Kevin O'Brien - One Last Scream

“Then I’ll see you soon, Karen.”

“Drive safe,” she said.

Before she headed out on the road again, Karen phoned Detective Jacqueline Peyton. After all the times she’d refused to pick up the policewoman’s calls, Karen figured it probably served her right that she got Detective Peyton’s voice mail. Karen waited for the beep.

“Hello, Detective, this is Karen Carlisle again,” she said into the phone. “My housekeeper called the police about forty minutes ago. Amelia Faraday-or rather, someone pretending to be Amelia-was just at my house. I’m sure she’s driving my Jetta. You have the plate number. I’m pretty sure she had something to do with Shane Mitchell’s death, too. I hear the police found Shane in a canoe on Lake Washington, and they believe he shot himself. But it was this woman who looks like Amelia. She’s dangerous. In fact, I think she killed Detective Koehler. I’m sorry I haven’t been very cooperative in your investigation up to this point, but I can explain later. If you-”

The answering machine let out another beep, cutting her off. The connection went dead.

Karen realized she’d used up all her time.

Rural Route 17 outside Salem wound around a slightly scrawny forest area with several well-spaced dirt road turnoffs to farms and ranches. Old-fashioned mailboxes with the addresses on them stood at the edge of the long driveways. George couldn’t see most of the farms and ranch houses from the car. They were too far down those winding private drives. The last vestige of daylight was fading. George switched on his headlights.

About three miles back, he’d passed a town of sorts. Sherry’s Corner Food amp; Deli had a gas pump over to one side-along with a sign: RING FOR SERVICE! The store also advertised DVD rentals, fresh coffee, beer, and live bait. Across the street from them was a squat, beige brick storefront that had UPPER MARION COUNTY POLICE stenciled on the window. There was a patrol car parked in front of the place, along with an army recruiting sandwich-board poster by the entrance.

George imagined what it must have been like for Annabelle Schlessinger, living out here, alone a good deal of the time, according to her teacher. Small wonder Annabelle hadn’t had any friends over to her father’s ranch. There was nothing out here. Sherry’s Corner was about as exciting as it got; even that was miles away.

George was beginning to think he’d passed the Schlessingers’ place; the last driveway had been at least a mile back. But then the car’s headlights swept across a driveway with a rusty, old, dented mailbox beside it. The address numbers and name on the mailbox were barely legible anymore: RR #17-14-SCHLESSINGER.

He turned down the bumpy, one-lane dirt road, which ceded to patches of crab grass and tree roots. There were also some fallen branches to navigate, along with old beer cans and other garbage. George figured the ranch must have attracted curious and bored high school kids who wanted to see where those two people had burned to death. So, maybe some of Annabelle’s classmates had been to her home after all.

Taking a curve in the road, George saw the ranch house ahead, just as Caroline Cadwell had described it: a two-story, burnt-out shell. Wood planks boarded up the front door and windows. He noticed even more garbage littered around the blackened edifice-faded fast-food bags and more rusty beer cans. Over to one side stood a dilapidated barn, its door boarded up. Between it and what remained of the house were a stone well, covered with graffiti, and a tall wind pump creaking in the breeze.

George parked the car and switched the motor off. That squeaky wind pump was the only sound he heard now. He walked around the charred structure, kicking at the occasional pop bottle or beer can in his path. He tugged at a plank that was nailed over one of the windows. It didn’t budge. In the backyard, he noticed sporadic patches of wildflowers between one side of the barn and a wooded area. They were the only bit of beauty and color on this drab, desolate place.

He wondered if the Schlessingers had buried some of their dead ranch animals there. Wildflowers were supposed to indicate a grave.

Or was something else buried out there?

The photocopies of the missing young women were folded up and tucked inside George’s sports jacket pocket. He automatically touched the square bulge over his breast to make sure they were still there.

Glancing toward the burnt house again, he saw the wood panel over the back door was askew. George stepped up to the door, and pulled at the plank. It moved easily. The lock and handle on the soot-stained back door had been broken off. He opened the door. From the threshold, he studied the kitchen. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. But he could see the room had survived the fire. The green linoleum floor was filthy and littered with garbage from intruders. The only piece of furniture left was a broken chair, lying on its side. The old stove still stood against the grimy walls, but it had been stripped of the oven door and a few of the dials. All the windows-covered up by the planks outside-were broken. The curtains were in tatters. The place was cold, with a stale, stuffy, acrid odor.

George wondered what the hell he expected to find here. He touched that square bump in his sports jacket pocket again.

The local fire and police departments had already been through the place, along with a few scavengers. If they hadn’t uncovered anything, how did he expect to fare any better?

But those people had been looking for a cause of the fire, while others had been scrounging for a piece of furniture or a knickknack worth stealing. Still others had been seeking a cheap, morbid thrill, or a remote spot to get drunk.

George was pretty certain no one else had searched this place for evidence of the missing young women. He kept thinking about how it was just too much of a coincidence that they’d started to disappear when Lon Schlessinger had moved into this house, and that the last one had vanished a week before this place had turned to cinders.

George walked through the kitchen, and listened to the old, weakened floorboards groaning beneath him. The front hallway and living room hadn’t fared as well as the kitchen. The walls were blistered and blackened. A huge section of the charred floor had collapsed. George could tell there was a basement to the house, but it was too dark to see anything. The stairway to the second floor had been destroyed. Only the black skeleton of a newel post and two steps remained. He had no way of going up to the second floor, where they’d found Annabelle’s and Lon’s remains.

Every time George breathed in, he smelled the soot and grime. He could even taste it now. He retreated back to the kitchen, and he found the door to the Schlessingers’ basement. Opening it, he carefully started down the stairs. Halfway down, he heard a rustling noise that made him stop. A faint light seeped in from an uncovered small window that was broken. Below it was a shelf full of cheap planters holding brittle-looking vines of long-dead plants. Below that, there was a hose connection where a washer machine must have been. George listened again to the light rustling. He figured some rodents had made their home down there. He stopped and tucked his trouser cuffs inside his socks, and then continued down the stairs. Wire hangers dangled from an exposed pipe along the ceiling in what must have been the laundry room.

The next room was nearly pitch black, and had caught all the debris from the living room floor collapsing above it. George took out his cell phone and switched it on. He used the little blue light to navigate through the cobwebs and the rubble. He saw an old-fashioned furnace over to one side, and directly ahead, a big, heavy-looking door. It looked like one of those old bomb shelters. He gave the door a tug, but it barely moved. Putting the phone back in his pocket, he yanked at the door again, this time with both hands. It squeaked open just a few more inches. He tried one more time, but the door didn’t budge.