of course not. I mean, they don’t know, so they can’t understand you the way I do. You need me, Kara. That’s all.”

  That was not all, and Kara knew it.

  —

  Kara had been lying on the basement floor for what felt like hours. Every now and then Ingrid would call her name. When Kara ignored her, she started to moan about the pain, that she thought their captor had broken her arm, that she felt feverish. When Kara still didn’t answer, she started to cry, soft sobs at first, then rising, begging forgiveness from God and Eddie’s brother and every person she’d ever wronged.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” she sobbed.

  “Even me?” Kara said.

  Silence, then, “Kara?”

  Kara rose to sit, chain scraping the floor, metal digging in where she’d yanked against it, trying to escape the beating, knowing it would do no good. The price she’d had to pay, apparently. There was always a price. And Kara was always paying it.

  “You’re asking everyone to forgive you, but those people aren’t here. Even Eddie’s brother can’t hear you down here. The only one listening is the person you owe the biggest apology to. But I don’t hear you giving it.”

  “If you mean Eddie—”

  “Yes, let’s talk about Eddie.” Kara wrapped her arms around her knees, wincing as pain knifed through them. “He is the person you wronged most, isn’t he? That’s why he came to mind first. Which he shouldn’t, if he did what you claimed. I don’t know if rape deserves death, but I don’t feel the least bit bad about Bill, so I guess I’d accept the punishment as just.”

  “I-I don’t understand.”

  “But I do. I always have, I think. I just couldn’t let myself. I felt disloyal thinking it, believing my boyfriend over my best friend. Worse, if I believed he didn’t rape you, that meant you murdered him in cold blood. Murdered an innocent boy. Who would do that? Not a human being. That’s the act of a monster. The sort of person who’d let her friend go to jail, even when it didn’t clear her own name. Was accusing me supposed to clear your name, Inge? Or did you just want to ruin my life along with yours?”

  “If someone said I accused you—”

  “No, but even if you didn’t, a confession from you would have set me free.”

  “I thought we’d be together.” Ingrid hurried on. “Not that I accused you, but I didn’t take the blame, and I should have. I see that now. But I thought we’d be together. We’d look after each other. You owed me that.”

  “I owed you? For killing a sweet kid who never did anything but treat me like I was special?”

  “I treated you special.” Ingrid’s voice rose and her own chain clanked as if she was getting to her feet. “I treated you like gold, Kara, and what did you do? Threw me over for a second-string football player.”

  “Who never laid a finger on you.”

  A pause, too long. “What? No. Eddie attacked me. I was in shock and I thought he was going to hurt you, so I shot him. For you. It was all for you.”

  “Bill, too?”

  “Of course,” Ingrid snarled. “You know that. I killed him for you, and you were grateful for it, and now you dare accuse me of—”

  “Of murdering Eddie for no reason. You say you treated me like gold, but he—”

  “Don’t you fucking compare me to that boy!” Ingrid’s voice went shrill. “He barely knew you. We’ve been together since we were three. Three fucking years old! But there was always someone else. Some guy trying to get between us. To take you away. First Bill and then Eddie and now that Neanderthal you married. Gavin, Gavin, Gavin. Can I tell you what I’d like to do to fucking Gavin, Kara?”

  Kara heard Ingrid’s door creak open. “Sure, Ingrid. Tell us what you’d like to do to me.”

  “What?” Ingrid said. “It’s you? You sick son of a—”

  A thump and a screech as Gavin hit Ingrid.

  “Kara!” Ingrid screamed between blows. “It’s Gavin. It’s all—”

  “All me,” Gavin said. “It’s always been me. Looking out for my wife. You aren’t going to hurt her anymore, Ingrid. I’m here to make sure of that.”

  The beating continued, Ingrid screaming for help, screaming for Kara, and, finally, screaming for mercy, screaming for her life. That’s when Kara realized what Gavin meant to do. Stop her. Permanently.

  Kara fumbled in the near dark with her leg iron. It was supposed to be latched, but not locked, just as it had been earlier. But now when she tugged, it wouldn’t open. She yanked harder, heart pounding, as Ingrid’s screams took on the terrible edge of something no longer quite human.

  “Gavin!” Kara shouted. “Stop! That’s enough! Please, stop!”

  He did stop. Not then, not as Kara screamed, her voice raw, every shout stabbing through her bruised stomach. No, her pleas didn’t stop him. The thumps and the screams continued. Then thumps and whimpers. Then just thumps. And finally silence. Absolute silence.

  Kara collapsed on the floor and started to cry.

  —

  Gavin. When Kara first met him, he’d reminded her of Eddie. He didn’t look like him, but there was the way his forelock fell, getting into his eyes when he was distracted. The way he smiled sometimes, at just the right angle. Even some of his kisses, in the beginning, took her back to those days, when life was as perfect as it would ever be.

  But Gavin wasn’t Eddie. As time passed, she’d come to see more of Ingrid in him and, sometimes, even Bill. Old story again. Too often told. The victim who kept stumbling into the same kind of relationships, not because she went looking for them, but maybe because she didn’t feel she deserved any better. That after Eddie’s murder, she didn’t deserve another sweet boy like him. But at some point, when you realize what you’re doing, trapped in old patterns, you have to make a choice to stop doing it. To say “enough.”

  Gavin must have sensed she was thinking about leaving him, because that’s when the condom “broke.” Twice. That’s when she got pregnant.

  If he’d thought that would make her stay, he’d underestimated her. Whatever Kara had still felt for him, she had felt more for the life growing inside her. She’d tried to leave Gavin for the baby’s sake. He figured out how to make her stay. He might never have been even a B student, but he was a quick study, and he realized how to get to her. All he had to do was punch or kick a little too close to her belly, and she got the message. Leave and you leave alone. So she stayed. He promised to stop hitting her, and to take her to Seattle and start their new lives together, and she went because she didn’t really see another option.

  As for keeping his promise, the hitting stopped while she was pregnant. She’d give him that. And he never threatened or hurt Melody. On a relative scale, he wasn’t as bad as he could have been, and she knew that was no justification at all, but sometimes, when you’re trapped badly enough, you need to find a bright side. Life was not good; life was not bad. Kara would bide her time until Melody finished high school, then she’d run with her daughter.

  That’s when Ingrid came back into her life, and things went from “not bad” to hell, the nightmare of her old life seeping into her new. That’s when Kara devised the plan, one Gavin happily agreed to. He would call pretending to be Eddie’s brother out for revenge, and if that didn’t scare Ingrid off, then this would. An abandoned cabin with a basement, where “Ed
die’s brother” would beat them both until Kara found a way to “escape” and they’d flee. After that, Ingrid would keep running until she was out of their lives.

  Killing Ingrid? Not part of the plan. Not Kara’s plan, at least.

  —

  Kara lay on the floor, crying quietly. The door opened. Gavin’s footsteps crossed the room. She kept her eyes squeezed shut as he walked toward her. She could smell the blood on him. Ingrid’s blood.

  Ingrid dead. How many times had she fantasized about that while she slept on her hard, metal bed in the detention center and thought about Eddie, began to admit to herself that he’d done nothing wrong, that Ingrid murdered him in cold blood? But she never dreamed about this, about being there, smelling her friend’s blood, being responsible for the spilling of it. No, in her fantasies, someone simply gave her the news: Ingrid is dead.

  Did that make her a coward? Maybe.

  Gavin crouched beside her. His hand touched her shoulder and she shrank back, eyes still shut.

  “I did it for you, Kerry,” he whispered. “For us. You know that.”

  No. She knew exactly why he’d done it and she’d been a fool for not seeing it coming.

  She opened her eyes. Blood flecked his face, but his eyes glittered. As they’d glittered the whole time he’d been beating her. Afterward, he’d kneel beside her and touch her battered face and whisper that he’d hated doing it, remind her that it had been her idea, that she had to be beaten as badly as Ingrid so her friend wouldn’t suspect anything when they escaped. But he hadn’t regretted it. She’d seen that in his eyes, and now she realized he hadn’t needed to beat her at all, because he’d never intended for Ingrid to see her again.

  “And if I want to go?” Kara whispered, bracing for the answer, but knowing she had to ask, to be sure. “If I want to leave now?”

  His lips curved in a smile, almost tender. “You can’t, Kerry. You just helped me murder your best friend. If you leave, I’ll blame you. They’ll put you back in jail—real jail this time—and you’ll never see your daughter again.” He looked her in the eyes. “Can you imagine what her life would be like without her mommy?”

  Yes. Yes, she could.

  “And if I say you did it?” Kara asked. “That you killed Ingrid?”

  He shrugged. “Then that’s the chance I take. But remember who’s the convicted killer, Kerry. You won’t leave and you won’t tell. I saved you, again, and this is the price you pay.”

  Kara nodded, her gaze down. Gavin unlocked the cuff on her leg. As he did, she reached into her pocket for something nestled deep in the folds. She pulled it out, hidden in her palm.

  “It’s going to be okay,” Gavin said, reaching to hug her.

  She accepted his embrace. “Yes, it is,” she said, and stabbed the penknife into his throat.

  —

  Kara huddled outside the cabin with a blanket wrapped tight around her. Red and blue lights cut through the night, bouncing off the trees. More lights bobbed across the ground as the crime-scene techs made their way into the house. She glanced at the ambulance. The lights were off now, bodies being loaded into the back.

  “It’s all right,” whispered the older female officer beside her. “You’re safe now.”

  Kara managed a twist of a smile. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

  She’d taken the cell phone from Gavin’s pocket and called the police. When they arrived, she’d given her story, how Ingrid had been the victim of a stalker. A stalker who’d claimed to be the brother of a boy Ingrid killed six years ago. Except it wasn’t the brother. It was Kara’s own husband. Her abusive husband—her medical records would back that up. He’d gone crazy when Ingrid reentered Kara’s life. Accused them of having an affair. This had been his revenge. He’d played the stalker, kidnapped and beaten his wife and her supposed lover, and planned to murder both and blame it on Ingrid’s “stalker.” Kara had stabbed him with his own penknife and escaped, but not before Ingrid paid the ultimate price.

  “Kerry?” a voice said.

  She looked up to see her neighbor walking toward them, Melody in her arms, the sleepy toddler blinking as she looked about. Kara smiled—a real smile now—and reached out, and the woman settled Melody into her arms. The officer and neighbor walked away to leave mother and daughter together. When they were gone, Kara leaned over Melody’s ear.

  “There’s always a price, baby,” she said. “But never pay more than you owe.”

  Magic Eyes

  Bill Pronzini

  November 8—Early Morning, Pre-cocktail

  My name is Edward James Tolliver.

  I am thirty-seven years old.

  I was born and raised in Fresno, California.

  I attended UC Berkeley and graduated from Haas School of Business with a degree in accounting.

  I used to be a fairly successful CPA.

  I have no living relatives.

  I did not kill my wife.

  I am not crazy.

  I was married to Lorna for eleven wonderful years, I loved her very much, I don’t care what the judge and jury said I don’t care what Dr. Hilliard or anyone else believes I don’t belong in this goddamn asylum I am not a murderer I am not I am NOT NOT NOT insane—

  Calm.

  Remain calm.

  That’s what everybody on staff here keeps saying. That’s the reason for the daily drug cocktails. Patients must remain calm and in control at all times for the well-being of themselves and their fellow inmates.

  All right. I’m calm. Just a teensy flare of temper there, that’s all. To which I have every right, given the circumstances.

  Where was I? Yes.

  Now is the time for all sane patients to do their doctor’s bidding.

  Even if they don’t want to. And I don’t want to. I am going on record here, Dr. Hilliard, that you’re forcing me against my will to engage in an unnecessary and pointless activity. I’m an accountant, it’s numbers I’m comfortable with, not words. I told you that. I find it difficult to think of sentences to string together on paper; I told you that, too. And my handwriting has never been very good and the scratching of pen on notepad makes me twitchy. But you wouldn’t let me work on a computer because their use is restricted and I suppose you’re afraid I might try to sneak an email through to somebody. Who would I write to? All my former friends have deserted me; my court-appointed attorney doesn’t want anything more to do with me. I’m all alone in the world except for my fellow sufferers in this miserable hospital for the criminally loony. And you, of course. Dr. Albert L. Hilliard, the alleged lunatic’s adviser, confidant, and wannabe bosom pal.

  “It’s my considered opinion that writing a daily log would be excellent therapy for you, Edward.” Oh, really? Why? “It will allow you to order your thoughts, relieve tensions and aggressions, hopefully allow you to take the vital step of accepting responsibility for your actions.” Bullshit. But there’s no arguing with you, is there? If I don’t do as I’m told I’ll never be marked “cured” and permitted to leave this hellhole. You’ve made that abundantly clear in our thrice-weekly mono-a-shrink sessions.

  I wish I could make you understand that I don’t need therapy, this or any other kind. I wish I could tell you the truth about the magic eyes—

  No.

  Scratch that, erase it, forget it. I’m not going to tell you because you wouldn’t believe me, you’d only think I’m crazier than you already do. So don’t bother to ask me to explain, I won’t answer if you do.

  You are going to read these pages, aren’t you, Doctor?

  Oh, I know you told me you wouldn’t, that my “jottings” as you call them would remain completely private. But we both know that’s not true. No locks on the drawers in my little bolted-to-the-floor desk or anywhere else in this cell of mine so there’s nothing to stop you from coming in while I’m in the dining hall or recreation room or outdoors under guard and sneaking a look at these pages any time you feel like it.

  Well, it won’t do you any good. I am no
t going to accept responsibility for a crime I didn’t commit in writing any more than I have verbally. No, sir, no, sir. I don’t care what the law says, I don’t care what society says, I am not a murderer and I’m as sane as you are. A good decent tormented but oh-so-sane man who deserves better than better than—

  Oh, the hell with it. I’m tired. I don’t want to write any more of this crap. I think I’ll take a nap now.

  November 9—Evening

  Nurse Ratchet just brought me daily dose #2 of my zombie cocktail.

  Calming meds, he calls them, a silly damn euphemism. I call them what they are, antipsychotic drugs, and I hate the way they make me feel most of the time. Dull-witted, listless, no appetite for food. Like an animated corpse would feel if it had any feelings at all. Do you have any idea how much I despise being treated like a dangerous psychopath, Dr. Hilliard? Well, I suppose you do. You’re the one who prescribes the zombie cocktails, which means you’re afraid I might run amok if I’m not under constant medical control.

  But asylum inmates have no free will, no say in what we’re fed. When I first came here I tried various ways to avoid taking the drugs as I’m sure you know but none of them worked. Nurse Ratchet knows all the tricks. Now he dissolves the capsules in a paper cup of water and watches to make sure I swallow every drop. I threw the cup at him two or three times but all he did was mix another cocktail and threaten to put me in restraints unless I cooperated. He’s a bully. You too, Doc, only you’re much more subtle.

  Of course I know Ratchet isn’t his real name and he’s a male intern/guard, not a nurse. I’m not stupid. I call him Nurse Ratchet because even though he doesn’t let on I know it annoys him. Good. He annoys me, too, always so vigilant, always treating me with thinly veiled disdain. Screw him.

  Screw you, too, Dr. Hilliard.

  It felt good writing that. I think I’ll make myself feel even better.