Kevin O'Brien - One Last Scream

“Let me double-check on that,” said the thin young man in a swivel chair. Seated across the desk from him, George guessed he was about twenty-four and gay, or metrosexual. He probably hated wearing that cheap-looking blue suit. His blond hair looked painstakingly mussed, and was loaded with product. The young man smiled at George, then turned toward his computer keyboard, and started typing.

He was the only person on duty in the small, modern ranch-style office across the street from Arbor Heights Memorial Park. The hedges bordering the cemetery were neatly trimmed, and the tall wrought-iron gates stood open.

But across the street, George had had to ring the doorbell before being buzzed in by the young man, who introduced himself as Todd. The office had a large picture window, which offered a view of the cemetery. There were three potted palms and two desks, both with computers. One wall was all file drawers, while another had a huge map of the cemetery with color-coded decals over certain areas.

George sat on the edge of his chair while Todd frowned at the computer screen. “No, I’m sorry,” he said at last. “We don’t have any billing records for Savitt, Duane Lee. I show he passed away in 1993, and he’s in plot E-22 on the east hill. But there’s nothing else here.”

“Are you sure?” George asked. “I called yesterday, and someone here told me they might be able to help me if I came by in person.”

Todd sighed. “Well, we don’t have any billing information in the computers for burials prior to 1996. There’s no paperwork, either. Everything over ten years old gets shredded. Who did you talk to?”

George started fuming. He shook his head. “I don’t know. But he told me to come by today. I live in Seattle. I flew down to Portland, rented a car, and drove an hour here to Salem because this guy told me he could help me.” George decided not to mention that he’d also paid for a cab to schlep Jessie over to his house at 5:30 in the morning, and then take him to the airport. She’d phoned an hour ago. She’d gotten Jody off to school and Steffie to the daycare center.

“You must have talked to Murray,” Todd surmised. “He has the day off. He’s been here since the late eighties. But I don’t know how he could possibly remember a transaction from 1993-”

“Could you call him?” George asked.

Reaching for the phone, Todd winced a bit. “Um, he said he was going hunting today. But I can try.”

George said nothing. He knew why Murray remembered that transaction from 1993. It was because the man buried in plot E-22 had murdered three people.

“Hi, Murray, this is Todd,” the young man was saying into his phone. “If you get this message, call me at work. You talked to a man in Seattle yesterday, and told him if he came here, you could give him some billing information on the burial of a-” he glanced at his computer-“Savitt, Duane Lee, from 1993. Well, the gentleman is here, and waiting. So call me as soon as you get this.” He hung up, then rolled his eyes at George. “I don’t know if he’ll call back. Like I said, I think he’s out shooting Bambi’s mother.”

The remark was probably meant to elicit a chuckle, but George just glared at him. “Could you give me directions to this plot E-22?” he growled. “As long as I came all this way, I might as well take a look at the grave.”

Todd nodded, then reached for a preprinted diagram of the cemetery. He circled a tiny square near the lower corner of the map. “Um, just go along the main drive, veer to your right. You’ll see a big oak tree and, down the hill from there, a statue of a soldier from World War I. At least, I think it’s the First World War. He’s wearing one of those weird pith helmets, almost like a hubcap.”

George just nodded.

“Anyway, after the soldier, take a left, and E-22 is there.” He handed George the diagram.

“Thank you,” he muttered. “Listen, I’m sorry to be short with you, because it’s not your fault. But I’m just very frustrated and furious right now.”

“I understand,” Todd whispered meekly.

George stomped out of the office, then crossed the street, almost hoping some driver would honk at him at the pedestrian crosswalk so he’d have an excuse to scream at someone. But there were no cars around. He passed through the cemetery gates, and checked the diagram as he followed the main, two-lane road. It was a cool, overcast morning. The sky was the same light gray color as some of the tombstones. George noticed a few of the markers had photographs of the deceased on them. Printed on laminated oval metal discs, they looked like large, faded campaign buttons. He found the oak tree, then spotted a weathered old statue of the WWI infantryman, which stood out among the other headstones. Walking on the grass, he tried to avoid tramping over the graves. His shoes became wet with the morning dew. He finally found the headstone, a simple, squat slab of dark gray marble: Duane Lee Savitt, 1960–1993.

Beside it was the exact same type of headstone. But this one had a crucifix engraved above the inscription: Joy Savitt Schlessinger, 1963–1993, Beloved Wife amp; Mother.

“Yes, there are other Schlessingers buried here,” Todd told him, ten minutes later. His fingers poised over the keyboard, he studied his computer screen. “Two more, Lon Rudyard and Annabelle Faye Schlessinger.” He grabbed another diagram of the cemetery and circled two tiny squares right beside each other. “They’re in the same general neighborhood, only you take a right when you get to the soldier statue,” he explained.

“Thank you very much,” George said.

George retraced his steps from before. He didn’t know exactly what he expected to find-perhaps the graves of Joy Savitt’s in-laws, or maybe her husband and a second wife. These Schlessingers might not have been at all related to Duane’s sister. He turned right at the statue of the infantryman, then started checking the headstones lined up in front of a long, neatly manicured shrub.

George found them, two rose-colored headstones.

LON RUDYARD SCHLESSINGER

Husband and Father

22 October 1958-13 July 2004

And beside him:

ANNABELLE FAYE SCHLESSINGER

Beloved Daughter, Rest with the Angels

21 May 1988-13 July 2004

“They died the same day,” George murmured to himself. He wondered if they’d been killed together in an accident. The girl was only sixteen years old. Were Lon and Annabelle Schlessinger the husband and child of Joy Savitt?

Biting his lip, George took another look at Annabelle’s date of birth. She was born on the exact same day as Amelia.

“My God,” George whispered. “Amelia and Annabelle, they were twins.”

“She took the car. I had about sixty dollars in my purse. She took that, too.”

With the cell phone to her ear, Karen held Rufus on a leash in the backyard. He hadn’t been out yet this morning and needed to go. She kept the kitchen door open so she could hear the home phone if it rang.

“My dog started barking at around a quarter to six this morning,” Karen explained. “I’m guessing that’s when Amelia snuck out of the house. I called Jessie at your place, and she hasn’t seen her. But she’ll keep a lookout for my car. Amelia’s roommate, Rachel, hasn’t seen or heard from Amelia this morning either. Neither has Shane. I also called the rest home where my dad is, and they didn’t see Amelia over there, either. I’m grateful for that. I didn’t want to bother you, George. I know you’re in Salem. But has Amelia called you?”

“No, she hasn’t.” He let out a long sigh. “This isn’t like Amelia at all. I mean, she’s disappeared for a day or two before, like she did this weekend. But she’s never stolen a car, or money. This is nuts.”