The Absence of Screams: A Thriller

by Ben Follows

  O'Reilly watched him through the window into the interview room. She had known Dennis had posted Todd's bail, but hadn't expected to see him so soon.

  Cockerton scowled at Dennis with his arms crossed.

  O'Reilly still respected Dennis, but he wasn't the same person she'd met a decade earlier.

  After what Dennis had been through, no one would be.

  Cockerton never understood that, although based on what had happened between he and Dennis, O'Reilly couldn't blame him.

  O'Reilly glanced at Cockerton. Only in rare instances did Cockerton speak. It hurt too much, and his voice sounded weak and childish.

  "He's trying to help," she said. "Dennis misses being a cop."

  Cockerton shook his head.

  "He was great at what he did," she said. "If he has something to tell us, we should listen."

  Cockerton cleared his throat and spoke in his high-pitched voice. "Undercover work changed him."

  O'Reilly glanced at him, trying to remember the last time she'd heard him speak. She put a hand on Cockerton's arm.

  "You need to forgive Dennis for what happened," she said. "Everyone else has."

  Cockerton shook off her arm.

  "Let's hear what he has to say."

  Cockerton shrugged.

  O'Reilly straightened out her jacket and walked into the interview room. Cockerton followed.

  O'Reilly took her seat. She couldn't help but look at the long sleeves of Dennis's shirt, under which were the tattoos he should have gotten removed a long time ago.

  “So,” said O’Reilly, “tell me what happened."

  “Todd and I went to the house I bought for my work," he said, folding up the newspaper.

  "You aren't a cop anymore, Dennis," she said. "This isn't your work."

  "You don't seem to mind when I help you."

  "We never asked for your help."

  "That's the point." Dennis grinned. "If you did it would be entrapment."

  O'Reilly didn't feel like having this argument again. "Go on," she said.

  Dennis leaned back in the metal chair, the front legs raising off the floor. "Todd seemed amiable to what I was offering. I have the video. We had a nice dinner and watched the game. He was a little suspicious when I stared asking questions, but who wouldn't be? I didn't view it as dangerous. I think he would have stayed with me if he hadn't somehow found the camera. He snuck out the bathroom window in the dead of night. There isn't a camera in there.”

  O'Reilly tapped her pen on her notepad. “What did you think of him?”

  "Who cares?" said Cockerton, sounding like a wounded cat.

  Dennis shot him a look then turned back to O'Reilly. “I don’t think he did it.”

  "Unbelievable," squealed Cockerton.

  “Hey, junior,” Dennis leaned forward and pointed at Cockerton, “why don’t you shut up your girly fucking voice and let me talk?”

  O’Reilly held up her hands. "Guys, are we seriously going to do this right now? Tatiana Shembly is dead, and we need to find out whether or not Todd killed her."

  Cockerton flipped off Dennis, ignoring O'Reilly. He took a deep breath, like he always did when he was about to say more than a few words.

  He said, “Did you kill anyone while you were in that cult?

  Dennis jumped to his feet. “Why don’t you go fuck yourself? The world is a better place because of what I did. What have you done?"

  Cockerton leaned back, smiling and rubbing his throat. He grinned as if to emphasize that Dennis hadn't denied anything.

  “I'm leaving,” said Dennis. He turned and stormed out of the room.

  O'Reilly glared at Cockerton as the door slammed shut behind Dennis. “What the hell are you doing?” she said.

  She stood and walked to the door.

  “Don't need him,” said Cockerton.

  O’Reilly shot him a glare, then ran through the bullpen.

  Dennis was at the door. Rain pounded against the windows outside. She didn't know when it had started. When she'd come into the station three hours earlier, the sun was shining.

  O’Reilly grabbed her coat from her desk and went after Dennis.

  Kenneth Jameson, her least favorite lawyer, was in the waiting area.

  "Detective," he said, standing and matching her pace, "can I speak with you about the charges against my client?"

  "Later!" she shouted at him.

  O'Reilly walked through the doors and Jameson stayed behind in the dry interior.

  The noon sky was dark and the rain pounded down from above. O'Reilly held an arm above her head to shield her from the downpour.

  She shouted Dennis's name. It got lost in the rain.

  Headlights turned on at the far side of the parking lot. She ran toward it. Her hair stuck to her face and head.

  She jumped in front of the car as it pulled from the parking spot. Dennis braked hard and looked out at her.

  Dennis rolled down the window just a crack. “What are you doing?” he shouted.

  She panted. “I need to know what Todd told you."

  Dennis stared at her. “Get in."

  O’Reilly climbed in the passenger door.

  “No Cockerton," said Dennis as he pushed the gas, his wipers moving furiously to clear away the rain. "That little bitch sounding motherfucker is the worst detective on the planet.”

  “He means well,” said O'Reilly. She felt like she should be defending her partner, but it seemed like it would only make the situation worse.

  “I disagree.” Dennis pulled out of the parking lot. "What happened wasn't my fault."

  O'Reilly nodded. "It could have happened to anyone. Matt doesn't understand that."

  Dennis nodded. "Thanks."

  A few minutes later they parked at a small coffee shop and walked through the rain to get inside. They ordered and found a table in the corner, away from prying eyes.

  Dennis took a large sip of his coffee, while O'Reilly removed the tea bag from her green tea.

  His sleeve moved, revealing the edges of the tattoos on his arms. Dennis followed O'Reilly's eyes. He pulled the sleeve back down, concealing the tattoos.

  “I haven’t managed to find a time to get it removed,” he said.

  O’Reilly nodded, shifting in her seat. He'd been out of work since the incident. She found it hard to believe that he hadn't found any time in two years.

  “So,” she said, trying to dry her hair with napkins. “What do you think about Todd Anderson?”

  Dennis sipped his coffee. “He’s innocent," he said.

  “What makes you say that?"

  Dennis shrugged. “I know criminals, Emily. Most people aren't capable of murder. To snuff out someone's life, there needs to be something fundamentally wrong with you."

  Dennis looked into his coffee cup, avoiding her gaze. O'Reilly sipped her tea, watching him.

  Dennis looked up at her. “Todd isn't one of those people. I would bet my life on it. He's one of the good ones."

  O’Reilly sipped her tea as she thought. “If you were in charge of this investigation, who would be your primary person of interest?”

  Dennis shrugged. “It wouldn't be Todd.”

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  “This was never about him or his guilt or innocence. It's about the girl."

  “What do you mean?”

  Dennis looked up at her. “His only success in life is that girl. What happens if he loses her? I don't think he has any idea what he would do if something happened to her, or even if he found out she wasn't the person he thought she was."

  "Why would he flee from the police?

  "He thinks you want to arrest him and don't care about the case. I have to say, I can see his point of view."

  O'Reilly sipped her drink and nodded.

  Her phone vibrated and she checked it. She stood and crushed the paper cup in her hand, grinning.

  "Did you find something?" said Dennis.

  "It's a whole lot better than just fi
nding something," said O'Reilly. "We found the Shembly's."

  39

  Todd leaned back in his chair. His feet were perched on the window ledge as the rain battered the window. The only thing he could see outside the window was the brick wall of the adjacent building and the alleyway beneath him, which contained nothing but dumpsters and rats.

  He inhaled on the cigarette again and tapped it into the ash tray Ricky had provided.

  Footsteps approached behind him.

  Todd turned to see Danielle. She stopped and stared out the window.

  “Hey,” she said.

  Todd let the smoke float in the air. Danielle blew it away.

  “I know you didn’t kill her,” said Danielle.

  Todd turned. “Who?”

  “Tatiana.”

  Todd frowned. “Why are you calling Mrs. Shembly 'Tatiana'? Why not 'Mom'?”

  A small curl of a smile appeared on Danielle's lips, which contrasted with the numerous scars up and down her back. “Do you want to know who the killer is?”

  Todd nodded. “Who?"

  “A man named Marcus Devereaux.”

  Todd lit a new cigarette and looked out the window. “I told the cops it was him.”

  Danielle frowned and turned to him. “You knew?"

  Todd nodded. "I met him when I went into your house to investigate. He put me in the hospital. What does Devereaux have to do with this?”

  Danielle took a deep breath. “Marcus Devereaux is my biological father.”

  Todd choked on his cigarette and coughed a few times.

  "What?" he said.

  Danielle turned and leaned against the window, her good arm holding the window ledge. She looked back at the bed where Ricky was sleeping.

  “When I was nine years old," she said, "I was kidnapped by the Shembly's. In the process, my biological mother was murdered."

  Todd looked at her. “How do you know any of this?”

  Danielle glanced into the rain. “I remember that night in perfect detail. I was nine, and my mother was murdered in front of me. That's not the kind of thing you just forget."

  Todd nodded and stared out the window. The pieces were beginning to come together. “How does Ricky know?”

  "He knows a woman who works for Devereaux. They had a falling out, so Ricky came to me and told me everything."

  “Then you got engaged to him and you cheated on me?"

  Danielle shook her head. “I met Ricky three years ago."

  Todd tapped his cigarette into the ashtray. He didn't need to do the math to realize what that meant.

  “You weren’t cheating on me," he said solemnly. "You were cheating with me.”

  Danielle shrugged. “It was Ricky’s idea. I needed a cover. If the wrong people found out, everything would go to shit. It was around the same time I finished high school and stared working at the video store. That's where I met you. You were perfect because you're nothing special. The Shembly’s didn't like you, but didn't have any concrete reason to get rid of you. It was rebellious but not too rebellious.”

  “You used me.” Todd inhaled on the cigarette, thankful he had something to calm his nerves.

  “It was necessary.”

  “What’s the point?” said Todd, raising his voice and looking up at her.

  Danielle smiled. “Ricky and I are going to get a ton of money, then get out of here.” Danielle turned and leaned against the railing. “The Shembly’s and Marcus Devereaux each have more than enough money to pay a ransom. We'll start a new life somewhere far away from Harper's Mill.”

  “What about me?”

  She shrugged. “Do whatever you want. It's none of my business."

  Todd took a deep breath. “I cared about you. Your parents love you. The twins love you. I’m sure Marcus loves you. All these people you're betraying loved you. Why are you doing this?”

  Danielle shrugged. “Why should I care about any of their feelings? The Shembly’s are kidnappers and Devereaux is a murderer. Why would I want anything to do with either of them? I'll miss the twins, but we all need to make sacrifices in life. They'll get along fine without me."

  Todd busied himself with crushing his cigarette into the ashtray and lighting another. He looked at the scars across Danielle's body and the sling on her arm. “How did you get the injuries?"

  “I jumped from a moving truck to get away from the Shembly’s.” Danielle grinned. “We had always planned to get money from Marcus when he came to Harper's Mill. Marcus killing Tatiana was an unexpected wrinkle in our plan, but it’ll work out better in the long run."

  "I love you, Danielle," said Todd. As he spoke, Todd realized that it was the first time that he said those words.

  "I'm sorry you feel that way," said Danielle. "I always knew this was how it was going to end, Todd. I did everything I could to not get too attached to you."

  He swallowed. “Why send those messages if you don't care? Why bring me here?”

  “Someone needs to make the swap with Ricky.”

  Todd frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  She smirked. “Someone needs to walk out and pick up the money. It can't be me and if it was just Ricky then they would shoot him. You'll be Ricky's hostage while we make the swap."

  “Why are you doing this?"

  “It has to be this way."

  Danielle looked back toward the beds and smiled. Todd followed her gaze.

  Ricky was awake and smiling at her. Danielle walked to him and climbed onto the bed beside him without giving Todd a second glance, although Ricky met Todd's gaze for a moment.

  Todd turned back to the rain running down the window. “The least you could do is apologize," he said.

  Danielle and Ricky didn't hear him. They were whispering amongst themselves.

  Todd lit a new cigarette and stared at the rain running down the window.

  40

  Marcus awoke when the van hit a bump.

  Sam was sitting beside him. Victoria was driving and Jeff was in the passenger seat.

  “What happened?” he said.

  The truck hit another hole in the uneven road. Rain pounded down on the metal van.

  Jeff turned in the passenger seat. He had detached his prosthetic leg, and his pants hung loose over the stump just above his knee. He looked serious.

  “You passed out while we were trying to stop the bleeding," said Jeff.

  Marcus looked around at the truck. He felt slightly woozy and put a hand to his head. “Did you fix it?"

  “You’ll be fine," said Jeff. "However, we have an issue, Marcus.”

  Marcus looked at Sam and Vic. Vic ignored him, and Sam moved his hand to his gun.

  Marcus turned toward Jeff. “Did Angela go to the police?”

  Jeff shook his head. "Marcus, do you mind if I tell you a story?”

  "I don't see why not."

  Jeff adjusted his pants so that his stump was underneath him.

  “In my family," he said, "we have a tradition. My great-grandfather died in World War 1. My grandfather died in World War 2. My father died in Vietnam. They gave their lives to their country and what it stands for. When I was deployed to Iraq, it was my chance to join them. That would be where I would join my forefathers in eternity. One day, while out on patrol, we hit a roadside bomb. Our armored truck flipped. My leg was crushed. I was ready to die."

  Marcus looked at him. “What does any of this have to with me?"

  “Let me tell the story.”

  “What is going on?”

  Sam elbowed Marcus in the ribs, making him wince. “Let him tell the story."

  “Fine," said Marcus, "but get to the point.”

  “I was ready to die," said Jeff, continuing as though there'd been no interruption, "then I got pulled from the wreckage. They had to cut off my left leg just above the knee to get me out. I screamed at them to let me die with dignity on the battlefield. They ignored me. I was brought to a hospital and my leg was stitched up. Counselors told me I needed to
see what came next as a new chapter in my life. They said I should be thankful I was still alive. Some of the other soldiers took their injuries as a blessing. Some took it as a chance to get out, away from the horrors of war without looking weak."

  Jeff looked out the front window, as though he could see his memories projected on the rain. "I made a few attempts on my life. Every time someone stopped me. They gave me more counselling sessions. They thought they knew what was best for me."

  Marcus stared at him. He still didn't understand what Jeff's point was.

  “They airlifted me back to the States," said Jeff. "I hadn't stayed in contact with anyone. I was going to Iraq to die. I withered away in that hospital, alone. I had failed at the only thing I had ever wanted. I had nothing left."

  Marcus looked up at him. “Who goes to war with the goal of dying? What the hell kind of goal is that?”

  “You don’t understand.” Jeff wiped away a tear. “No one does.”

  “Finish your story."

  Jeff continued. “One of the nurses showed me a video of you speaking at a university in Los Angeles. I felt a connection to you I'd never felt for anyone. Here I was waiting to die, and you'd been through something worse. You'd wanted to fight for your country. It had been ripped away from you along with your wife and your child. Yet you still managed to smile. You managed to turn it into a positive. You managed to help people. For the first time since that bomb went off I wanted to live. I wanted to help people. I wanted to be like you.”

  Marcus swallowed. “Thank you."

  “I’m not finished. You were my hero, Marcus. You were the reason I got out of bed in the morning. You were the reason I wanted to keep living. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “Of course it does.” Marcus had to focus to stop his hand from shaking. Something in Jeff's tone terrified him.

  “We staunched and bandaged the wounds we could find,” said Jeff, “We also checked the rest of your body, including your lower back and the point of paralysis."

  Marcus kept his mouth in a tight line, not saying a word.

  "We looked for a break in your spine," said Jeff. "There was a severe bruise which would have caused nerve damage, but we didn't find any break. The bruise would only cause temporary damage, and it was fresh. Sam wanted to throw you out on the side of the road, but I owe you too much. So, Marcus, please explain to us how you have no break in your spine? Where is the wound that paralyzed you eleven years ago? Tell me I haven’t been believing a lie. Tell me there's a logical explanation.”