Kevin O'Brien - One Last Scream

The nine-year-old sat alone in the front passenger seat of the minivan. Her face was swollen and throbbing. He’d parked the vehicle on an old dirt road by some railroad tracks. In all the times she’d sat alone in this minivan, parked in this spot, she’d never seen a train go by. And she’d spent many hours here.

Clouds swept across the dark horizon on this warm June night. She could only see the outlines of the tops of the trees ahead of her. The rest was just blackness. She couldn’t tell where he’d taken the bicycle lady. The screams seemed far away, maybe somewhere beyond the trees.

She’d had to endure his wrath all the way there, while the woman lay unconscious and bleeding in the back. Usually, he knocked them out with one quick, bloodless blow while they were inside the minivan. But she’d screwed everything up with that nice chubby lady, and he’d heard her trying to warn the bike woman. He kept saying it was her fault he had to hit the woman with his crutch. She’d bled on him while he’d loaded her into the back.

He repeatedly reached over from the driver’s side and swatted her on the back of the head. “Think you’re really smart trying to trip me up,” he growled. “That slap earlier was nothing. I haven’t even started with you, yet. Would you look at the blood back there? Shit, I think she’s hemorrhaging. I wouldn’t be surprised if she dies before we even get to the woods. If you’d done what you were supposed to, I might have had time to load her bike in the car. You might have gotten a new bicycle tonight. But, no, too bad for you.”

The young woman was still alive. He’d revived her while dragging her toward the darkened woods. Her screams had started out strong, but now they seemed to be weakening.

It wouldn’t be much longer.

The nine-year-old dreaded going home. She wished she were older, and knew how this minivan worked. Then she’d just start up the engine, drive away, and never come back. But she had to stay-and endure his punishment later.

She stared out at the blackness beyond the windshield and listened to the screams fading. She thought about how it didn’t pay trying to help some people.

That stupid woman had gotten her into a lot of trouble.

Seattle-eleven years later

She pulled over to the side of the tree-lined street and watched Karen Carlisle’s Jetta turn into the driveway. Karen may have spotted her in the hallway at the convalescent center, but obviously didn’t realize she’d been followed home. In fact, Frank Carlisle’s shrink daughter seemed to have no idea that for almost three weeks now, her comings and goings had been carefully monitored.

She knew Karen’s routines: when she ate and slept and walked the dog, and what she wore to bed. She’d figured out the housekeeper’s schedule, too. She knew when Karen was usually alone and when she was at her most vulnerable. She even knew where they hid the spare house key for emergencies (under a decorative stone in a garden by the back door).

Of course, Karen would wonder about seeing her in the hallway at the rest home today. She might even ask about it. Karen would get the usual wide-eyed, innocent denial, and a very sincere, “I was never there. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Actually, today was her fifth visit to that nursing home, observing Karen at work with the patients-and with her dad. The last time, a few days ago, she’d ducked into a room across the hall and spied on Karen saying good-bye to her senile father as he lay in bed. Only moments after Karen had left, she’d snuck into the old man’s room. She couldn’t resist. He was clueless, totally out of it. His mouth open, he stared at her and blinked.

Just for fun, she’d bent over and kissed his wrinkly forehead-the same way Karen always did. “I’m going to kill your daughter,” she’d whispered to him.

Switching off the ignition, she leaned back in the driver’s seat. She watched Karen climb out of her car and head toward the house. Despite some neglect, the white stucco held its own among the stately old mansions on the block. As Karen walked up the stairs to the front porch, there was some barking from inside the house. Jessie, the housekeeper, opened the door and let the dog out. His tail wagging, the black cocker spaniel raced up to Karen and poked her leg with his snout. She patted him on the head and scratched him behind the ears. Then he scurried down the steps to take a leak at the trunk of a big elm tree in the front yard.

Jessie stepped outside and said something to Karen. She was a stout, sturdy, grandmotherly woman in her late sixties with cat’s-eye glasses and bright red hair that was probably a wig. Jessie didn’t usually work on Saturdays. She must have been making up for the fact that she’d only put in a half day on Wednesday.

Watching from inside the car, she rolled down her window.

Jessie was shaking her head at Karen. “Nope, nobody here but us chickens,” she heard Jessie say. “I haven’t seen hide nor hair of Amelia, and I’ve been here about twenty minutes.”

Karen paused at the front door, muttered something, and then turned to glance over her shoulder. “C’mon, Rufus, let’s get in the house.” The dog obediently trotted to her.

“How’s your dad doing?” Jessie asked.

“Not so hot,” Karen said, leading the cocker spaniel inside the house. Then it sounded like she said, “Today wasn’t a good day.”

Sitting behind the wheel and staring beyond the dirty windshield, she smiled. “Poor thing,” she whispered. “Think today was a bad day? Just wait, Karen. Just wait.”

In the foyer, Karen took off her coat while Jessie and Rufus headed past the front stairs to the kitchen. The house’s first floor still had the original wainscoting woodwork. A few well-scattered, old, worn Oriental rugs covered most of the hardwood floor.

Karen draped her coat and purse over the banister post at the bottom of the stairs, and then followed them into the kitchen. She opened a cookie jar on the counter, and tossed a dog biscuit at Rufus, who caught it in the air with his mouth. Over by the sink, Jessie was polishing a pair of silver candelabras that had belonged to Karen’s parents.

Karen sat down at the breakfast table, which had a glass top and a yellow-painted wrought-iron frame and legs. It really belonged on a patio, but had been in the kitchen for decades. The matching wrought-iron chairs had always been uncomfortable, even with seat cushions. Her dad had bought all new white appliances about six years ago, and it brightened up the kitchen. But the ugly old table with the chairs-from-hell remained.

Rufus came over and put his head in her lap. He was nine years old, and had been her dad’s main companion most of that time. They’d taken care of each other. At least once a week, she loaded Rufus into the car and drove him to the rest home to see his old buddy. Then she’d walk or wheel her dad outside, and Rufus would go nuts, pawing and poking at her father’s leg, licking his hand. The visits with Rufus always cheered up her dad.

She thought about how much freedom her father would lose if they changed his routine and his medication. She replayed in her mind kissing him good-bye about twenty-five minutes ago. It was strange, seeing that young woman who looked so much like Amelia in the hallway, outside her father’s door.

“I can’t believe Amelia isn’t here,” Karen muttered. “She was so anxious to see me. I told her to wait.”

“Did she say what it was about?” Jessie asked, toiling away on the candelabra.

“Something horrible happened. That’s all I know. And that’s all I can say without breaking patient-therapist confidentiality.”

“Oh, yeah, like I have a direct line to Tom Brokaw. Who am I going to tell?” Jessie grinned at her. “You worry about her more than all your other patients. That Amelia is a sweet girl. The way she counts on you-and looks up to you. Three guesses who she reminds me of.”