Kevin O'Brien - One Last Scream

“Sure, sweetheart,” he said, obediently hoisting her in his arms. He kissed her forehead and carried her down the grassy slope toward the canoe.

Once he’d pushed the boat away from the shore and hopped inside, she untied his wet shoes and pried them off. Then she rolled down his soggy white socks and wrung them out over the lake. She rubbed his feet, and took turns tucking each one between her legs. Pressing her pelvis against his cold, wiggly toes, she gyrated and purred. Shane grinned at her. She could see the erection growing inside his jeans. She giggled at how much more feverishly he rowed in response to her foot-warming tactics.

“Thanks for rescuing me from her, baby,” she said. “You can slow down now. We’re not in any hurry. I brought along something else to keep us both warm.” She unzipped her knapsack and pulled out a pint of Wild Turkey.

Shane stopped rowing, and gave her a disapproving look. “Oh, I’m not sure if that’s such a great idea, Amelia. You know you shouldn’t.”

She just smiled at him. She thought it was funny, because her brother had said the exact same thing shortly before she’d bashed his skull in.

She saw the caller ID and quickly answered the cell phone. “George?”

“Yeah, hi,” he said. “I just talked to Barb Church up in Bellingham. There’s nothing going on next door at Mark and Jenna’s house. No sign of your car, either.”

Karen was still seated in front of her computer trying to get information on the Schlessingers, but to no avail. She rubbed her forehead. “Well, Shane didn’t answer when I called. I left another message.”

“I know you don’t want to, Karen, but it’s time to let the police in on this. Amelia took your car and stole some money. That’s not like her. She’s not herself. I don’t want anyone else hurt because we procrastinated on this. I’m being selfish here, too. Amelia knows where I live. And my kids will be home from school in a few hours.”

“I understand,” Karen said. “I’ll call them.” But she hated the idea. All she could think about was how scared, confused, and desperate Amelia must have been to run away like that. She imagined the police hunting her down, maybe even a high-speed chase that would end with Amelia dying in a car crash.

Maybe Karen didn’t know that other Amelia. But the young woman she knew wouldn’t hurt anyone. In fact, Amelia would have wanted to get as far away as possible from her family and friends if she believed herself a danger to them. But where would she go?

“The Lake Wenatchee house,” she murmured. No one else was at the lake house, except ghosts.

“What?” George asked.

“Do you think she could have driven to the Lake Wenatchee house?”

“It’s possible.”

“Didn’t you tell me last week you’d phoned a neighbor, some woman who lived down the lake from them? Do you still have her number?”

“It might be in my study someplace. But I don’t have it on me.”

“Do you remember her name?”

“Helene Something…Summers…no, Sumner. Helene Sumner.”

“Helene Sumner in the Lake Wenatchee area,” Karen said, scribbling it down. “I’ll call information. Maybe this Helene has noticed some activity over there today.”

“And if she has seen something over at the house, then what?” George asked.

“Then I’ll warn her to stay away. And I’ll need you to give me directions to the cabin.”

“What, are you nuts? If Amelia’s in that house, I’m not letting you go there. That’s insane. Besides, you don’t even have a car.”

“I could rent one.”

“Karen-”

“Listen, George, let’s not argue about it just yet. For all we know, Amelia might not even be at Lake Wenatchee.” Karen sighed. “Have you come up with anything about the Schlessingers at the Salem Library? I’m not having any luck on the Internet.”

“I had the same problem on the computers here. But I went to the periodicals desk, and they’re digging up some newspaper microfiche files for me right now. I just stepped outside to take the call from Barb in Bellingham. I’m heading back in there now.” He paused. “So-you’ll talk to this policewoman, right? Report your car stolen, and Amelia missing….”

“Yes, George, I will,” she replied. But she knew it wouldn’t be easy. The police would have a lot of questions for her, and maybe a few charges, starting with obstruction of justice.

“Okay. Talk to you soon,” he said.

“Bye, George.”

She quickly clicked off the line, and then dialed directory assistance for Wenatchee, Washington.

At the periodicals desk, George gave the librarian his driver’s license as a deposit for a microfiche file for the Salem Statesman Journal for the week of July 11–18, 2004. The two microfiche-viewing machines were at a desk near a bookcase full of reference books and in front of a window looking into the lobby and the Friends of the Library Bookstore.

He switched on the machine, and it made a soft, hairdryer-like humming noise. George quickly scanned the file until he came to the front page for July 14, 2004, the day after Lon and Annabelle Schlessinger had died. He wasn’t sure what he hoped to find-perhaps a story about a car crash or a local boating accident. Maybe the story wasn’t even in the local paper. Like Uncle Duane, they may not have even died in Salem.

He didn’t see anything on page one, but noticed the newspaper’s index in the bottom left corner said the obituaries were on page A 19. George fast-forwarded to it, but didn’t see any Schlessingers among the dead. He went back to the first page. These were A.M . Editions. If Lon and Annabelle had died late in the evening on July 13, it might not have made the morning paper.

He scanned forward to July 15, and searched the front page. His eyes were drawn to a headline near the bottom right of the page, taking up three columns. He anxiously read the article:

LOCAL RANCHER AND

DAUGHTER PERISH IN BLAZE

Widower and Teen were Salem

Residents for 11 years

MARION COUNTY: The two-story house of a secluded ranch outside Salem became the site of a fiery inferno Wednesday night, claiming the lives of widower, Lon Schlessinger, 45, and his daughter, Annabelle Faye Schlessinger, 16. Marion County investigators believe the fire started in the upstairs master bedroom…

“Another fire,” George murmured to himself. He was thinking about Duane Lee Savitt burning down the adoption agency.

The article didn’t exactly say Lon Schlessinger had fallen asleep while smoking in bed, but they sure hinted at it. Annabelle’s charred remains were discovered in the hallway by her bedroom door. The Schlessingers had moved to the area in 1993. Mrs. Schlessinger died that same year, “an apparent suicide,” according to the article. There was no mention of her dead brother, and his murder rampage, at least, not on page one.

George anxiously scanned down to page two, where there were side-by-side photos of Lon and Annabelle Schlessinger. He was a slightly paunchy, balding man who looked like an ex-jock gone to seed. The high school portrait of Annabelle was startling. George might as well have been staring at a three-year-old photo of his niece.

Biting his lip, George went back to the article, which talked about Lon’s membership in two civic organizations, and his love for hunting and fishing. George was more interested in what they reported about Amelia’s twin:

“Annabelle was an extremely bright student,” said Caroline Cadwell, her sophomore homeroom teacher at East Marion High School. “She was very driven. With her intelligence, beauty, and determination, we were all expecting great things in her future. It’s a tragic loss….”