The Absence of Screams: A Thriller

by Ben Follows

  Todd looked over the table at O’Reilly and Cockerton on the other side of the metal table. "Shouldn't we be helping them?"

  “Let’s go.” Jameson grabbed his arm and hoisted him to his feet.

  “Todd, you can fire him,” said O'Reilly, tapping her pen on her notepad. “If he isn’t supporting your interests, you are free to get different counsel, or no counsel at all. I would fire him if he were my lawyer.”

  Todd glanced between Jameson and O'Reilly.

  After a long moment of thought, he shook his head. Maybe this was a chance to get into the Shembly's good graces. Todd wasn't about to throw away the chance by firing the lawyer Mr. Shembly had sent to help him.

  They left the interview room and walked through the station. The television was showing helicopter footage of the Shembly farm. Todd stopped and stared at it.

  “Come on,” said Jameson, pulling Todd away from the television screen. They left the station and walked to an old Volkswagen. “Let’s go speak with Charles.”

  “Does he know where Danielle is?”

  Jameson shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “What?” Todd turned toward Jameson as they climbed into the car. “You said he did.”

  “I suspect he does, but I'm not sure. You never would've come with me if I hadn't said that."

  Todd stared at him. "How is that any different from the lies and manipulations O'Reilly was using?"

  "I'm trying to help. They're trying to lock you up and throw away the key."

  Todd stared at him. "I'm not a puppet for you and the detectives to fight over."

  "Calm down, Todd. If it wasn't for me you'd be in cuffs by now."

  Todd crossed his arms and looked away from Jameson, attempting to make his displeasure known. He turned and looked out the back of the car.

  O’Reilly and Cockerton were standing on the side of the road, watching them. A cool breeze came through the parking lot and blew a stray hair into O'Reilly's face. She reached up and shoved the hair into her bun.

  “Todd," said Jameson, watching where Todd was looking as he pulled up to a stop sign. "They’ve already decided you’re guilty.”

  “They’re cops.”

  “Yeah,” said Jameson, irritation seeping through his words. “They’re cops."

  8

  They drove in silence until they began seeing cop cars and news vans lining the streets. Todd leaned forward as the eyes of reporters and cops turned toward them.

  They turned down the driveway, and the frenzy intensified. Camera's flashed and cops hesitantly stepped toward the car.

  Jameson drove up to the police line.

  He rolled down his window and identified himself to the cop standing there. The cop called someone to check his credentials. Once he'd received confirmation, he raised the yellow tape to allow them to pass underneath.

  They drove up the long driveway that led to the Shembly house. The flashing camera's disappeared into the rear-view mirror as the police presence grew.

  Todd glanced out the window at the trampled path through the wheat and the police photographers snapping pictures of every inch. There were countless officers and a few K-9 teams walking through the wheat, looking for evidence.

  Todd wondered where Mrs. Shembly's body was now. The thought made him nauseous.

  Jameson parked beside Mr. Shembly's car by the front door to the house and they climbed out.

  “Come on," said Jameson. "Charles is waiting inside."

  They walked to the front door and rang the doorbell.

  They waited for a few minutes. There was no response.

  Jameson frowned and rang the doorbell again.

  No sounds came from inside the house.

  Jameson frowned. "I'll try calling him."

  He stepped back and dialed a number on his phone.

  A minute later he put his phone back in his pocket.

  "I got his voicemail," said Jameson.

  Todd tried the door. It was locked.

  He peered inside and saw no one.

  He looked down at the mat. He had learned that whenever Mr. Shembly was home, he always left his shoes on the mat to the right of the door, perfectly perpendicular to the wall.

  There were no shoes on the mat.

  "Anything?" said Jameson.

  "His shoes aren't here," said Todd. "The twin's shoes aren't here either."

  “I’m going to get the police,” said Jameson. “Try to see him through the windows.”

  Todd turned to Jameson. "If his shoes aren't here, he isn't here. His shoes are always in that spot. It's like an OCD thing."

  "Check the windows."

  Jameson walked back toward the cops and waved to get their attention.

  Todd began walking around the house and peering through the windows. In the living room, there were Lego’s scattered around the floor, and a half-built creation that looked like a spaceship.

  He moved onto the next window. The kitchen was empty. The counters were wet and the dishrack was full, as though Mr. Shembly had cleaned the kitchen before leaving.

  Jameson returned to the front door with a police officer. He knocked on the door.

  “Mr. Shembly! Mr. Shembly, open up! Your lawyer is here.”

  "No one's here," said Todd.

  The officer waited for a moment and knocked again.

  After the third attempt, the officer took out his gun, raised his foot and kicked in the door. The door swung inwards and banged against the wall, where Charles's shoes would've been.

  Todd jumped back. "You didn't have to do that! There's a spare key in the flower box."

  Jameson and the cop, standing in the doorway with his gun raised, glared incredulously at Todd.

  "You never thought to mention that?" said Jameson.

  Todd shrugged. "I didn't think we wanted to go inside. I thought we were going to go find Mr. Shembly. His shoes aren't here, therefore he isn't. That's how it works."

  The officer twisted his face into a scowl and turned to Todd. "I'm going to clear the house. The detectives will want to talk to both of you."

  Todd and Jameson watched the officer from the front door as he cleared one room at a time. He cleared the first floor then moved onto the second.

  “He's not here," said the officer as he returned to the main floor.

  "I told you he wasn't here," said Todd. "His shoes aren't here. Who’s going to pay for the door? Mrs. Shembly just repainted that."

  He felt a lump in his stomach as he thought of Mrs. Shembly.

  The officer glared at him then walked onto the front porch. He took his radio from his belt. “Dispatch, come in.”

  “What is it?” said a voice over the radio.

  “I'm at the Shembly home. Charles Shembly isn't here. Kids are gone too."

  “I’ll pass it along.”

  The officer put away his radio and turned back to Jameson and Todd. He pointed his index finger at Todd. “The detectives will be here soon. Don't go anywhere."

  "What are you pointing at me for?" said Todd. "I haven't done anything."

  "Don't go anywhere," the officer repeated. "Do you understand?"

  "Fine, I won't go anywhere."

  The officer walked down the driveway, glancing back as though he thought Todd would bolt as soon as he was out of eyesight.

  Jameson and Todd looked at one another.

  "Do you want a coffee?" said Todd.

  Jameson shrugged, looking as confused as Todd felt. "Wait until the police get here."

  "So what happens now?" said Todd, leaning against the wall. "You know more about this stuff than I do."

  “I don’t know,” said Jameson, taking off his glasses and cleaning them with his shirt. “I don't know what Charles is doing. I was here with him two hours ago. He seemed completely distraught and incoherent over the death of his wife. He seemed genuine. I don't understand why he would run."

  Todd sipped his coffee. "Maybe he knows who did it and he's going after them."

  J
ameson shrugged and returned his glasses to their perch on his large nose. "I suppose it's a possibility."

  Todd sighed and took the unopened pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. “Do you want one?

  Jameson shook his head. “I quit."

  "You're missing out."

  Todd opened the pack and tapped out a cigarette. He lit the cigarette and inhaled. The smoke floated in the air.

  The Shembly's hated his smoking, especially when he did it anywhere near their house, but he supposed they might make an exception this time.

  “So,” he said as the smoke floated in the air. “What happens now?"

  Jameson stared at the cigarette, licking his lips. "All I know is that Charles knows a lot more than he let on. He's had me on retainer for ten years. I never asked why. I was content with taking his money for free. I was worried that if I asked too many questions I would scare him off, or I would learn something I didn't want to know."

  Todd smirked. "I bet you're regretting that now."

  Jameson nodded. "On the bright side, Charles's actions discredit the theories the detectives were working on. It also means you aren't the primary suspect anymore."

  9

  Angela pushed Marcus into their quarters. He was still dazed from the medal in his hand. He couldn't tear his eyes away from it.

  The pointed corners of the hexagonal medal glistened in the sunlight. It stopped shining as they stepped over the threshold into their room and Angela locked the door behind him.

  Angela let go of the wheelchair and walked around the room. The room had two beds, a dresser, a television set, and a wooden desk. There were small windows high on the north and south walls.

  Angela dropped to her stomach and looked under the beds. She looked in all the drawers, going through their belongings. She climbed onto the beds and looked in all the corners of the room. She checked the small pieces of paper she had put on the edges of the drawers were still in place. She compared the positions of the bedsheets with pictures she had taken on her phone prior to their departure that morning.

  Marcus adjusted himself in his wheelchair, careful not to move his legs until Angela gave the go-ahead. "I'm sure Thompson isn't doing anything worth worrying about."

  "It's not a chance I'm willing to take."

  Angela did another circuit of the room then stopped. One of the primary reasons their ruse had never been discovered was her paranoia about discovery and absurd attention to detail. Knowing it was necessary had never prevented Marcus from being irritated by how long she took.

  Angela had been particularly anxious about the requests from General Thompson, thinking it was too strange that a small-town general wanted Marcus there so much. Marcus had managed to convince her to come to Harper's Mill, but she had never lost her paranoia.

  "Are we clear?" he said.

  Angela spun around in the middle of the room, frowning. Marcus knew she was thinking of where she would hide cameras and recording devices were she trying to gather information.

  After a few moments, she nodded. "I think we're clear."

  Marcus stretched out his legs and stood, holding onto the arms of the wheelchair to steady himself until he found his balance. He shook out his legs and walked back and forth across the room to get rid of the stiffness. He held the medal in his hand.

  Angela turned on their small television set, tuning it to the local news.

  “Fucking idiot," said Angela. She was pouring herself a cup of tea from an electric kettle and looking at the television.

  “What?” Marcus turned toward her.

  “The husband of that woman you murdered made a run for it.” Angela gestured toward the screen, then sat on her bed, sipping at her tea.

  Marcus turned to the screen.

  The television was playing helicopter footage of the Shembly farm. The house was surrounded by police. On the screen was a picture of Charles Shembly, a scrawny man with bad posture and thick glasses.

  The headline read, "Police searching for husband of murdered woman."

  “He’ll be long gone," said Marcus. He stared at the picture, trying to match him with the male assailant from eleven years prior. "They've been planning for this. What about the other kids? Tatiana mentioned they had twin boys."

  "They're gone as well.”

  Marcus rubbed his eyes. “How am I going to find them?"

  Angela shrugged. “I guess you won't be able to chase after them."

  Marcus shook his head. “Angela, for the first time in eleven years I have a starting point. I'm going to find them, I'm going to get revenge on the people who stole my daughter, killed Cassandra and destroyed my life. I'm going to get Danielle back.”

  He walked to the desk.

  There was an unopened letter on the desk from Jeff, a paralyzed veteran who had been Marcus's pen pal for three years. Marcus held it for a moment before setting it to one side. He had more urgent matters to attend to.

  Beside the letter were the notes he'd made the previous night. The page was divided into three sections: the night eleven years ago, the events of the previous night, and everything he could find online about the Shembly's.

  He added another column of potential locations they could have gone. After a few ideas, he threw down the pen onto the table.

  “Angela?” he said.

  “What?” She didn’t look away from the news.

  “Can you set up a speaking engagement at the Harper's Mill Police Station? Say I can help with their investigation into the kidnapped Shembly children.”

  Angela turned around in her chair to look at him, frowning. “Are you serious? The police don't know it yet, but they're looking for you. Let's say you go to the station and give your speech. Someone there will look into your background. If they find out you had a kidnapped daughter named Danielle who would be the same age as Danielle Shembly, they will arrest you on the spot. You will have more motive than anyone else they can arrest. Cops don't believe in that sort of coincidence."

  “They might know where the Shembly's are going. I can use that information."

  Angela stood and looked at him. “What is your genius fucking plan? Assuming all that works and you find Danielle, what are you going to say?” Angela started speaking in a mocking voice. “Oh, look at me, Danielle, I’m your father. You know those people who raised and cared for you all your life? They kidnapped you. Also, I murdered the woman who raised you. Come live with me and we’ll live happily ever after.” She returned to her normal voice. “Is that your genius plan, moron?”

  Marcus stepped back from the smaller woman. “She’s my daughter. What am I supposed to do?”

  Angela rolled her eyes. “Nothing. You already messed up any chance of finding her when you strangled her mother.”

  “Tatiana is not her mother!” Marcus shouted, then froze, listening. After hearing nothing except a few birds flying away outside their quarters, he fell into the desk chair. “They killed Cassandra. It was only fair.”

  “There must be a better way to get your daughter back,” said Angela calmly. “There must be a safer way, a way which doesn't involve getting arrested and spending the rest of your life in prison."

  "Everything I’ve done over the last eleven years has been about getting Danielle back. I saw her, Angela. For a fleeting moment through the wheat, I saw her. I would give up the foundation, the money, the prestige, the applause, this fucking medal,” he grabbed the medal of commendation and threw it onto the floor. It bounced a few times before coming to a stop. “I would give it all up for five minutes with my daughter. Is that too much to ask?”

  “Then turn yourself in.”

  “What?”

  Angela shrugged. “Turn yourself in. Tell them the full story, including how your daughter was kidnapped and how you murdered Tatiana. Take the heat, take the trial, take the media coverage when they find out you were never paralyzed and you've been lying to crowds of thousands for a decade. Maybe you’ll even get a sympathetic jury who will see you're a goo
d person deep down and they’ll let you go. You'll leave court a free man. Danielle will be waiting for you. She’ll forgive you. Charles Shembly will go to prison for kidnapping her in the first place, because the jury will obviously agree he's the villain and you're the good guy. There's your fairy tale ending. Is that your plan?”

  “Are you saying I should turn myself in?"

  "I’m making a point that going to the police is what an idiot would do."

  “I can’t think of any other way I get to see Danielle.”

  Angela crossed her arms. “Can I ask you something?”

  Marcus shrugged. “Sure.”

  “What are you going to say to your daughter if you meet her? Are you going to tell her you killed her mother?”

  “Tatiana isn’t her mother.”

  “Does she know that?” said Angela. She stepped toward him. “If Danielle knows they aren’t her real parents, why hasn’t she tried to contact you? They know who you are, based on what Tatiana said before you choked the life out of her.”

  Marcus looked up at her. “Are you asking me to give up on getting my daughter back?"

  "I'm not saying that." Angela crossed her arms. "Just wait and think through your options.”

  Marcus shook his head and ran his hands through his hair. “You don’t understand.”

  Angela poked her index finger into Marcus's chest. “Marcus, stay here until you calm down. You aren’t thinking clearly.”

  Marcus jumped to his feet and shoved Angela away from him. She stumbled backwards a few steps before regaining her balance.

  She held out a hand. “Marcus, calm down.”

  Marcus clenched his fists and stepped toward her. “How dare you tell me to calm down? She's my daughter. I’m going out there to find her, and you’re going to help me.”

  Angela laughed. “You’re starting to believe your own heroic bullshit, aren’t you? Danielle probably wants to kill you right now."

  Marcus threw the punch before she finished speaking.

  Angela moved to one side with a boxer’s grace, grabbed Marcus's wrist, and pulled. Marcus lost his footing and stumbled forward.