Kevin O'Brien - One Last Scream

So she’d have to move fast and kill her, before the bitch started talking about her to other shrinks or maybe even to the police. Karen slept every night alone in the big relic of a house. The dog was a slight obstacle. But she’d killed plenty of animals in her time. This one wouldn’t be a problem. And there were plenty of ways to break into that old house, plenty of opportunities.

She watched Karen duck back inside her car, then she just sat idle in the driver’s seat for a few minutes. What was Karen Carlisle thinking about right now?

She had a thought of her own, and it made her smile. She was wondering what they’d tell that senile old man at the rest home next week when he asked why the visits from his daughter had suddenly stopped.

“Hi, this is Amelia. Sorry I can’t take your call. Leave a message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Bye.”

Beep.

“Amelia, it’s Karen again at about 6:15,” she said into her cell. She’d just pulled into her driveway and switched off the ignition. The rain had subsided to a light drizzle. “Listen, I’m home now. So call me, either at home or on my cell. It’s important. Talk to you soon, I hope.” She clicked off the line, shoved her cell phone in her purse, and reached for the car door handle. But she noticed something in her rearview mirror, and suddenly froze. She saw the silhouette of a man as he came up her driveway, toward the car. He was tall and slender with short hair so blond it was almost white. The streetlight was at his back, so she still couldn’t see his face. He wore gray slacks and a dark suit jacket with the lapels turned up to protect him from the drizzle. As he reached the back of the car, Karen quickly locked her door.

He knocked on her window. “Karen?” he called. “Karen Carlisle?”

She stared at him through the rain-beaded glass. He was very handsome, with chiseled cheekbones and pale-blue eyes. She guessed he was in his early thirties. “Yes? What do you want?” she called back.

He grinned, and made a little whirling motion with his hand like he wanted her to roll down the window.

Karen started up the car engine again. She pressed the control switch, and with a hum, the window lowered only an inch before she stopped it. “I said, ‘ What do you want? ’” she repeated loudly.

As he reached into his suit jacket, Karen tensed up, until she realized he was pulling out his wallet. He opened it, and showed her a Seattle Police Department identification card. Det. Russell Koehler it said, under a very macho-somber photo of him. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Amelia Faraday,” he said, almost too loudly, as if he wanted to get across to her that he was becoming annoyed by the window between them. “You’re her therapist, aren’t you?”

Karen flicked the switch, lowering the window some more. “Yes, I’m her therapist,” she said. “What’s this about?”

“I’m investigating the deaths of her parents and her aunt.”

“I thought the police had already determined that Mr. Faraday shot his wife and sister-in-law and then himself,” Karen replied warily. “Besides, the shootings happened in Wenatchee. Isn’t that out of your jurisdiction?”

“Let’s just say I have a special interest in the case.”

Despite what had happened in the rest home basement and all her new uncertainty about Amelia, Karen still felt very protective of her. She shrugged. “Well, I can’t tell you much, at least nothing Amelia has shared with me during our sessions. That’s strictly confidential; I’m sure you understand.”

He chuckled. “I wouldn’t dream of treading on your doctor-patient confidentiality. But the fact of the matter is, Karen, I’ve read the police reports. Amelia came to your house on Saturday afternoon, saying she had a premonition about something bad happening at the family getaway at Lake Wenatchee. That doesn’t quite count as a doctor-patient session, does it?”

She stared back at him. “I treat any client emergency as a professional session.”

“Really? So are you going to charge her for Saturday?” he asked pointedly.

“That’s none of your business,” Karen replied.

He smirked-that same cocky grin again. “You know, Karen, it looks like I’ve started off on the wrong foot with you. The thing is, I don’t believe Mark Faraday shot anyone. I think someone else killed Mark, along with his wife and sister-in-law. Maybe you’d be more willing to cooperate if we sat down together over a cup of coffee and you let me explain where I’m coming from.” He glanced over her shoulder at the house as if it were her cue to invite him in, and then he smirked at her. “‘Where I’m coming from,’ that’s one of those therapy terms, isn’t it?”

Karen eyed him warily. She wasn’t about to invite this guy into her home. She still wasn’t a hundred percent sure he was really a cop. “There’s a coffee place on Fifteenth called Victrola. It’s about a five-minute walk from here. I’ll meet you there in ten. I just need to make a call.”

“Who are you calling? Amelia? Or your lawyer?”

Karen flicked the switch and started to raise the window up on him. “Neither.”

He grabbed the top of the window to delay its ascent. “You aren’t hiding Amelia, are you?”

She released the switch for a moment. “No. Why do you ask that?”

“Because I’ve been trying to get in touch with her since one o’clock this afternoon, and she’s MIA. No one knows where she is-not her uncle, her roommate, or her boyfriend.” He glanced back at the house again. “Are you sure Amelia’s not in there? That’s an awfully big place for just one person. Do you live there alone?”

“It’s my father’s house. He’s in a rest home with Alzheimer’s. So, yes, I’m living here alone. And yes, I’m sure Amelia’s not in there.”

“And you don’t have any idea where she might be?”

Karen shook her head. “No, I don’t.” She flicked the switch, raising the window again. “I’ll see you at Victrola in ten minutes,” she said over the humming noise. She watched him in the rearview mirror as he turned and strutted down the driveway toward the street. Then she looked at her house, and couldn’t help wondering, Are you sure Amelia’s not in there?

Climbing out of the car, Karen kept her eyes riveted on the house, watching for any movement within the dark windows. She should have turned on a light before running out the front door this afternoon. At least she’d remembered to set the alarm. She glanced at her wristwatch: 6:25. It was strange to feel so nervous about walking into a dark house by herself at this early hour. But then, it had been a very strange day.

Karen approached the front stoop, then tested the doorknob. Still locked; that was a good sign. She unlocked the door and opened it. Flicking on the light, she headed for the alarm box and quickly punched in the code.

She paused for a moment, and felt a pang of dread in the pit of her stomach. Something was wrong. Why wasn’t Rufus barking? She anxiously glanced around, then ventured down the hallway to the kitchen. Switching on the light, she hurried to the backdoor. Still locked. Good. She noticed the basement door was ajar. She turned on the light at the top of the stairs and peered down at the steps. “Rufus?” she said. “Here, boy!”

Nothing. Karen shut and locked the basement door in practically one swift motion. She headed toward the front of the house again. “Rufus?” she called out. “Where are you?”

Poking her head in the living room, she stopped dead. The dog was trying to sneak down from the lounge chair her father had had recovered to the tune of $850 only ten months ago. Naturally, it had become Rufus’s favorite spot to nap, when no one was around. “You stinker!” she yelled. “No wonder you didn’t bark when I came in. You know you’re not supposed to be on that chair. Some watchdog. I could have been strangled, and you wouldn’t care, as long as it didn’t interrupt your nap.”