Kevin O'Brien - One Last Scream

“Maybe not, but I’m sticking to it. So, here’s what I can tell you right now. Okay?”

“Go ahead. I’m listening.”

“Amelia stayed at my house last night. After you called me this morning, I went to check on her, and she was gone. So was my car, and about sixty dollars from my purse. My car is a 1999 black Volkswagen Jetta, license plate number EMK903. Are you taking this down?”

“Yes, black VW Jetta, Washington plates EMK903.”

“Amelia’s uncle, her boyfriend, and her roommate don’t have any idea where she is,” Karen continued. “Her uncle and I checked, and she’s not up at her parents’ house in Bellingham. Amelia would never intentionally hurt anybody. But there’s someone who could be with her, and I think he’s trouble. His name’s Blade and he’s in his midtwenties. He has dyed black hair, and wears sunglasses a lot. I believe he drives an old black Cadillac with a bent antenna. I don’t have any other information about him.”

“All right,” the policewoman said. “Where are you right now? Are you at home?”

“No, I’m not,” Karen said. Just half a block ahead, she could see a green sandwich-board sign on the sidewalk. It had ENTERPRISE RENTAL CAR written on it.

“We’ll need to talk to you in person, Karen. And you might want to have your lawyer present.”

“Yes, I was afraid of that,” she murmured into the phone. And then she clicked off.

While they got her compact economy car ready for her, Karen asked to use the restroom. It was a small, gray-tiled unisex bathroom off the garage. She stood by the dirty white sink, and pulled out her cell phone again. She counted three ring tones.

“Sandpoint View Convalescent Home,” Roseann answered.

“Hi, Ro, it’s Karen again, just checking in. How’s my dad?”

“He’s up and around, and having a good day. Still no sign of that girl you asked about.”

“Well, good,” Karen said, relieved. “You might not be able to get ahold of me later this afternoon. If you do see her, call this number right away. Do you have a pen?”

“Just a sec. Okay, shoot.”

“555-9225, that’s a Detective Jacqueline Peyton. Tell her you’re a friend of mine, and you’ve found Amelia Faraday.”

“555-9225,” Roseann repeated. “I’m a friend of yours and I found Amelia Faraday. Got it.”

“Detective Peyton will know what to do from there.”

“Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

“I can’t right now. But later, Ro, I promise.”

“Sounds like you’re in a hurry to get someplace.”

“Yes, I need to take off soon,” Karen said.

“Well, you caught me in the lounge, and Frank’s right here. Do you have time to talk with him? Like I said, he’s having a good day.”

“Oh, yes, thank you. Ro. Please, put him on.” She waited, and heard some faint murmuring on the other end.

“Hello, Karen?” he said, at last.

“Hi, Poppy, how are you?”

“Fine. How’s my girl doing?”

“I’m okay,” she lied. Her voice even cracked a little, because this was one of those rare moments when she felt like she was talking to her father again. Part of her just wanted to say, Poppy, I’m in trouble . Instead, she cleared her throat. “Um, I hope to come by to visit you tomorrow.”

“Well, I’ll be here. Could you bring Rufus?”

“Sure, I will. You sound great, Poppy.”

“We’re having ham for dinner tonight,” he said. “They serve a good ham here.”

“Well, enjoy. And I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay, sweetie. Take care of yourself.”

Then she heard him talking to Roseann: “That was my daughter, Karen. How do you hang up this thing? Oh…I see…” There was a click on the line.

“Bye, Poppy,” she said to no one.

“Why do you want to talk to Erin?” asked the woman on the telephone.

There were five Gottliebs in the Salem phone book, and this was the third one George had called. It was Erin’s mother, M. Gottlieb.

“I’m trying to track down some information on Annabelle Schlessinger,” George said. He was sitting inside his car, still parked down the street from the Salem Library. “I understand Erin and Annabelle were friends.”

There was a silence on the other end of the line. “Mrs. Gottlieb?”

“Um, how did you know Annabelle?” she asked finally.

“I didn’t,” he admitted. “That’s why I wanted to talk to Erin. You see, I’m doing some research on my family tree-a master’s thesis on genealogy, actually. There’s a chance I could be related to Annabelle. I was hoping Erin might be able to give me some information about the Schlessingers.”

“I don’t think she could tell you much. Erin and Annabelle really weren’t friends for very long.”

“Anything would be helpful, Mrs. Gottlieb.”

“Well, I suppose you could phone her at work. You can reach her at the Pampered Pup.”

It was a doggie daycare and grooming place located in a strip mall near Willamette University. George had decided he’d get more information out of Erin if they talked face-to-face.

Apparently Erin had been expecting him, one way or another. When he told the Pampered Pup receptionist he was looking for Erin, the heavyset, terminally bored-looking young woman came around the lobby desk, then escorted him to the back. She opened a door that must have been soundproof, because the sudden din of yelps and barking startled him. She led him to an alcove, where about two dozen small-and medium-sized dogs were in cages, stacked one on top of the other.

“Hey, Erin,” the receptionist yelled over the racket. “You’ve got a visitor.” Then she wandered back toward the front office.

Erin was thin with straight, dark-blond hair, glasses, and a pierced nostril. She stood at a long steel sink, washing a slightly hyper Jack Russell terrier. She wore a dark-blue work apron over her black sweater and jeans. She nodded instead of shaking his hand. She had on yellow rubber gloves, and worked a portable shower nozzle over the soapy dog.

“Hi, I’m George,” he said. “Sorry to bother you here at work.”

“It’s okay. My mom called to tell me you might be calling or coming by.” Erin gave him a wry grin. She had to talk loudly over the continuous barking. “All these alarms probably went off when you told her you were related to Annabelle Schlessinger. Mom always thought Annabelle was a terrible influence on me. So, what did you want to know?”

“Well, I read that story in the Statesman Journal about the fire, and what you said about Annabelle.” George leaned against the dry end of the long sink. “It was an interesting quote, very poetic…”

“Oh, that force of nature speech,” she said, chuckling. “I got so much shit from my other friends about that. But I honestly couldn’t think of anything nice to say. Annabelle and I were officially avoiding each other weeks before the fire. But I guess I knew her better than anyone else, so I had to come up with something for that stupid reporter.”

“Your mom indicated that you and Annabelle weren’t friends for very long,” George said.

Washing under the dog’s tail, she nodded. “Yeah, she was just a little too clingy and possessive. Can I be totally honest with you? I mean, you didn’t know her, right? You don’t want me blowing smoke up your ass, right?”

“No, I’d appreciate your honesty. Really, it won’t offend me at all.”

“Well, it’s funny. All the guys were hot for Annabelle, because she was pretty and had big boobs. But she just used them. It didn’t take long for me to realize she was a manipulative bitch, and you can throw crazy into that soup, too.”

“Crazy, how?”