Kevin O'Brien - One Last Scream

“Karen, please,” he said, shaking his head. “It was a misunderstanding. You don’t have to apologize for anything. If I got curt with you, I’m sorry. I was half out of my mind that night. If it weren’t for you and Jessie, I don’t think I could have gotten through it.”

She shrugged. “Well, I didn’t do much.”

“Are you kidding? You broke the news to Amelia for me that her parents and Ina were dead. That was the last thing in the world I wanted to do. You drove her over here, and made sure she didn’t get herself in trouble with the police. Even after what happened to you today-at your dad’s rest home, and with Koehler-you’re still in Amelia’s corner. My niece is very lucky to have you for a friend. You’re selling yourself short, Karen. I think you’re terrific.”

“Well, thank you, George,” she said. She felt herself blushing. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”

George shook her hand, then lingered as she backed out of the driveway. He threw her a little wave. Karen blinked her headlights, and then started down the street.

She thought about him while driving to Sandpoint View and, for a few minutes, she actually wasn’t scared. It didn’t even occur to her to check the rearview mirror for the old black Cadillac.

All it took to jolt Karen back to scary reality was a long walk down that cold, dark, stale-smelling corridor at the rest home. She posted the snapshot of Amelia on the bulletin board at the nurses’ station, along with a note: “If you see this young woman anywhere in or around here, please call me immediately. Many thanks, Karen Carlisle.” She wrote her home and cell phone numbers at the bottom of the note.

She checked in on her dad, who was asleep. “G’night, Poppy,” she whispered, kissing him on the forehead.

She chatted briefly with Rita, thanking her again for helping her earlier in the evening. Then she walked back out toward her car. The lot wasn’t very well lit, and her eyes scanned the bushes bordering the rest home for anyone who might be lurking there. She had her key out, and picked up her pace the last few steps to the car. She made sure to check the backseat before climbing behind the wheel. Then she quickly shut the door and locked it.

All the way home, she kept glancing in the rearview mirror. No one seemed to be following her. Once she stepped inside the house, Karen switched on several lights. She took Rufus on a room-to-room check. While in Sheila’s old room (now the guest room) she went into the closet. Her dad used to keep a gun under his bed, but when he’d started showing signs of depression and early Alzheimer’s, Jessie and Karen had decided to hide the gun and bullets in another part of the house. They were inside a shoebox on the guest room closet shelf. If her dad had noticed the gun was missing, he hadn’t said anything about it.

Karen dug the gun out of its hiding place. As far as she knew, her father had never fired the thing. The same clip had probably been inside the gun since 1987. She didn’t know much about guns, but after so many years without use or maintenance, this one probably didn’t work. Still, Karen felt better having it, especially when she crept down the basement stairs for the last round of her house check. She kept the gun pointed away from her toward the floor. The main part of the cellar had once been a recreation room for Karen’s older brother and sister, but now it was just a storage area. The cheaply paneled walls used to be covered with posters that had come down decades ago. It was impossible to see the top of the Ping-Pong table, now loaded down with her old dollhouse, her brother’s ancient 8-track tape player, and boxes of junk. Jessie kept the laundry room neat. But the latch was broken on the window above the big sink, and everyone at one time or another had used it to climb inside the house when they’d forgotten their keys. The furnace room was like something out of a horror movie. Even with a strong light, there were still dark areas behind the furnace, and a maze of pipes that cast shadows on the paint-chipped walls. Spider-webs stretched across those old pipes. Jessie admitted she never cleaned that room. “You have to be a contortionist to make your way around that furnace. God knows what’s back there; I don’t even want to think about it. That’s the creepiest room in this house.” Karen agreed with her. And once she’d checked it, she hurried back up the stairs, shut the basement door, and locked it.

She let Rufus do his business in the backyard, while she stood, shivering at the back door. Then Karen heated up a Healthy Choice pizza for her late-night dinner in front of the TV and a mediocre Saturday Night Live . Of course, it was hard to laugh when she felt the need to keep a handgun tucked under the sofa cushion- just in case .

She’d fallen asleep on that sofa, with her dad’s old robe over her and the gun beneath her. Rufus was curled up on the floor beside her. The TV and several lights remained on. The last thing she’d thought about was the gun. Did she really expect to use it, and on whom? Amelia?

Karen spent most of the morning on the phone with old contacts from Group Health, trying to track down psychiatrists who had experience with multiple personality disorder cases. You can’t be serious was the most frequent response, and several people just laughed. But Karen did come up with a few names, and left some messages. She figured if Amelia was indeed suffering from MPD, then someone more qualified than herself had to be brought in-and soon. Karen felt out of her league here.

She had two client sessions scheduled that Sunday afternoon, and the second one was with Laird, who always complained about his love life.

“She ordered a Cosmopolitan with some fancy-schmancy-brand vodka, and all I had was a lousy Bud Light,” Laird was saying of his most recent Internet date. “And afterward, she tells me we should split the tab fifty-fifty, and I’m like, the hell with that. She wasn’t even pretty-”

The doorbell rang, and Rufus started barking. Karen got to her feet. “I’m sorry, Laird. I’ll be right back. In the meantime, think about why this woman’s prettiness, or lack of it, comes up as an issue here.”

She stepped out to the foyer and shut the study door behind her. “Quiet, Rufus!” she called. She always kept him locked up in the kitchen when she had clients over. She wasn’t expecting anyone. Amelia still hadn’t called back. But it wouldn’t have been like her to come over unannounced, anyway. Even with her emergency last week, Amelia had tried to call first.

Karen checked the peephole. “Damn it,” she muttered, and then she opened the door.

Detective Russ Koehler stood on her front stoop, wearing a leather aviator jacket, khakis, and a smug expression. He had a tall beverage cup from Starbucks in his hand. “You told me to bring my checkbook next time I came by,” he announced. “But I decided to bring a peace offering instead-a tall latte.”

He tried to hand it to her, but Karen didn’t move a muscle. She just stared at him.

“Listen, I admire the way you stuck up for your client yesterday. But if you really want to help Amelia, you’ll cooperate with me. And you know something? I think you’ll feel better once we’ve talked. We’re going to connect, Karen. I’m feeling lucky about it. In fact, I have my lucky shirt on today.”

Eyes narrowed, Karen glanced down at his shirt for a second: a white button-down oxford with wide stripes of blue that matched his eyes. She might have been attracted to him, if only he weren’t such a snake. He held out the Starbucks cup again.

“C’mon, aren’t you at least going to take my peace offering?”

“I’m in the middle of a session with a client right now,” she said finally. “And you’re interrupting.”