by Amy Cross
Chapter Twenty-one
“Allie?” Bobby shouts, as he knocks on the door again. “Allie Barton, are you in there?”
He waits for a moment, as the scream continues to ring out across town. Sighing, he tries the door handle without much expectation, only to find that it turns easily and that he's able to pull the door open. Leaning through into the house's dark interior, he immediately smells what seems like rotten food, along with the stale odor of cigarettes and spilled beer.
“Allie?” he calls out, before clearing his throat. “Um... Alison?”
He listens, and a moment later he hears a brief grunt from somewhere else in the house. It's not much of a sound, but it's just enough to let him know that someone's home.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, stepping inside and making his way across the front room.
The place is mostly dark, with just a hint of sunlight around the edges of the drapes covering the main window, and there are a couple of empty bottles of red wine on the table by the sofa, along with a glass that has been left on its side. A bottle opener has been left on the floor, next to a copy of TV Guide and a plate containing a half-eaten sandwich. As he reaches the table, Bobby sees a red wine stain on one of the sofa cushions, with scraps of cigarette ash scraped across the fabric.
A moment later, he realizes he can hear an intermittent buzzing sound coming from the kitchen, loud enough to just about be made out over the sound of the scream outside.
“Allie?” he calls out again. “Allie, are you decent? Is Jessica here? It's Bobby!”
Heading over to the next door, he looks into the kitchen and immediately sees the source of both the buzzing sound and the foul stench. A bowl of fruit on top of the refrigerator has been left to go off, with flies all over the rotten oranges and bananas.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, taking a quick look to make sure no-one's in the kitchen before turning and heading toward the bedrooms, “how can people live like this?”
Making his way to the first door in the dark corridor, he suddenly realizes he can hear someone snoring on the other side.
“Allie?” he calls out, knocking gently. “Alison Barton, this is Bobby from the police department. It's important, I need to talk to you about something. Can you open up?”
He waits, but there's no reply.
“Well, can I come in, then?”
Again, no reply.
“I'm coming in,” he continues, with a hint of hesitation in his voice. “Just... I'll give you three seconds to make yourself decent, okay? One, two... Two-and-a-half. Three.”
Turning the handle slowly, to give her an extra second or two, he pushes the door open and peers into the gloomy room. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dark, but finally he sees a figure on the bed, slumped in a mess across the crumpled duvet.
“Alison?” he whispers, as he notices a musty, sweaty smell in the room. “Um, can you wake up for a moment? It's important.”
When she doesn't reply, but just keeps on snoring, he takes a couple of steps closer to the bed. Stopping suddenly, he realizes that she's completely naked, so he quickly averts his eyes before spotting a bed-sheet on the floor and pulling it up and laying it over her body. As he does so, he sees some old cigarettes on the pillow, and another wine stain on the mattress, and then he realizes that the sheet is damp in places. Looking down, he sees dark red patches of wine.
“Lord have mercy,” he mutters, before nudging the woman's shoulder. “Alison Barton? It's me, it's Bobby! This is important, you need to wake up right now, okay? It's about Jessica.”
Muttering something, Alison starts to stir. She rolls onto her back and opens her eyes, staring up at him as if she's not quite sure what's happening and can't focus properly.
“Jesus,” he continues, grabbing the sheet and pulling it up to cover her chest. “It's me, it's Bobby! Listen, this is important. It's about your daughter Jessica. You remember Jessica? Your girl?”
Alison groans, but all she manages is a few guttural sounds before her eyes close and she slips back to sleep.
“Christ,” Bobby mutters, “you're not just hungover, are you? You're actually still drunk!”
She whispers something, but her voice is too low for him to hear.
“Huh?” he replies, leaning closer. “What was that?”
She whispers again.
“I can't make out a goddamn word,” he tells her. “Listen, Alison, this is really important. It's about Jessica.” He waits for an answer. “You remember Jessica, right? Your daughter?”
Alison's eyes flicker open for a moment, but she still seems unable to focus.
“For God's -” Spotting some white powder on the night-stand, he leans over and takes a closer look. “Cocaine? Seriously, Alison? Where do you even get that stuff in a place like this?”
She whispers something, but her eyes are closed again now and it's clear that she's not really aware of anything that's happening. After a moment, she rolls onto her side and grabs a pillow, pulling it closer, as if she's decided to go back to sleep.
“Do you hear that scream outside?” Bobby asks. “Alison? Do you hear it? That's real, that's someone in this town. In fact, I don't know how to tell you this, but we think... Well, we think it might actually be Jessica.”
No response.
“Alison?” He nudges her shoulder gently, and when that doesn't work he nudges it again. “Can you just try to focus for one goddamn second?” When that doesn't work, he moves closer and uses his fingers to force her eyes open, before leaning toward her face. “Alison Barton, this is Bobby Briscoe from the police, I'm here to talk to you about your daughter!”
She stares up at him, but her pupils are dilated and her stare is vacant.
“Are you kidding me?” Bobby asks, letting go of her face before getting up from the bed and heading to the window. He starts pulling the curtains open, only for the rail to collapse and drops down onto him. Light floods into the room as he sets the whole thing aside, and then he fumbles with the latch for a moment, finally getting the window open and allowing the sound of the scream to be heard more clearly. Turning to Alison, he waits for her to respond. “Do you hear it now?” he asks, starting to feel increasingly desperate. “Alison?”
She tilts her head slightly, but away from the window, as if she's not remotely interested.
“That's your daughter!” Bobby continues. “That's -”
He pauses, and finally he sighs as he realizes that Alison has gone back to sleep.
“For God's sake,” he mutters, heading back over to her and hauling her up off the bed before gently slapping the side of her face. “Listen,” he says, as firmly as he can manage, while trying to keep the sheets up to cover her breasts, “I know you're drunk and high and whatever, but you need to wake up, do you hear me?” Forcing her eyes open again, he turns her face toward the window. “That's Jessica out there! That's your daughter! She's in trouble and she needs you! I mean, I'm not really sure what you can actually do, but she needs you! Do you understand?”
“Who's making that racket?” Alison whispers, her voice drained of all energy. “Tell 'em to shut the hell up. People are trying to sleep.”
“That's Jessica,” Bobby says firmly. “That's your kid, making that noise!”
“Jessie,” she says dreamily, with a faint smile. “Sweet Jessie...”
“Yeah,” he continues, “it's Jessie, so you need to wake up!” He waits for a moment, hoping she'll spring into action. “Alison? Are you... Are you gonna spring into action at all?”
“I...” she begins, but her voice fades away.
“Okay, I think you understand now,” he tells her, letting her go, “so let's -”
She immediately slumps back down onto the bed, before rolling onto one side and muttering something under her breath.
“Jesus -” Pausing, Bobby stares down at her for a moment before realizing that the situation is hopeless. Alison Barton is clearly in no fit state to recognize anything that's
happening around her, not even the scream that's filling the room. Figuring that there's no point wasting another moment on her, he heads back out into the corridor, before spotting another door nearby. Heading over, he pushes it open and looks inside to find a room that he can only assume belongs to Jessica. Compared to the rest of the house, this room is neat and clean. The bed has been made, complete with a couple of old toy bears resting on the pillow, and books are neatly piled up next to mugs and a few pens. When he spots a diary on one of the bookshelves, he picks it up and flicks it open, finding page after page of handwritten entries.
“Sometimes I just don't know what I'm going to do with my life,” he reads out loud, as the scream continues. “Mom just gets drunk every night and I want to leave, but I feel like I'm trapped here. No college will accept me, and the only skill I've ever picked up is the ability to clean up each morning after another of Mom's drunken nights. Without money, I can't get out of here, and without getting out of here, I can't get money. I feel like I'm trapped,with no-one who can help me and nowhere I can go. I know it's pathetic, but at this stage the only thing that can save me is if someone comes along and saves me from out of the blue. Then again, no-one ever comes to this dead-end town. Why would they? We're in the middle of nowhere.”
Beneath those lines, there's a cartoon sketch of a man in armor, riding some kind of animal.
“My knight on a shining llama,” Bobby reads, allowing himself a faint smile.
Flicking through some more pages, he finds other drawings. Finally he comes to another text entry, for a night just a short time earlier.
“Tonight, Mom was worse than usual,” he reads. “Really ranting and screaming, mostly about Dad but also about other things. She's angry at Mary for not giving her a job at the diner and giving it to Janine Holt instead, and at Harry for not taking her on at the gas station. She was ranting and cursing all night, drinking loads of wine and just generally turning into a mess. It was one of the rare nights when I couldn't calm her down, not even with all my usual tricks, so I just came to bed and now here I am, listening to her shouting out there in the kitchen, complaining that the world isn't fair and that everyone's against her. I'm not feeling sorry for myself, I swear, but I'm starting to think that anything would be better than staying here with her. That's not even an exaggeration. Anything.”
As the scream continues outside, he turns to the most recent entry.
“I did something really stupid again,” he whispers, reading from the page. “It's been almost fifteen days since the last time I cut myself, but I ended up losing quite a bit of blood in the bathroom. Mom was already passed out by then, so it wasn't hard to clean up. I'm disappointed in myself, though. I thought I was over that childish crap, but apparently it's becoming my go-to escape route, like I'm some kind of walking cliche. The worst thing is, it felt so good. Really, amazingly good, and I'm scared I'll do it again and again. I don't want to kill myself, at least I think I don't, but I guess it's possible I could go too far. I need to get out of here before that happens. I swear to God, or to anyone else who's listening, that I'll do anything to get away. Whatever it takes. I just don't want to do anything stupid again, but I know I will. I feel like I'm screaming on the inside, but of course I'm all polite to everyone I meet. I need to leave. But if anyone out there can somehow hear me, I swear I'd rather be anywhere than here. Please, come and save me.”
Running a finger over the last couple of words, Bobby realizes that there seem to be tear-stains on the page.
“Huh,” he mutters, closing the book. As well as the sound of the scream in the distance, he can also hear Alison snoring in the next room.
After a moment, he gets to his feet. The bed creaks as he tosses the diary back onto the desk, and then he heads to the door. There's a part of him that wants to drag Alison Barton kicking and screaming out of bed and dunk her face in a bucket of ice, just to wake her up, but he knows that'd be a waste of time. He heads out of the room, but at the last moment he ducks back inside and grabs a pen from the pot on Jessica's desk.
“Just commandeering this,” he says sheepishly. “For police use.”
With that, he hurries away, leaving the diary on the desk.
Chapter Twenty-two
“You're new in town, huh?”
Stopping on the sidewalk for a moment, Roake considers his options before finally turning to see that a group of men have come up behind him. One of them in particular, a heavyset guy with an unimpressed stare, seems especially concerned. Having expected to be accosted at some point during the day, Roake hesitates to answer, instead trying to work out how best he can defuse any tensions.
“You picked an interesting day to show up,” the largest guy continues. “It must be almost two years since a tourist last came to Pine Ridge, and then you rock into town just as...”
His voice trails off, but the scream can still be heard all around them.
“I'm not a tourist,” Roake says cautiously. “I -”
“British, huh?”
Roake nods. “I've been looking for -”
“We know,” the man says firmly. “People have been talking. Obviously in a close-knit town like this, everyone keeps everyone else up on any developments. We're not suspicious by nature, but you've gotta understand, today isn't like any other day. We're all kinda... not ourselves right now, what with everything that's going on.” He pauses, before stepping closer and holding out a hand. “Don Ridley. I'm the mayor so I'm taking charge of the effort to find young Jessica, and as part of that effort I feel like maybe I oughta ask you a few questions. Just to set things straight, as it were.”
“I don't have time for questions,” Roake replies.
“Make time. Why don't we take this into the bar?”
“It's going to be dark in a few hours,” Roake points out. “Mr. Ridley, I appreciate your concern, but I need to get on with my job here. I'm going to find Jessica and -”
“Oh, you are?” Don replies, with a fake chuckle. After a moment, he takes a step closer. “That's funny, 'cause we've spent all day looking for her, and we've come up with nothing. So if you reckon you can just waltz through town and get hold of her, I'm kinda interested in your motives there. I mean, it almost implies some kinda foreknowledge.” He pauses for a moment. “I know for a fact that there's no-one in Pine Ridge who'd do such a horrific thing to a sweet young woman like Jessica Barton, so I can only conclude it's a stranger who's responsible. And seeing as you're the only confirmed stranger in town right now... Well, I think you can see where my thoughts are headed.”
“Where is she?” asks one of the other men, stepping forward with an agitated expression. “What have you done to her?”
“I haven't done anything,” Roake tells him. “I came to help.”
“That's a hell of a coincidence,” the man hisses, taking another step forward before Don holds out a hand to keep him back.
“It does seem a little odd,” Don says firmly, keeping his eyes fixed on Roake. “Now how about we get into the bar and have a friendly chat. It's either that, or we have another kinda chat right here on the sidewalk and then we drag you into the bar anyway.”
Chapter Twenty-three
“What if it never stops?” Jason asks as he stops on the street corner. He listens for a moment as the scream fills the air all around them. “What if it just goes on and on and, like, there's nothing we can do about it?”
“Don't be ridiculous,” Judy replies. “How would that even work? They're going to find her real soon.”
“But what if they don't?”
“They are!”
“Don't you think it sounds like she's getting closer to dying?” he continues. “Over the past half hour, I feel like her scream seems more... I dunno, terminal. Like it's gonna end real soon and -”
“Jesus Christ!” she hisses, turning to him. “Will you listen to yourself for a moment? Of course they're going to find her, and when they do, everything'll be okay again.” She takes a step back,
but the strain of hearing the scream has begun to show on her face and she's already developing a slight twitch; every few seconds, she squeezes her left eye tight shut in a kind of exaggerated, blinking squint. “What, do you think she's somehow hidden away and no-one can see her? Is that what you think? That she's invisible?”
“I don't know what to think,” he replies.
“Well then maybe you shouldn't think at all,” she tells him. “Maybe you should let other people do that. Smarter people.”
“Huh?” He frowns. “I swear, if it carries on much longer, I'm gonna start getting used to it.”
“All I know,” she replies, taking another step back, “is that I'm done with all this searching, I feel like we're all running around in circles, like we're being made to look like idiots or...” She pauses, clearly at the end of her tether. If anything, her blinking tic is getting worse. “I'm going home is what I'm doing, or I'm going to the diner, I'm just going somewhere I can talk to people who have more useful things to say. Are you coming or not?”
“Of course I'm not coming,” he tells her. “The scream's still going on, so we all have to keep looking. Dude, seriously, we can't give up.”
“Suit yourself,” she mutters, turning and hurrying away.
“Hey!” he calls after her. “Judy, seriously! Judy!”
He waits, but she quickly disappears around the far corner, leaving him standing alone.
“What the actual hell?” he says with a sigh, turning and making his way along the street. With the scream still ringing out across town, he can't shake the sense of being constantly on alert, unable to relax even for a second. As he gets to the next corner, he leans back against the wall and looks up at the sky, and finally he tries to imagine what it would be like if the sound just carried on forever. For a moment, he feels as if some corner of the universe has been peeled back, and that the scream is a sign of how things really work. It's something mystical and primordial, something from the ether that can never be understood by the human mind. In some twisted way, that's the only thing that makes sense.