Thomas O`Callaghan - The Screaming Room

“Like I said before. Like Candy Land. You remember. The one with all the colors, where you moved your pieces around a winding track. Only this one had a map on it.”

“A map of what?” Driscoll had the answer as soon as he heard himself ask the question. Of course, the city of New York!

“Wish I could help ya there, Lieutenant. I never looked at it up close.” Clarkson took a bite of his cruller. “Anyway, I pointed to the ‘No Smoking’ sign. ‘A five-hundred-dollar fine,’ I said. You know what these crazies did? They used the tips of their fingers to snuff out the butts!”

Driscoll’s eyes narrowed. “Anything else about these kids you can tell me?”

“Not much else to tell.”

“They ever threaten anyone on the bus?”

“Nope.” Clarkson downed the last of his coffee.

Driscoll stood up. He felt like an overwound machine. In his head he was already on the road to Carbondale. “You’ve been a great help. If you remember anything else, give me a call.” He handed Clarkson his card, then headed for the store’s exit, but stopped when he heard the man call out.

“There is something else, Lieutenant. I just remembered.”

“And what is that?”

“Every night at the end of my shift I check the bus for lost items. I use my flashlight, ya know, ’cause the light on the bus isn’t that good. One night I found this little metal statue. It looked like something I’d seen before, but, for the life of me, I couldn’t figure what that was. Anyway, I found it near where the kids were sitting. It’s probably still in the glove compartment of the bus.”

“Let’s go get it.” Another rush of adrenaline.

They went to the depot, where Clarkson climbed aboard his bus and rummaged through the glove compartment.

“Here it is.” It was a miniature figurine of a church with two spires. “Whaddya make of it?”

Driscoll wrapped his hand around the object like he would a trophy awarded him for winning a marathon. He was closing in. The unfamiliar mix of excitement and sadness swirled within him. “In my business, we’ve found that most serial killers are collectors. It lets them relive the exhilaration of their sport. This item was either bought or swiped from the gift shop where they committed their last murder. That, my friend, is Saint Patrick’s Cathedral.”

“Hmm. Never been there,” Clarkson said, examining the tiny replica. “By the way, is it you I should call about the reward money after you nab the pair? The million dollars, that is. Or should I wait for another call from that other guy?”

“What other guy?”

“The guy who called me on my cell phone before you showed up. Said he was following up on my initial call.”

“He give you his name?”

“Nope. I didn’t think to ask.”

“What’d he sound like?”

“Whaddya mean?”

“Did he have an accent? Sound old, young? That sort of thing.”

“No accent. And I don’t think he was old. But I was on a cell phone. You know how those things are. Reception ain’t always that good.”

“Whaddya tell him?”

“Not much. I was still on the bus. You’re not suppose to talk and drive, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, I made it brief. Told him to call me after seven.”

Driscoll looked at his watch. It was 6:38.

“What should I tell him when he calls back?”

“Tell him you already spoke to me and gave me all your information. I’ll make sure you get the reward money when the time comes.” Driscoll produced his card and gave it to the man. “If he presses you further, tell him to call me.”

“That million’s legit, right?”

“Yes. And if what you’ve told me leads to their apprehension, you have my word you’ll get it.” What he didn’t tell him was that he might have to split it with Samantha Taft.

Carbondale. Once the Pittsburgh of Sullivan County, it had been a bustling industrial town where men melted ore and forged steel. Proud smokestacks that had once billowed pitch into the Catskill sky now stood lethargic, their bricks covered with moss, their inner columns eaten away by rust.

Margaret and Thomlinson had spent the better part of the morning flashing copies of the photo to every storekeeper on Maple Street, the heart of town. The hardware store manager and a cashier at Toys on Maple both thought the teen featured in the picture was Angus. They believed he resided with a sister, but neither the manager nor the cashier knew where.

Driscoll, having left the Sheriff’s office with nada on the pair, was now inside Weatherley’s Hardware speaking with Fred Thurgood, the shop’s manager.

“The kid’s been in here maybe two or three times, tops,” Thurgood said. “Paid cash every time.”

“When was the last time he was in?”

Thurgood scratched the back of his head. A human computer at work, thought Driscoll.

“Hadda be a month ago. Maybe two.”

“How is it you remember his name to be Angus?”

“Came in with a girl, one time. Poor kid must have poked her nose inside a meat grinder. Disfigured. Ya know? Anyway, she screamed out his name like a banshee. Angus! Must have spotted a spider or something.”

“Get her name?”

“Nope.”

“A last name for Angus?”

Thurgood shook his head. “Wha’d the boy do?”

“Plenty,” said Driscoll. “Wha’d he buy?”

The storekeeper gave Driscoll a blank stare. It seemed to last a full sixty seconds. He then closed his eyes as if that would prompt faster recollection. The eyes shot open.

“An ax sharpener! That’s what he bought. An ax sharpener.”

Driscoll thanked the man, exited Weatherley’s, and headed for Toys on Maple, where a second retailer had ID’d the photo. He was greeted by a haggard gent, bib overalls draping a frail figure.

“Help ya?”

Driscoll produced the photo. “You the one who ID’d this fella?”

“You must be the cop lookin’ for Prudence. Followin’ up on the brunette cutie, are ya?”

He must have met Margaret. The old codger. “Right,” he said.

“I’ll go get her. I won’t be but a minute. You wait right here.” He disappeared through a door at the rear of the store.

The sound of the woman’s voice preceded her entrance. Driscoll’s eyes soon focused on a redhead with dazzling green eyes. He figured her for twenty, twenty-one.

“Are you here to see me?” she asked.

“You the young lady who recognized the teen in this photo?”

“That’s Angus. Where’d you get that?”

Driscoll caught something in the tone of her question. More than recognition registered in those glittering eyes. “You sound as though you know him. Do you?”

The question broadsided her.

“No,” she stuttered.

She was concealing something.

“You wouldn’t be in any trouble if you did.”

Driscoll watched her. Her blank stare was replaced with the look of agitation.

“I knew it! I just knew it!”

“Knew what?”

“That the cheating bastard would get himself into some kind of trouble.”

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Seventeen.”

Clarity surfaced.

“You’d be doing him a favor if you told me what you know about him.”

“Can we talk outside?”

Driscoll spotted Old Baggy Bibs peeking from behind the rear door. “Sure.”

When they reached the curb, the teen leaned against a parked Buick and faced Driscoll.

“Ya wanna hear it from the top?”

“Why don’t we start with your name?”

“Sally. Sally Potter.”

“Pleased to meet you, Sally.” Driscoll extended his hand. “I’m Lieutenant Driscoll.”

“Okay. What I know about him. First off, our relationship, if ya wanna call it that, was like being on a rollercoaster with a stranger. The guy was distant. Seemed to have difficulty connecting. And the rollercoaster part. One minute he was up. And I’m talkin’ up! Like he was on some sorta drug. Then wham! The bottom falls out and he’s down, ‘I wanna kill myself’ kinda down. I don’t think he ever tried it, but with him anything was possible.”