Final Scream

by Brookover, David

  “There’s one thing I don’t understand about all this,” she said between spoonfuls.

  “What’s that?”

  “When we first learned about Noah being among the missing on Terror Island, you were gung-ho to rush out there and rescue him,” she reminded him. “But four days later, you’re still in the states and he’s thousands of miles away. What gives?”

  Nick glanced out the front window at the sprawling front yard. “My eagerness to jump right in was a knee-jerk reaction. I didn’t think it through. I decided to find out who or what was behind Oracle’s severed communications with the Final Scream folks. And now I’m glad I waited. According to the evidence, there seems to be something on that island that is more valuable than human life. And now that we’re aware magic’s involved, we have to tread more lightly than before. If I’d been reckless and rushed out to the South Pacific, I most likely would’ve walked right into a trap.”

  “But aren’t you concerned about Noah?”

  “You’re goddamned right I am, but if he’s managed to stay alive this long, he should last another day or so.”

  “That’s wishful thinking.”

  He turned from the window. “I know. Let’s just say I hope he’s alive.”

  “You want me to visit Terror Island while you nose around here for more evidence?”

  “Thanks, but no. I wouldn’t want you walking into a trap either. When the time comes, we’ll proceed to the island with a plan.” He bent and kissed her pale lips.

  Gabriella was still worried about Noah, but nothing Nick said could change that. She diplomatically changed the subject. “So tell me about your secret meeting with Rance,” she said frostily. She still hadn’t gotten over the FBI director’s uncharacteristic rudeness. If his late wife Carolyn was still alive, she would’ve read Rance the riot act.

  Nick grimaced as he summarized Jonathon Foster’s threats.

  “So why is Foster involved in this Final Scream business? Doesn’t the NSA have anything better to do these days?”

  Nick nodded. “I guess not.”

  “Are they nuts then?”

  He sat on the edge of their bed. “Foster’s a nutcase, that’s for sure, but our covert government security agencies lie a lot to conceal their illegal activities.”

  Gabriella shifted topics again. “Let’s focus on your Aunt Sue for a minute. Don’t you think she’d be safer here at Old Mother Hubbard’s?”

  He shook his head. “Not on your life. She’s as nervous as a cat on a hot tin roof. She needs to stay where the action is so she can rush to her children if and when they’re found.”

  “Gotcha. I think you should go back to California and nail down what’s really happening out there so you can teleport to Terror Island with confidence.”

  “Good idea.”

  “I’ll stay here for a day and rest up.” She handed him the empty soup bowl.

  He was about to object but changed his mind. Gabriella could be stubborn.

  She read the concern in his expression. “You don’t have to worry about me, dear. I’ve got two loyal familiars to watch over me,” she chuckled, feeling more robust every minute. The soup definitely helped speed up her recovery.

  Nick used his satellite phone to dial headquarters, and then looked up at Gabriella. “I’m checking in with Crow to see if he’s got any updates on our case.”

  She nodded this time, sans headache.

  Crow picked up on the fifth ring.

  “Did I catch you at a bad time?” Nick asked.

  “Yeah, sorta. I was double checking Geronimo’s test numbers, but they’re sound as usual,” he explained.

  “So, feed me some data, Chief.”

  “Hold on a minute, Impatient One!”

  “I’m in a hurry. Noah’s life may be on the line as we speak.”

  “I forgot. Sorry.”

  Nick brought Crow up to speed on Gabriella’s rescue.

  “I’m glad she’s safe, but I’m glad I wasn’t there. Too dangerous.”

  “Yeah, I hear you.”

  “All right, let’s get back to business. There’s no word on Natalie yet or any further outbreak of the wicker contagion, but we do have preliminary results on the chemical compound in Maggie Wentworth’s syringe.”

  “And?”

  “The stuff was cooked with alien DNA, but we can’t determine its purpose. Geronimo’s working full-time to isolate the strange ingredients and identify how each one reacts with the human body,” Crow replied. “But I have a strong feeling he’s not going to find anything. Too much alien matter.”

  Nick didn’t respond for several moments. He was born with alien DNA, too. “Alien, huh? Where did those people get a hold of alien material? Is it a strain we’re familiar with?”

  “Nope. It’s a completely new animal, if you catch my drift.”

  “Nothing’s ever easy, is it, pal?”

  Crow chuffed. “Not in this lifetime. Anyway, Geronimo developed a theory the DNA might have come from a Terror Island being, but there’s no proof to back it up.”

  Nick mulled over the supercomputer’s hypothesis. “I could believe it if the stuff in the syringe was related to a singular event like Wentworth’s transformation, but it isn’t the main event in light of the other strange occurrences. Gabriella’s kidnapping. Natalie turning into a Wicker person. I can’t figure out how all these dots connect. Wentworth’s boss told her to inject herself when investigators got too close to the truth, but what truth? I hate to admit it, but I’m still in the dark on that.”

  Crow cleared his throat. “Geronimo and I don’t know how those events tie together, either.”

  Nick gritted his teeth. “I have to find the big boss behind this operation and shut it down.”

  “Oh, the head asshole’ll show up sooner than you think if you keep disrupting his plans.”

  “Well, I’m going to keep upsetting the applecart until I get some pertinent answers. And I’d better find Noah alive, or there’s going to be hell to pay!”

  “That seems a bit vigilante—not something a former FBI agent would condone.”

  Nick spoke low into his phone. “Vigilante or not, nobody messes with my family and lives.”

  27

  Nick changed into khaki slacks, an umber Polo shirt, and light tan loafers before teleporting to his Aunt Sue’s hacienda style house in La Jolla. He materialized in her backyard garden, landscaped with tall New Zealand Flax, waxy Japanese Boxwoods, and stunning blue Lily-of-the-Nile blooms, to minimize his chance of being seen.

  As he crept past the windows to the plywood covered patio door, he noticed Aunt Sue arguing on the phone. Since he couldn’t make out her rants, he went around to the front door, pressed the doorbell, and waited. When she appeared, he pretended he hadn’t witnessed her quarrelling.

  Sue Wright was stunned by his presence. It was obvious she wasn’t to see him so soon after the hospital episode involving Natalie.

  “May I come in?” he finally asked. Why was she so upset at his arrival?

  “I suppose—yes, of course,” she sputtered, blinking away her stupor. She slammed and locked the door behind them and coolly led him to the family room.

  “Is everything all right, Aunt Sue?”

  “Not really. I’m a nervous wreck these days, so Scripps firmly suggested I take an extended leave from work. I agreed. I wasn’t worth a damn at my job with Noah and Natalie missing.” She flopped into her recliner and huffed. “And today the cops began badgering me. They show up every day and ask me the same questions over and over!”

  “Huh? What questions?” he asked.

  “Well, there’s really just the one. They want to know what happened to the first two detectives who showed up here after Natalie was shot. I told them point blank that it’s not my responsibility to babysit the police department.”

  “Good answer.” He rubbed his chin to mask his slight grin. He hoped the blue boys were enjoying Alaska.

  She bent forward. “Do you have
any more information about Noah and Natalie?”

  “I’m afraid there’s nothing more to report,” he replied apologetically, “but I should have something for you soon. My team is close to making major breakthroughs.”

  Sue Wright scowled. “I expected you to go to Terror Island and bring my son back to me!” she said hostilely.

  “I would have, but the Final Scream investigation is more complicated and dangerous than it appears to be.”

  “Really,” she snapped irritably. “How?”

  “I can’t tell you until I have all my ducks in a row, because there are a lot of red herrings being thrown my way. Understand?” he replied evenly.

  “Frankly, I don’t understand. I’m very disappointed in you, Nick. You have a good reputation for being one of the cleverest investigators in the business, but it turns out that you’re no better than those do-nothing politicians in Washington. You’re all excuses and no results,” she snapped. “So, you forced me to hire a private detective to look into my children’s disappearances. As of this minute, you’re fired.”

  His face flushed apple red. “That was unwise of you. Your detective has no idea what he’s up against.”

  “No matter. What’s done is done.” She stood abruptly and ushered him to the front door. “Goodbye, Nick.”

  Nick grunted a response as he stepped off the porch and headed down the street. He knew arguing with her was a waste of breath. The intense sunlight penetrated his cotton shirt and continued his retreat. He wasn’t ready to teleport back to Ohio. He pondered his aunt’s unexpected hostility toward him. Why the change of heart?

  He sensed her hostility when she answered the door, but why was he suddenly public enemy number one in her eyes? What had he done to deserve her wrath? His aunt’s loss of faith in his professional prowess really hurt. He was a firm believer family should stick together through thick and thin.

  But his family chose to forsake him.

  And now Aunt Sue hired a for-profit investigator who had no idea he was dealing with desperate sorcerers. Nick would be surprised if the private eye was alive next week.

  He sadly glanced back at his aunt’s house before turning the corner. As Rance so succinctly wrote in his earlier note, “Something’s rotten in Denmark”—or in this case—La Jolla, California. But what was the cause of this surprising rot?

  Nick was completely baffled.

  But he did have a good idea where to troll for answers.

  28

  As Noah cautiously explored the bowels of the rocking boat, he found it graveyard quiet. The splattered blood along the stairwell looked like the walls of Hell. His trembling right hand gripped the puny knife as if it were a sword. In reality, he realized the six-inch blade would not protect him against the murderer responsible for massacring the production staff, but he had to move on. Reese needed the antibiotics.

  Although Noah was jumpy, he marveled at the exquisite craftsmanship of the scrolled teak trim. The ornate boat sported a gold hand railing, gold light fixtures, and gold compartment handles and knobs. The seventy-nine foot Florida-built Hargrave yacht was a pristine white beauty before the slaughter dappled its walls with blood.

  Three guest cabins, an engine room amidships, the medical supply room, and the skeleton crew’s quarters for the captain, engineer, and first mate made up the lower deck. The rear door on the main deck led to the salon, dining room, and galley. The access for the owner’s bedroom suite, a study, and a smaller stateroom for the owner’s bodyguard was located near the bow.

  The aft upper deck was utilized for occasional outdoor dining, tanning, and hanging out at the sky lounge that included a Jacuzzi, while the amidships area contained the captain’s enclosed bridge. The three-decker oceangoing boat easily accommodated ten guests besides the crew, which perfectly suited Oracle’s ten person production staff.

  When Noah’s feet touched down on the lower deck, he spotted the site of the bloodbath—the first guest room off the narrow hallway where all the satellite, security, camera, and communication hook-ups were located. Strangely, there were no corpses.

  Numerous blank television monitors were packed into the limited space, along with other essential electronics. The desk chairs were overturned and stained scarlet. Noah pushed them aside and switched on the monitors and server.

  While he waited for them to boot, he recalled his journey to Terror Island. He and the others were aboard three Oracle helicopters that lifted off from Port Allen Airport on the Hawaiian island of Kauai. They transported the entire group to Baker Island, an uninhabited United States atoll. There wasn’t much to see when they landed except a crumbling and overgrown World War II air field, a desolate cemetery, rubble from the barracks and command center, and a newly constructed boat docking area.

  There were no ports or harbors, because the shallow reefs circling the island were maritime hazards. Anchorage beyond the reefs was the lone option for large vessels. Their luggage was transferred to inflatable Zodiacs and powered out to the rented Oracle Hargrave bobbing a half-mile from shore. Their trip to Terror Island resembled a covert military exercise.

  Noah’s mind snapped back to the present, and he smelled blood’s coppery malodor saturating most of the lower deck. Before he could crinkle his nose, he danced to avoid the centipedes gliding across the floor. Mosquitoes buzzed his exposed skin like black winged vampires as he headed for the medical supply room connected to the guestroom. But of course, there was a problem. A major one.

  The medical supply room door was locked.

  Noah was mindful of the roaming centipedes as he scoured the lower deck for anything he could use to pry open the door, but he came up empty. The engine room was sealed tight as a drum, too. He pounded the heel of his hands on its steel door in frustration and swore at his bad luck. He thought of the many obstacles he survived to reach the cove, and now the locked doors. He wanted to scream!

  Throwing caution to the wind, Noah ran up the steps to the main deck, where he continued his search. He combed every square inch of every room until he struck gold in the galley. A short crowbar dangled from a hook beside the walk-in refrigerator door. He figured the crew used it to break open the wooden crates loaded with fresh fruits and vegetables delivered weekly—for the Oracle staff only. The contestants hunted for their meager primitive meals. That was all part of the fun—not!

  He was about to return to the medical supply door when thought he heard voices coming from shore. Male shouts. At first, he rebuffed their existence. No doubt his hunger was playing tricks on his senses.

  But just to be sure, Noah bolted to the bow and scanned the broad expanse of sand separating the thick jungle from the sandy beach. At first he didn’t see a soul, but then two silhouettes exploded from the jungle undergrowth and sprinted like madmen toward the dock. Both men were badly sunburned.

  Their tattered T-shirts and flowered board shorts flapped in the sea breeze as they ran. Their black sandals were unwieldy mud cakes.

  A scraggly nutmeg beard hid most of the taller man’s lean face, and the red head beside him looked like a stocky Robinson Crusoe. Both twenty-something men sucked air like flopping fish out of water as Noah crossed the gangplank to greet them.

  An enormous harpoon splintered the redhead’s spine, pushed through his ribs, and protruded from his bleeding torso. His freckled face exhibited pure shock as his corpse toppled onto the wooden planks. The taller man screamed, panicked, and tried to leap the gap between the dock and boat, but he was short by a foot. He splashed into the drink and flailed and splashed like a non-swimmer, but his freaked-out efforts were futile. He sank like a rock before sputtering back to the surface.

  He glanced up at Noah. “I can’t … swim!”

  “I can see that, pal,” Noah muttered before flattening himself on the gangplank and lowering the crowbar. After the floundering man grasped the curved end, Noah pulled him up high enough to throw a leg over the wooden gangplank and roll on his back next to Noah. Another harpoon struck the
side of the yacht and vibrated with an ominous twang, missing Noah’s leg by a foot.

  “Time to move!” Noah announced.

  They quickly crab walked off the plank to make themselves small targets until they reached the stairwell. After they flew down the steps, Noah ignored the slew of questions bubbling up in his mind for the tall stranger and went directly to the medical supply room door.

  “I’m a Stout Heart,” the man offered while he searched for a towel to dry himself off. “Whoever fired that harpoon has been following me and Jimmy for two days now.”

  “Do you know who they are?” He found a gap to insert the crowbar.

  “I never saw them.”

  Noah muscled the crowbar until it popped the lock free with an earsplitting creak. He kicked the door open and switched on the lights.

  The tall man kept talking. “My name’s Tony, and I’m from Lambertville, Michigan.”

  Noah ignored the annoying chit-chat. “Do me a favor and check out the galley on the main deck for bottled water, canned food, and some ice. And watch for harpoons. Got it?”

  “Sure thing.” Tony disappeared in a flash.

  Noah was relieved to be alone again. The small refrigerator containing the supply of medicines sat on the far counter, and he carefully opened its glass door and inspected the labels on the vials and bottles.

  Bingo!

  He carefully packed two large bottles of Levaquin capsules and amoxicillin tablets into a blue cloth bag carelessly tossed in the corner. Noah also included a collection of salves and lotions, as well as the Physician’s Desk Reference paperback, a drug and health resources information guide. The book was the next best thing to having an island doctor at his disposal.

  Noah carried the bag into the production center and watched the monitors. Unfortunately, none of them showed the jungle harpooners. A few of the reality show monitors were blank, and Noah scratched his whiskered chin. Someone—more than likely the harpooners—must have disconnected the cameras mounted in the contestant zones, because their batteries held a three-week charge.