Thomas O`Callaghan - The Screaming Room

“If he put the phone on mute, turned off the intercom at the front gate, and slept in, he may have missed it.”

“He’s in California, where anything’s possible. Maybe CNN will send a beach plane with a roaring engine over his compound with Angus and Gwennypoo lagging behind, their vivid copulation boldly displayed on one of those tacky streamers.”

“What do we really know about Malcolm Shewster?” asked Margaret. “Who’s to say he doesn’t have a hidden chamber built under his house’s foundation or a panic room even Jodie Foster couldn’t break free from.”

“What we do know is that he’s got at least one big secret. That says he’ll have a cluster of little ones. A man like Shewster doesn’t give away much. He’d have surely found a way to hold back some of his daughter’s inheritable traits. Believe me, he kept some of the deviant strain. Picture Malcolm Shewster, in his panic room, huddled like Saddam Hussein before they yanked his presidential ass out of his hole. Shewster’s eyes are riveted to the widescreen of a WiFi laptop, voyeuristically stalking Anna Nicole Smith, Pamela Anderson, and Jenna Jameson, when he happens upon a blogger who’s telling the world a mass communication missile, armed to disburse a payload of the tell-all photos, will soon make landfall on Shewster’s lawn. And if he misses that one, he’ll ultimately surf his way to YouTube, where he’ll likely catch a slideshow of the complete set of his daughter’s photos as the most downloaded.”

“YouTube. Can you believe this generation? In a matter of seconds, the adventures of three buxom celebratantes, in Britney Spears, Paris Hilton, and Lindsay Lohan, get an uninvited avenue where their interpretation of the word exposure is redefined forever. We’ve come a long way from Leave It to Beaver. Did you know that the most hits on the Internet for the last three months were from people obsessed with the weeklong club-hopping escapades of three sip-and-flash amigas marking the ‘Oops’ girl’s twenty-fifth birthday?”

“Hollywood will soon release a new film,” said Driscoll. “They’ll call it Going Commando-The Twenty-first Century’s Response to Twentieth-Century Streakers.”

“When I was in my twenties, skinny-dipping was the rage,” said Margaret. “But always in a very discreet and secluded area. Today, the chance of catching me outside my apartment without underwear is between negative three and zero. Even if the place were on fire!”

Driscoll was grateful for the visuals. But since Margaret’s face had suddenly reddened, he refrained from voicing his gratitude. Time to change the subject, he thought, putting aside the newspapers.

“I’m very proud of you, Margaret. I know this case wasn’t easy for you. I tried to give you as much of the responsibility as I thought you could handle but I got to tell you, you surprised me. Maybe I should send Elizabeth some little goodie from the first floor at Tiffany’s. I sense she helped you make it through what I suspect were some frightening tunnels.”

“She’s good at what she does. I’m thinking of writing my checks payable to ‘Madam Therapist, Extraordinaire.’ What she’s managed to do in just four sessions is amazing. I’m beginning to realize the paths people take through life are diverse. And I’m also getting comfortable with the notion that it’s my choice which path I take. I see that the twins had a choice as well. What kept them victims was their vengefulness. I didn’t act out by taking an ax to my father, but they’ve made it clear that I could have. Realizing they let their past control their future, while I didn’t, helps me shed my victim’s cloak.”

“That kind of progress in such a short amount of time is outstanding. Generally, people who haven’t gone through therapy have difficulty understanding that it’s a process, not a compass. It took me a long time to fully recognize that the key to changing how I felt was in my pocket. Elizabeth’s role was to help me find it, then teach me how to use it.”

“That’s the cool part. It’s like discovering a part of my brain I never knew existed. It sort of gives me an outsider’s view. And I’m getting skilled at using it. Remember when I was first assigned to help track down these twin killers, and we were both in the dark about motive? When it was revealed they were seeking revenge for years of sexual and ego-flattening abuse, I felt like I’d been shot from a cannon. And all the demons of my past piled on to bite me when I landed. I’m happy to say that they’re gradually shrinking in number.”

“You’re learning how to avoid inviting them into the present. That keeps them where they belong. In the past.”

“I know I have you to thank big-time. Not just for encouraging me to see Elizabeth. You’ve been watching out for me throughout this entire investigation. I want you to know I could feel it. And one of these days I’m going to surprise the both of us by wrapping all of me around all of you and thank you like you’ve never been thanked before.”

Wow, Driscoll thought, she really is using a part of her brain she’s never used before. And this kind of thank-you is sure to involve lots of other parts that have been neglected.

“I’d like that, Margaret. Very much.”

Silence settled as their eyes locked, slowing time.

Just as Driscoll was coming out from behind his desk, intent on shortening the distance between himself and Margaret, Thomlinson’s face appeared at the door. The Groucho Marx bit he did with his eyebrows said he’d hit pay dirt.

Malcolm Shewster had just finished breakfast. It was quiet and peaceful in his California mansion. The realization that the twins were no longer a threat thrilled him.

Pushing his plate forward, he reached for the paper and donned his glasses, intent on losing himself in world news. That’s when his just-consumed Brie-and-onion omelet nearly came back up. He had to swallow hard to keep it from being propelled across the room. Anxious eyes scanned the syndicated story, avoiding contact with the eight-by-ten color photo emblazoned above the fold. His pulse raced as he noted there were more photos featured on page two. His knuckles whitened. Blood surged, giving his face a purplish hue. Slowly, he allowed his eyes to drift above the byline. What they saw caused them to widen.

He examined the unmistakable likeness of his daughter. The image was blurred over both breasts and what he could only assume was a generous mound of pubic hair. Her lips were puckered. One eye was closed, suggesting a wink. Her body, which resembled the letter S, was straddling someone. And Shewster knew who that someone was. It shocked him to discover that what he could see of Angus’s body was completely covered with tattoos from below his neckline down. Some were hideous; others lascivious-all outlandish. What appeared on his daughter’s executioner’s face rattled him. Angus’s glare at his smiling Abigail spelled contempt.

But what quickened his pulse and caused adrenaline to surge was the caption inscribed into the photo: “In twenty minutes, this female abnormality will be dead.”

Rage filled him. He would not be held captive by a phantom photographer inside his own house. He was a resourceful man. He’d find a way out of this scandal. Warily, he turned the page, where he discovered a second, more demeaning, photograph. It featured his Abigail, clad only in a strap-on, feeding it to the mouth of a grotesquely disfigured, naked, and oddly shaped girl.

But it was the inscription etched inside this photo that cut to the marrow. It caused him to do something he hadn’t done since childhood. He screamed. Then screamed again. And though both eyes were closed, these words helped themselves to his cornea: “That’s it, you wild little thing. Deep throat the sucker! Just like I did for Father.”