Scream Catcher

by Vincent Zandri

  “What day is it, Daniel?”

  “Friday morning. Technically speaking.”

  “Time?”

  Lino glances at his wristwatch.

  “Going on two.”

  “Have they found my son yet?”

  “That’s a negative, Captain,” the Lieutenant offers before filling in his department superior on Lennox’s now abandoned apartment and the fire retardant frost job he did on the place.

  After a time, Mack swallows.

  “Blackout or no blackout, we still have a preliminary hearing later this morning. Which means we must locate Lennox tonight … now.” But considering Lennox has taken the Parish family hostage, the mumbled words come off sounding like a gross understatement.

  “I understand that Captain. Which leads me to a question.”

  “What is it Daniel?”

  “Over the course of the past two days, have you overheard anyone—cop, lawyer, maybe Agent MacSweeny, or even P.J. Blanchfield—ever mention uncovering and/or gathering evidence regarding Lennox’s future kill games? Where they might take place? Anything regarding locations?”

  Mack in all his pain and confusion tries his best to think. But his brain is soaked in anesthetic and worry for his son. In the end he can’t recall a goddamned thing.

  He says, “I’ve been working this thing for four years. If I knew something about future kill game locations, you would know something about future kill game locations.”

  Lino nods, purses his lips, lets the question slide.

  Shifting the subject: “CSI is wading through the apartment now. But that shit Lennox sprayed is making the going too slow. We’re hoping to get something off his computer. Something that might give us just a hint about what Lennox could be up to.”

  “You’re playing right into his hands by wasting your time,” the old Captain grimaces. “The computer will be shot with viruses and the apartment was iced over. What’s that tell you?”

  Sensing Mack’s drift, Lino nods.

  “Tells me he expected company; our kind of police company.”

  “And what else?”

  “That Lennox planned on returning nevermore to his apartment. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t leave something for us to chew on. It’s like MacSweeny said. Before he leaves us, Lennox will want to tell us everything. CSI should be looking for a full confession, probably on the computer hard drive once we get through any virus or block.”

  “But as for the location of the new kill game,” Mack says, “You won’t find a clue.”

  “We have to keep looking.”

  “One more thing,” Mack says, lips pressed together during sudden wave of discomfort. “That surveillance bracelet. I’m not sure even a hacker like Lennox could have removed it himself. I think there had to be somebody else.”

  “Somebody inside,” Lino offers like a question. “Any ideas?”

  In his mind, Mack is screaming “Blanchfield!” But then as this point, he doesn’t want to start pointing fingers. Not even in front of someone he can presumably trust.

  “No ideas,” he grunts. “Yet.”

  Lino swallows a cold lump of disappointment. He pictures the ankle surveillance bracelet that’s been removed and discarded without a single alarm being sounded.

  Mack squeezes his fists.

  The old, now injured Captain is fighting sleep. But then just when he thinks it might be possible to wake up from the nightmare, the exhaustion and anesthetic begin to overtake him.

  Lino, however, is still at a loss.

  He’s no closer to figuring out where Lennox might have taken the Parish family now than when he walked into the hospital room earlier. About the only thing going for him is that he can confidently cross off the abandoned factory, the Hudson River and the Molloy gravel pit as possible kill game sites. But maybe he’s reaching for something that doesn’t belong to him. Lennox isn’t his direct responsibility. No more than the lives of the Captain’s family are. Lino has become a member of the L.G.P.D. for other reasons—reasons unknown even to Captain Mack. But then over the past two weeks, he’s become convinced of a direct connection between his final objective and Lennox. In his mind, he knows that if he were able to apprehend Lennox, the beast would sing like a wing-clipped bird. Of course, what all this means is that a search for the Parish family is actually a search for Lennox. And an apprehended Lennox would provide him with direct access to his ultimate goal.

  Question is, where the hell do I pick up my search?

  He’s already been to Lennox’s village apartment. So now he needs to continue the investigation at a new location, look for some kind of lead there.

  Making his way out the open door past a snoring Mack, he believes he knows precisely where to carry on.

  70

  Tongue Mountain

  Friday, 1:43 A.M.

  The whirling current takes hold of Jude’s body, draws him into its center.

  He feels himself being pulled under, body spiraling, going down. No other alternative but to let go, be drawn under the surface of the drowning pool, be dragged along the serrated edge of a metal culvert that drains out over the cliffside.

  But something happens then. Jude doesn’t freefall to the solid earth below. He finds himself reaching out, clawing for something to grab on to, until he finds a handhold.

  Only seconds before, death seemed inevitable.

  He found himself giving up.

  But now he wants to live.

  He’s battling for his life by clinging to a thick tree root that juts out of the Tongue Mountain rock-face.

  * * *

  The wide open valley and beyond it the blacked-out village of Lake George lays a thousand or more feet below, flash-lit by long spider-veined lightning strikes. To Jude’s left, the rushing stream water spews out of the culvert, shoots off into mid-air before arcing downward, falling through the black night to the invisible ground below.

  To his right, maybe a half a mile of open cliff-face.

  Carefully positioning the toes on his boots, he searches for a foothold against the loose shale until managing to locate solid footing. Grip tight, he pulls and chins himself up and over the tree root. When his head is above the cliff edge, he raises his right leg, locates a second secure toehold.

  Pressing his full weight down on his right foot, he lets go of the tree root, thrusts his right hand over the cliff edge. He then pushes his palm down flat onto the wet, gravelly floor. With his left hand still secured to the root, all he needs to do is haul his body up and over the side.

  It’s precisely what he starts on when his right hand explodes in pain.

  * * *

  Jerking up, he sees Lennox standing over him, lithium-powered night vision scope masking his dark face and blue eyes. The beast stands tall and powerful in a black tight-fitting bodysuit and thick-soled combat boots. Strapped to his narrow waist is a utility belt, various components and tools attached to it. If it isn’t for the lightning and the glow of the DNVD scope, Jude might not have seen the beast at all.

  But he would feel his presence.

  Lennox’s right foot has come down on Jude’s right hand, boot heel crushing flesh and bone. The pain shoots out through his arm, rides the nerve bundle like a high speed railway, past his elbow and up into his shoulder, then up into his head. His entire right side is on fire. Jude screams, voice howling into a night punctuated with rain, thunder and absolute darkness. He hears his own voice echoing off the cliffside, shooting out into the valley, out over the roofs of the village, out over the Lake. He can’t be sure if Lennox is capturing his screams with his iPhone, but he knows that precisely what the beast will inevitably want.

  Screams and cold-blooded murder.

  Jude holds to the edge, runs his free hand over the shale wall, searches for a chunk of loose rock. He locates a piece about the size of his own hand. The rock is smooth on one side, with a sharp jagged edge on the other. He fits the rock into the palm of his left hand, grips it with every ounce of his
strength. Then, with one swift downwards swing of his arm, he thrusts the sharp edge into the foot of the beast.

  * * *

  Now it’s Lennox who screams.

  The beast shrieks, his high-pitched voice crying out into the deep night. He’s the suddenly maimed wild animal. Lennox may have the power to see in the night, but he never anticipated the chunk of sharp shale coming for his foot. He yanks his right foot out from under the rock, yanks it loose from the tip of the sharpened edge, falls flat onto his back.

  Something happens to Jude then: he feels no more pain.

  There is only the bleeding and a rush of energy that shoots up from the tips of his toes, enters into his limbs. Jude does not pull himself over the cliff edge so much as he leaps over it, landing directly on top of his pursuer.

  Pressing knees against Lennox’s arms, Jude pulls the Maglite from his pant waist, raises it high. Using it like a club, he swings. There’s the good feel of teeth breaking on contact. Lips popping, gums tearing. A single incandescent green tubular eye stares up at Jude while the beast once more screams a high-pitched yodel that cuts not only through the forest, but also into skull and brain.

  Jude swings wildly, hitting the beast again and again.

  “Scream!” he shouts. “You fucking motherfucker, scream for me!”

  Lennox smiles.

  He spits blood into Jude’s face. He beast smiles and works up a gurgled laugh while swinging his right arm around so quick, Jude never sees the rock that slams his skull.

  In the end, all Jude knows is that suddenly the tables have reversed themselves. Now it’s he who is on his back, left side of his head pounding in rapid pulses of sting.

  Jude gazes up at the little green eye and the muscle-bound animal it’s attached to.

  “Kill me now fucker!” he cries. “Just kill us all now.”

  That’s when the air goes abruptly still. The rain, the wind, even the lightning seem to halt their fury as if God himself has depressed a Pause button on the world.

  Lennox wipes his mouth with the back of his gloved hand, does it without the least bit of effort as though impervious to the pain in his foot and mouth.

  He spits another wad of blood and spittle.

  Reaching into a pocket on his bodysuit, he pulls out his iPhone, depresses the app.

  Coming from the speaker, a scream.

  Jude’s scream.

  “Gotcha,” Lennox laughs.

  From down on his back, Jude stares into the green eye, at the rainwater that drips down off the bald head, down onto bloody lips. He tries to speak. But no words will come. Only the silent motion of a mouth opening and closing.

  As if responding to the silence, Lennox rears back with his left leg, snap-kicks Jude in the rib cage.

  “The Player’s got twelve minutes to secure its first objective,” adds the beast, before once more shooting off into the night.

  71

  Tongue Mountain

  Friday, 2:05 A.M.

  Down flat on his back, Jude sucks wet air through an open mouth, makes a survey of his body, tries to work up a damage assessment.

  Hurts to breathe, the pain in the ribs worse than what’s coming from my nose. Maybe worse than my right hand …

  Opening his eyes, he digs into his shirt with a still good left hand, pulls out the topo map. It’s soaked through with rainwater, the thin plastic having torn down the center. Multi-colored ink mixed with blood and rain, running down off the paper.

  In the deep night, the map proves impossible to read anyway.

  He rips the compass off his neck, tosses it over the cliff edge. Does it out of frustration; out of anger and hate. Does it in defiance of the demon.

  He pushes himself up off the ground, onto his feet, flips the useless map over the edge along with the compass. Stuffing a damaged right hand into his pant waist, he approaches the tree line.

  Only minutes left to save Rosie’s life.

  * * *

  Bushwhacking through the thick greenbrier and second-growth saplings, the sound of rushing stream water grows louder with each step forward. Jude has no choice but to swallow the pain, focus instead on the anger, on the determination to reach his first objective in the time allotted. He knows that Lennox has the upper hand; knows the Black Dragon will kill Rosie if he doesn’t get to her inside twelve minutes. He knows that no time can be spared focusing on anything but saving the lives of his family.

  Trekking blindly through the thick growth, he comes upon a small clearing. It’s then that the weather takes a turn for the better. The sky opens up not with another downpour but with moonlight. The yellow-white moon glow suddenly emerges from out of a split in the cloud cover. Just like that it’s as if Jude were standing on the bow of a ship as it entered into the calm eye of the storm.

  For the moment he is amazed to find himself standing in the middle of the clearing, staring up at the waxing August moon. The moon is brightly lit and more inviting than the sturdiest of shelters. It’s the first natural light he’s been exposed to in hours.

  Pulling eyes away, Jude gazes back down at the clearing before him.

  That’s when he spots a yellow flag attached to metal pole that’s been shoved into the ground in the center of the treeless area. How insane is this? A pin marker from a putting green placed all the way up there in the middle of the mountain forest. One of the flags, no doubt, Lennox documented on the topo map.

  Jude approaches the marker with a renewed sense of confidence brewing inside his bruised chest. At the base of the pin marker he discovers a shoebox wrapped in translucent plastic Saran Wrap. Taped to the box top beneath the Saran Wrap is a white four-by-five inch index card. Written on the white card in thick black Sharpie are the words, “Ten Life Points.”

  Jude understands the significance of the card. His son is a video game fanatic, after all. Jude knows the meaning of Life Points. Life Points equal extra game minutes. Jack is always going on about racking them up, saving them, storing them on memory cards so that his video game characters do not die. So that they stay in Play!

  What’s about to be Game Over is now Pause.

  By discovering the flag, Lennox is affording Jude ten additional minutes with which to rescue Rosie.

  The ex-cop bends down, picks up the box with his good hand. The wet plastic feels cool and soggy between his fingers. He pulls it off, tosses it to the ground. Yanking back the box lid, he peeks inside, finds himself knocked over by what he discovers: a tube of antibacterial cream, a bundle of white bandages, some pre-wrapped dressings, a small bottle of Bentadine antiseptic, alcohol pads, a pair of forceps and a roll of thick medical tape. There is also a bottle of spring water, three sticks of plastic-wrapped mozzarella cheese and a single foot long Slim Jim. Finally, located at the bottom of the box he finds a brand new four-pack of size D Alkaline Batteries.

  Silver and black Energizer Batteries.

  Jude rips open the package of batteries before clumsily reloading the Maglite.

  Rigging the heavy black flashlight it gives off a powerful beam of white light.

  Just in time.

  Because Mother Nature is once more turning tail. The moon and its rays are again being consumed by the thick cloud cover.

  Swallowing a mouthful of water, Jude quickly eats one of the cheese-strings and the Slim Jim. He does it not out of hunger, but out of a need for energy; for body heat. He shoves the food in, swallowing after barely chewing. Then without thinking about it, he cups the broken nose inside his two hands. Supporting the fleshy nostril portion between opposing thumbs, he sucks a deep breath, cracks the cartilage back in place.

  He releases a strained shriek that shoots off into the valley.

  But when the sting finally abates, he rubs some of the antibacterial ointment onto the nose ridge in the place where the skin split. He rubs a dab onto the lacerations that pockmark the top of his right hand, wraps the badly bruised hand with bandages and tape, drops everything back into the box, including the wrappers. Closi
ng the lid, he sets it back down onto the soggy ground.

  Making his way to the far tree line, Jude enters the thick woods towards the sound of rushing water.

  72

  Tongue Mountain

  Friday, 2:15 A.M.

  The rain pours down in sheets.

  It comes down with such force, it penetrates the thick tree cover, raindrops shooting and scooting between the now illuminated leaves like tracer bullets. The rain smacks against Jude’s face, sinks into the antibacterial ointment he’s applied to his broken nose. The diluted ointment oozes down the center of his face like syrup, runs into his mouth. It tastes bitter on his tongue, on his lips. For the first time since having been dropped in the mountain woods, Jude must come to grips with his exhaustion.

  He is dead tired.

  Tired and wired.

  He is living a very bad dream and all is as much surreal as it is the real deal.

  Branches slap and jab at his face. It’s like the trees have eyes. The trees see him coming. They are his enemy because they hurt him. But Jude does not feel the pain and the sting anymore. He feels only the urgent need to get to Rosie before her time runs out. With that life or death mission accomplished, he will then be allowed to go after his son.

  He will save the boy’s life according to the rules of the kill game.

  * * *

  Jude breaks through the tree-line, the trembling beam of Maglite shining ahead of him.

  He spots the stream.

  It runs downhill, fast and wide, on its way to the pool and beyond that the cliff face. He scans the beam of bright flashlight over the surface of the stream, searches for a way to get across without being consumed in the whitewater. He looks for a bridge of boulders, one rock succeeding the other. Or maybe a lightning-struck tree that’s fallen across the stream’s width. If he can’t locate anything, perhaps he can count on an area of streambed shallower than the rest; a place that will afford him the chance to wade across.