Karen Rose - Silent Scream

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“Shut up and drive,” the young woman snapped.

“Are you going to kill me?”

The young woman laughed bitterly. “Do you want me to?”

“Not particularly. My friend was in there with my son. Did you hurt him?”

“I didn’t kill him, but if you don’t shut up, I will kill you. Up here, turn right.”

Phoebe obeyed, her eyes darting around for any way she could stop the car.

“I don’t recommend you do that,” the woman said quietly. “Really.”

Phoebe drew a breath. “I’ll give you the car and my phone. I won’t call the police.”

“Too late. Your old man already tried. But I will take your phone.” Mary pawed through Phoebe’s purse, found her phone, pulled out the battery, and threw it in the backseat. “Now they can’t track you.”

Phoebe thought of how many times her family had been in trouble over the years, how many times they’d nearly been killed. She’d always thought in some ways it had to be harder, to have to sit and wait for news. To pray. I was wrong. But her family had always kept their heads, had played it smart, buying time until help arrived. So will I.

She began to pray, silently mouthing the words that she’d said so often for others.

“What are you saying?” the woman snapped.

“I’m praying.”

“Well, stop. Nobody’s going to hear your prayers anyway.”

“I’ll know,” Phoebe murmured. “That’s enough.” They’d be looking for her, she knew. She wouldn’t let herself fear. Instead she’d focus on landmarks so that when she got away, she could find her way back.

The woman turned on the radio, tuning it until she found the news.

“Two college students were found dead today,” the announcer reported soberly, “one in his apartment, the other in his university dorm. Police are searching for Mary O’Reilly for questioning regarding these deaths. If you have any knowledge of the whereabouts of Mary Francesca O’Reilly, please call the police.”

Phoebe glanced at the woman. “I’m assuming you’re Mary.”

Mary’s jaw was taut. “Shut. Up. And. Drive.”

Wednesday, September 22, 2:15 p.m.

Olivia found David sitting on the floor of Jefferson’s realty office, his face pale beneath his tan. A nasty row of stitches lined his jaw. There was blood on his shirt.

She crouched beside him. “Are you all right?”

His eyes were blank. “Glenn saw Mary’s name on her pay stub and she hit him. I chased her and she shot at me. She’s not a good shot.”

Olivia touched his wrist, felt his pulse racing wildly. “David, are you all right?”

He closed his eyes. “I chased them, but I wasn’t fast enough. She took my mother.”

She slid her hand over his forearm. “Is this your blood on your shirt, or Glenn’s?”

“Glenn’s.”

“I thought you were on duty today.”

His mouth quirked bitterly. “If I had been, this wouldn’t have happened. Damn cat.”

“You’re not making any sense, David.”

“OTJ accident. Mom and Glenn picked me up at the firehouse. I was supposed to rest, but I didn’t listen. I got information on Lincoln’s Web site. He’s had it for ten years under a dead professor’s name.”

“You said Mary paid some of Lincoln’s bills. You tracked her credit card?”

“Yes. And then I called you with the information. Hours ago.” His tone took a slightly accusing edge and he looked away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

“I know,” she said gently. “How did you know about Lincoln’s brother?”

“Lincoln called his cell yesterday.”

Oh. “You checked Lincoln’s cell log while you waited for us yesterday, didn’t you?”

He nodded, unrepentant. “Priorities. Yours was catching a killer. Mine was making sure there wasn’t another Lincoln out there to come to my place, hurt my people.”

He would do that, protect his people. “When did you find out Mary was the secretary?”

“Truman mentioned her name when we were meeting. I didn’t know before. I would have called you. I wouldn’t have put my mother and Glenn in danger.”

“I know. We’ve got the state police helicopter in the air, searching for her car.”

He pinned her with his gaze. “Why were you looking for Mary? Tell me.”

Olivia sighed. “We think she killed at least one of the arsonists, maybe all three.”

David closed his eyes, his throat working as he swallowed hard. “With the gun?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so. She couldn’t shoot worth a damn. That’s the only thing that’s keeping me going, knowing she’s not comfortable with that gun. Maybe she won’t…” He stopped, battling for control. “Oh God. She’s got my mother.”

“I know,” Olivia murmured. “We’ll find her.”

“Mary applied for the job here to get close to Lincoln. Truman says their last receptionist tumbled down some stairs.”

“Oh no.”

He opened his eyes, terrified but functioning. “She talked to Lincoln. That must be how she found out about the glass balls, about the VE scratched in the pole.”

“How did she find him?”

“Through the Web site, I guess. Let’s ask Lincoln.”

She nodded. “I will.”

“I’m coming.” The look he flashed her was full of fury. “Don’t consider telling me no. You might need me again.” His mouth twisted bitterly. “I’m the cat-saving fireman.”

“Olivia.” Noah was standing at Mary’s desk, studying the contents of her purse. Noah was also pale. Phoebe Hunter was like Eve’s mother. But Noah had proven himself under pressure. Olivia knew he’d keep it together. “Phones. Lots of phones.” He held up an MP3 player in his gloved hand, turned it around. “It says, ‘number one.’”

“Play it,” David said tersely.

Noah did, while Olivia and David watched, huddled around the earpiece that was connected. A tinny rendition of the Mission Impossible theme could be faintly heard, then Olivia saw the first photo and understood.

“Oh my God,” she breathed. “It’s Tracey Mullen.” It was her face in the condo window, her mouth open on a silent scream as she pounded the glass.

“Somebody videotaped this,” David said, horror in his voice as Tracey slipped from view, her hands trailing down the glass. “I saw the tracks of her hands on the window.”

The camera panned back to four figures, their faces clearly visible in the moonlight.

“Joel, Mary, Eric, and Albert,” Olivia said. “Joel’s fighting to get back inside. Eric and Albert hold him back, then Albert hits Joel in the head.”

“Then Albert and Eric drag Joel away,” Noah said. “Just like we thought.”

Olivia watched Mary take a last look up at the window, then follow Albert and Eric to the fence where they shoved Joel through. “Just like we thought,” she murmured.

“Someone videotaped this,” David repeated. “They just watched while Tracey died.”

Noah blew out a breath. “We have a fifth man.”

The video changed. “Tomlinson’s warehouse, before the fire,” David murmured.

“This is the connection,” Noah said. “The fifth man was blackmailing them.”

The video stopped and the three of them stood for a moment, silent. Then Olivia sorted through the phones until she found one that said “#2” on the back.

“Lots of texts. Attachments. Photos. Tomlinson’s warehouse burning, Eric’s body, just like we found it.” She opened the next attachment.

“Dorian Blunt’s house,” David said. “Before the neighborhood went up in flames.”

“And one of Albert, dead,” Olivia said. “The text says ‘Fuck you.’ I guess Mary was tired of being pushed around. This is how they’ve been communicating with the blackmailer. We need to call Abbott.”