Thomas O`Callaghan - The Screaming Room

“A human gun-totin’ detective,” Driscoll said with a smile.

“I’m glad we had this time, John. I miss what we had.”

“What we have,” Driscoll said. “I’m just in for repair.”

The following morning Driscoll was seated at his desk, perusing the Crime Scene report from the aquarium, when Margaret sauntered in. She appeared out of sorts. After sitting down, she robotically reported that her inquiry into any reported rapes, between siblings or otherwise, in and around Oak Flat, West Virginia, during 1990, had turned up nothing. In retrospect, Driscoll wished he had given the assignment to Thomlinson.

“You okay?”

“Will be.”

“My door is always open.”

“I know. Thank you. I’ll be fine. What I need now is distraction. What’s that you’re reading?”

Driscoll hesitated.

“It’s okay, John. The incest inquiry is behind me. It’ll help if I stay focused on what’s to come.”

He smiled at her. “You know…”

“You gonna tell me what you’re reading or do I have to grab the damn file?”

“It’s the forensics report on Francis Palmer’s blood evidence. Their reenactment of the assault suggests he was stationary when both blows were inflicted to his head. I’m thinking something pissed off our assassin.” Driscoll was about to help himself to a cup of squad room coffee when his desk phone rang.

“Driscoll, here.”

“You’ve got mail,” the caller said and hung up. Driscoll hadn’t a clue to the caller’s identity.

He powered on his IBM desktop and was immediately connected to the department’s Web site. He clicked on his mailbox, eyes on the screen. There, superimposed under a red and white bull’s-eye, was the face of a male adolescent with wavy blond hair, the color of hay, and piercing aquamarine eyes. To the right of the face was a small speaker icon that Driscoll clicked. The prerecorded voice of Malcolm Shewster sounded through the desktop’s speaker.

“John, whoever or whatever you’re pursuing is yesterday’s news. This is our boy! My team of specialists is to be commended. You now have what you wanted from the start. The sister will have the same face, give or take a few curls. Take a good look into those eyes, John. He’s out there and he’s daring you to nab him. And nab him you will. Set your eyes on the prize. And, John, you may as well get used to looking at that face because this afternoon its hits every newsstand and newswire in the nation with something the city has left out. A hefty bounty. And that’s only step one in a full-scale Shewster alliance. Over and out. For now.”

Driscoll’s eyes locked on Margaret’s. “Alliance? The man asked me if he could have his team project a current-day likeness of the twins. That’s all. What’s with the hefty bounty and an alliance? I never agreed to any alliance.”

“Usually, grieving parents are Lone Rangers.”

“I know. So far the only alliance he’s made is with our evidence and our investigation. This guy’s made his fortune on the backs of people, not hand in hand with them. He’s gotten himself very involved in this case. Just how far does that involvement go? The man’s up to something. I’m sure of it. Which means you and I are gonna keep a short leash on him.”

It was Saturday, just before 8:00 P.M. on Fifth Avenue at East Fiftieth Street in New York City. Pedestrians were making their way inside Saint Patrick’s Cathedral only to exit a few minutes later spattered by holy water. The avenue was getting ready for evening. Neon lights were slowly coming to life above store windows as taxicabs hauled sightseers to restaurants, movie theaters, and Broadway shows. A woman stood at Saint Patrick’s southwest corner, perplexed by the endless flow of vehicular traffic. She seemed distracted, anxious, turning her head furtively toward the cathedral’s entrance. She carried a finger-worn Polaroid of a man in a plaid shirt overlooking a cornfield. It had been protected by a frayed white napkin into which she now spit her gum. She tossed the napkin into a trash can, held the photo against her chest, climbed the steps of the cathedral, and slipped inside.

Compared to the hubbub on the avenue, the church was sedate; a welcome sanctuary. She walked down the center aisle, searching left and right for the man she had typed “hello” to eight months ago in a MySpace chat room. They had become virtual lovers, disclosing a mutual predilection for oddity and postpubescent teens. It was now time to meet and gratify their sexual longings together.

Her heartthrob was nowhere in sight. Where could he be? She checked her watch. It was nearing 8:10. They were supposed to meet at 8:02, the time they first met over the Internet. Could her Timex be running fast?

In the second row her gaze fell upon a gentleman who smiled at her as though he had known her all her life.

“My God, it’s you!”

The man stood and moved toward her. “I was beginning to think you had changed your mind.”

“I was standing outside trying to get up the courage to come in. I still can’t believe we’re going through with this. Oh, Alex, I do love you so.”

“And I you,” he murmured. “But I have a confession to make.”

Puzzled eyes looked back at him.

“Tara, I think I’ve committed a sin. And of all days to commit it!”

“What did you do?”

“I defaced church property.”

“Go on!”

“No, really,” he said, taking her hand. “Come, I’ll show you.”

He led her behind the main altar into a darkened circular aisle, faintly illuminated by the candles that were burning before the altar of the Blessed Virgin.

“Look,” he whispered, pointing to his handiwork on the Virgin’s marble pedestal.

Tara’s eyes widened as they took in the arabesque letters: A and T intertwined.

“Alex and Tara, about to start their flight of fancy. Right here,” he whispered.

“Mmm umm.”

“Don’t worry. I used an erasable marker. One swipe with a sponge and we’re history.”

They stood solemnly before the carved image of the Madonna. There was no one else in sight. It was nearing half-past eight, the meeting time he had arranged with the gentleman on the phone for their threesome.

A stir in the darkness of the alcove interrupted their exuberance. Like a flutter of wings or the friction of cloth. Something moved, undefined, unidentified.

They heard a cracking sound, like the shattering of stone. Alex was felled by blinding pain. Then blackness set in.

Before Tara knew what had happened, she heard the sound again.

Father Xavier Thomas, glistening in vestments of green and gold, stood majestically at the rear of the church, about to follow the procession of altar servers, lectors, and Eucharistic Ministers down the center aisle of the historic cathedral. The church bells were pealing. Their tolling marked 6:58 A.M. In two minutes, Mass would begin. The latecomers, skittering in the nave of the cathedral, were met by the soft smile of Father Thomas, a true New Yorker who was well accustomed to the chronic tardiness of his time-pressed parishioners.

At the stroke of seven, the organist began the refrain to “Let Us Go Rejoicing,” number 308 in the missalettes. The procession proceeded down the center aisle and all attendees stood to welcome the presiding priest.

“Where’d ya hide them?” Cassie asked.

Angus, crammed in the crowded pew to her right, sang the hymn’s lyric and smiled teasingly at her.

“You’re not gonna tell me?”

He crooned louder, casting his accomplice a sidelong smirk.

The cleric and his liturgical assistants reached the main altar, bowed before the Lord, and assumed their positions for the opening prayer.