Kevin O'Brien - One Last Scream

He was balding and slightly paunchy, but his eyes had a certain intensity that made him oddly attractive. His smile was nice, too. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I think this young lady keyed the driver’s side of your SUV.”

“It’s just a little scratch,” the girl grumbled, rolling her eyes. “Shit…”

“It’s destruction of private property and vandalism,” the man said.

Tracy gaped at them both. She and Zach had bought the green SUV only two months ago. They planned to start having kids right after they got married, and the SUV, though a bit premature, was part of that plan. Zach called it their babymobile . He’d put the U.S. flag in the window a few days after 9/11. Tracy couldn’t believe this little urchin had keyed their brand-new babymobile. Zach would have a cow.

“Why would you do that?” she asked the girl. Tracy guessed she was about thirteen. “What did I ever do to you? I don’t even know you, for God’s sake.”

The bratty girl merely rolled her eyes again.

“Pointless, just pointless,” the man said, frowning. “Listen, ma’am. Why don’t you walk out to the parking lot with us? You can review the damage to your vehicle, and decide whether or not you want to press charges.”

“Of course,” Tracy muttered, still bewildered. “I’m parked outside the furniture store.”

But then, he was already aware of that, Tracy reminded herself. In order to know who she was, the man must have seen her parking the SUV in front of the furniture store. Obviously, the kid had keyed the babymobile just moments later, the little bitch.

The funny thing was, Tracy hadn’t seen anyone else in the area when she’d left the car forty-five minutes ago. That section of the mall was usually the least crowded. She’d figured the new SUV would be safe there.

She imagined the cop looking for her, and dragging this punk girl around the mall for the last forty-five minutes. Why hadn’t he just asked them to make an announcement over the mall’s PA system? Would the owner of a green SUV, license plate number COL216, report to the information desk? That certainly would have been easier.

“Are you with mall security?” Tracy asked the man. They were walking through the furniture store, the dining room section. He still had the girl by her arm. She seemed to be resisting a little as they neared the exit.

“No, I’m a cop, off duty right now,” he replied. “At least, I was off duty. If you’d like to press charges-and I think you should-I can radio it in to the station and they’ll start filling out the paperwork right away. I’ll drive you to the station. I promise it won’t take that long.”

He held the door open for Tracy, and they stepped outside. It had grown dark out, and chilly. But the lot was illuminated by halogen lights, which gave the area a stark, eerie, bluish glow. There weren’t many cars left in this section. Tracy could see the SUV ahead, and on the driver’s side, one long uninterrupted scratch. It started above the front tire and continued across the driver’s door, then along the back door to the rear bumper. “Oh, damn it,” Tracy muttered.

“That’s my minivan over there,” the man said, nodding at a blue Dodge Caravan parked nearby. “Come with me, and I’ll radio this in.”

Tracy stared at the girl, who didn’t seem to have an ounce of remorse in her. She just looked annoyed, as if they were bothering her. “What the hell is wrong with you?” Tracy asked.

“Don’t even try,” the man said, dragging the girl toward his minivan. “C’mon…”

The girl didn’t put up much of a fight as the man slid open the back door, put a hand on top of her head and guided her into the backseat. “Buckle up!” he barked.

He shut the door, then opened the front passenger door for Tracy. “I promise this won’t take long.”

Tracy climbed into the front. She watched him walk around the front of the vehicle toward the driver’s side. The minivan was a bit stuffy, and smelled like a dirty ashtray. Tracy immediately rolled down her window a little. She glanced at the girl in the rearview mirror. The teenager was very sullen and quiet. But she stared back at Tracy in the mirror and shook her head. “Stupid,” she grumbled.

“What?” Tracy asked. “What did you just say to me?”

The man opened the driver’s door and climbed behind the wheel. “You should buckle up, too,” he said. “This shouldn’t take long. The station isn’t far from here.”

Tracy automatically started to reach back for her seat belt, but then she glanced out the window at her and Zach’s SUV. It didn’t make sense to leave the SUV behind. Wouldn’t they want to take pictures of the damage? And doing it this way, he’d have to drive her back to the mall later. Following him to the station in the SUV would be easier. She let the seat belt slide back to its original position.

“Say, you know…” Tracy trailed off as she gazed at the dashboard.

He’d said he would radio in a report to the police station. But there was no radio in the car. Then it dawned on her: He’s not a cop.

“Stupid,” the girl repeated.

“Oh, no,” Tracy murmured. “God, no! Wait-”

In one quick motion, the man had her by the throat.

All at once, she couldn’t breathe. Tracy tried to fight him off, pounding away at him and, at the same time, frantically groping at the door. But she couldn’t find the handle. And she couldn’t stop him. He was too strong.

With one hand taut around her neck, he practically lifted her off the seat. He was crushing her windpipe. Tracy thought he’d snap her head off. He held a blackjack in his other hand.

For a second, everything froze, and Tracy caught a glimpse in the rearview mirror.

Nibbling at a fingernail, the girl stared at her. There was something in her eyes, something Tracy hadn’t seen earlier. It was remorse.

Then everything went out of focus. Tracy desperately clawed at the hand around her throat. She felt something hard hit her on the side of her head.

She didn’t feel anything after that.

In the kitchen, it sounded as if the faint, distant moaning might be something in the water pipes, maybe a plumbing problem. The girl had to listen very carefully to hear it. The drip in the kitchen sink, where she’d just washed the dinner dishes, made a more pronounced sound.

She scooped up Neely, the tabby who had been rubbing against the side of her leg for the last few moments. Cradling the cat in her arms, she opened the basement door. She could hear it better: a murmuring that might have been mistaken for one of the other cats meowing. As she started down the cellar stairs, the creaking steps temporarily drowned out that other faint sound.

The 13-year-old stopped at the bottom of the stairs. She stroked Neely’s head. She could hear the woman’s voice from here, muffled and undecipherable, but sounding human now, a woman crying out.

The girl flicked on the light switch as she stepped into the laundry room. The basement was unfinished, with a concrete floor and muddy-looking walls. Above the washer and dryer, there was a small window and a shelf full of houseplants her mother had collected and nurtured in old coffee cans and cheesy planters. One was a pink ceramic pot with WORLD’S GREATEST MOM in faded swirling gold script on it. That held the philodendron with the vines that draped down across the top of the washing machine operation panel.

Exposed pipes and support beams ran across the ceiling throughout the basement. It was from the far right support beam here in the laundry room where her mother had hanged herself nine years before. The girl had found her there at the end of a rope, dressed in a black skirt and her favorite blouse-white with pictures of gold pocket watches and chains on it. One of her slippers had come off, probably when she’d kicked the stool out from under her. It would have been a horrific discovery for almost any child. But by that time, the four-year-old girl had become quite accustomed to death and suffering.