The Absence of Screams: A Thriller Read online

  “You want another beer?”

  “Big tip?”

  She grinned.

  He sighed. “Fine.”

  She placed the beer on the counter.

  “Go on,” said Todd.

  Beth cleared her throat. “A guy came in here last night and watched some TV. I didn’t catch his name. Tatiana sat beside him and showed him some pictures from her wallet. I wasn’t paying attention. The guy must have had the flu or something because he panicked and left the bar. Tatiana followed him out. That was the last I saw of her."

  The bartender looked at the two almost full beers sitting in front of Todd and raised an eyebrow.

  He let out a long sigh. “I’ll have another beer.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “You never saw Tatiana again?” said Todd, looking at the three beers on the counter.

  "No.”

  “Tell me what I want to know, or I won't tip you at all.”

  The bartender raised an eyebrow.

  “Fine." He took out his wallet and slapped a twenty down on the bar.

  “Great.”

  “I don’t think he was just the last one to see her," she said, leaning in further. "I think he killed her. Something about him was off."

  “Why?”

  “I can only guess.”

  Todd sighed. “Do the cops know this?”

  "Yes.”

  “Thanks.” He slid off the bar stool. He gestured to the four full beer bottles. “Next time it’d be easier to just ask for a bribe up front.”

  She grinned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Todd scoffed and turned to walk away.

  “Do you want one more beer?”

  Todd turned back. “What else could you possibly tell me?”

  The bartender grabbed one of Todd's untouched beers and took a long swig. “I know his name.”

  Todd sighed. He took his wallet from his pocket and checked inside. The only cash left was a twenty-dollar bill.

  He looked back up at her. "A first name, or a full name?”

  “Just a first name.”

  “I can’t pay that.”

  “Your loss.”

  “I love Danielle. Out of the goodness of your heart, tell me!”

  “I’ve got to eat too.” Beth wiped down the bar, taking each of his untouched beers and pouring them down the sink, one at a time.

  “Fine.” Todd slapped the twenty down on the counter.

  Beth pocketed the bill. “Paul.”

  Todd stared at her, “Paul?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Just reporting what I heard.”

  “Give me my money back.”

  She smiled and pointed at the sign above the bar which said, "No refunds."

  Todd said, “Do you know how many people there are named Paul?”

  “Not my problem."

  “Can I at least get my change?”

  Beth shrugged. “It's a tip.”

  “You’re ripping me off.” He held out a hand.

  “What are you going to do? Call the cops and tell them you’re investigating on your own? Good luck with that, champ.”

  “Fine," said Todd, standing, "but if I find out you lied, I'll be back here.”

  She raised an eyebrow, as though daring him to do so.

  Todd walked out into the cold night air.

  He looked at the highway and the driver’s passing by without a second thought about Harper's Mill.

  He walked back to the Shembly house, where he'd parked his car.

  Along this stretch of road, something had happened. Todd was going to figure out what it was.

  15

  Marcus parked at the local Wal-Mart.

  He grabbed the gun from the passenger seat and inspected it. It was a military-issue handgun. He checked inside the magazine. There were three bullets plus one in the chamber.

  While sneaking out of the military base, he had come across an unlocked military jeep with the gun sitting unguarded in the passenger seat.

  He had grabbed the gun and headed to Angela's car, making sure not to let anyone see him too closely.

  If he had been caught walking around the base, it would have been disastrous, but it was a risk Angela had forced him to take.

  The guards at the gate had been his biggest worry, but once he had shown them his all-access pass, courtesy of General Thompson, they had let him through without a word. They might have wondered how he was driving, but must have assumed the car was set up to allow someone without the use of his legs to drive it.

  Marcus slid the gun into his belt and made sure it was secure. He stepped out of the car and smoothed his jacket out over the gun.

  He took off at a brisk pace toward the road. The only light came from the moon overhead.

  He walked until the Shembly house came into view.

  A police car was parked on the side of the road a few hundred feet from the driveway to the Shembly house. The cops in the front seat looked up as he passed.

  Marcus walked past the driveway and into the distance, glancing back at the cops.

  He almost walked into a young man walking the opposite direction. Marcus sidestepped him and continued walking.

  He kept glancing back at the young man and the cop car until only the lights of the car were visible.

  Marcus turned away from the road and walked along the fence that divided the Shembly’s property from the next.

  Once he was far enough in, he jumped the fence and walked through the wheat toward the peaked roof of the Shembly home.

  He emerged through the other side of the wheat, glancing around before stepping into the clearing. There were scattered lights in the house, but no movement.

  He moved through the long shadows of the farm equipment. He slipped behind a tractor and scanned back and forth.

  Something moved to his right and he ducked down. He laid on his stomach and crawled underneath the tractor, trying to get a clear view.

  A pair of legs came into his field of vision. The newcomer walked past and toward the house.

  Marcus repositioned himself so he could see.

  He frowned when he realized it was the young man he'd almost walked into on the road.

  The young man knocked on the front door to the house and peered through the front windows. He went to the flower box beneath the window and dug his fingers into the dirt, then pulled out his hand with a key. He used it to unlock the front door.

  Marcus watched him step into the house and close the door behind him.

  Marcus glanced around, saw no one else, and slipped from his hiding spot. He took out the gun and held it at his side as he jogged to the house.

  The kitchen light turned off.

  Marcus froze.

  After a moment, he continued.

  He snuck to the porch and peered through the front window.

  The young man passed by and Marcus ducked down.

  Marcus looked back into the window just as the young man exited the living room and proceeded upstairs, leaving a few drawers of the living room cabinet open.

  Marcus watched him disappear onto the second floor, then moved to the front door.

  It was unlocked, and covered in fresh glue and paint which was slightly off-color, as though it had been repaired that day.

  He stepped inside. The hinges creaked and Marcus froze, his ears alert.

  Creaking floors came from the second floor. There was no change in the patterns of the footsteps. The young man hadn't heard anything.

  Marcus let out a breath and entered the house. The door clicked shut behind him.

  He pointed the gun at the second floor, waiting for any indication the stranger knew he was there. When none came, he moved into the living room.

  Drawers from the desk and cabinet had been opened and the contents rifled through. Marcus walked slowly across the room.

  Upstairs, a toilet flushed.

 
Marcus looked through the papers in the opened drawers. He found tax sheets and farm records. He moved through the drawers and found more of the same until he opened the bottom drawer.

  It was a large drawer which contained several large photo albums labelled “Memories.”

  Marcus swallowed and returned his gun to his belt. He reached into the drawer and took out the top album. He flipped through the pages of the first photo album.

  It depicted the first few years of the twins’ life. It included Danielle on the peripheries, playing with the young twins. She was smiling in almost every picture, even laughing in a few.

  Marcus smiled and a tear came to his eye.

  He put the album down and took another from the drawer. This one moved further into the past, covering the seven years before the twins were born. Marcus flipped through the album as Danielle aged backwards through high school and middle school. There were Halloweens, Christmas’s, and birthdays.

  Included were report cards and letters from teachers, most of whom described Danielle as a curious and naturally intelligent but endlessly distracted girl who could accomplish a lot if she put her mind to it. The lack of improvement in grades indicated she hadn't taken that advice to heart.

  The last binder covered the first five years after the kidnapping. He flipped through it a page at a time, staring at each photograph in succession. She looked almost like he remembered her.

  A tear fell from his eye and landed on the carpet. He closed the album and scrunched his eyes shut.

  He put his hand to his face to stop the tears, then opened his eyes.

  On the bottom of the drawer was scattered pictures which hadn’t been put in any albums. He looked through them.

  One photo got his attention and he picked it up.

  There was a man in the photo with his arm hanging over Danielle's shoulder. Both were smiling. They were dressed up, wearing a suit and a dress.

  Marcus flipped over the picture. On the back, it said, “Todd and Danielle at Jamie’s fifth wedding.”

  He turned the photo over and looked at the young man embracing his daughter. He was certain this was the man in the house with him.

  The lights came on.

  “Who are you?” said a voice behind him.

  Marcus mouthed a curse. He dropped the photo into the drawer and reached down to remove his gun from his belt as his eyes adjusted to the light.

  “I’ll say it again,” said Todd. “Who are you and why are you here?”

  Marcus stood, turning toward Todd and showing the gun.

  Todd jumped when he saw it, but didn’t retreat. He held a baseball bat in one hand. There were a few rolled-up papers sticking out from the front pocket of his hoodie.

  “Who are you?” said Todd.

  “Where is Danielle?” said Marcus.

  “Who are you?" Todd repeated. "Why are you in this house?”

  Marcus sighed and raised the gun. “Give me those papers, or I will shoot you.”

  Marcus began walking toward Todd, who glanced at his bat and dropped it. He had no intention of shooting anyone innocent, but the threat needed to seem real.

  “Get on the floor,” said Marcus as he approached. “Hand me those papers.”

  Todd flickered the lights a few times as Marcus approached. Marcus frowned and looked at the road. It took him a moment to realize that Todd was trying to signal the cops out on the road.

  Marcus approached him through the flickering lights. Todd went down on his knees, his eyes locked on the gun in Marcus’s hands.

  “You’re Paul,” said Todd.

  “What?”

  “You killed Mrs. Shembly.”

  Marcus laughed. “I'd forgotten I used that name.”

  “Why did you do it?”

  “Just tell me where Danielle is, and nothing will happen.”

  “Take these.” Todd reached into his pocket and threw the sheets of paper at Marcus. “They don’t tell me anything.”

  Marcus picked up the papers. They were Charles Shembly's bank records. He frowned and shoved them into his pocket.

  The police car approached.

  “You killed Mrs. Shembly,” said Todd.

  “I’m sorry,” said Marcus, raising the gun.

  Todd's eyes opened wide. “Wait, what the hell are you doing?”

  Marcus began walking backwards. "I'm leaving. Goodbye, Todd."

  Todd glanced back and forth between the gun and the approaching cops.

  Then he turned to Marcus, his fists clenched at his side. "No," he said. "You killed Mrs. Shembly. I won't let you get away."

  Todd ran at Marcus, scooping the baseball bat off the ground and pulling back for a swing aimed at the gun. He was either very brave or very stupid, thought Marcus. Possibly both.

  Instinctively, Marcus pulled the trigger. The gun clicked. Marcus's eyes opened wide as he suddenly realized why the gun had been left alone. It was defective.

  A sense of relief hit him as he realized what would have happened had he fired. He would have killed an innocent, and a man Danielle cared about.

  The relief only lasted a fraction of a second as the bat hit Marcus's hand and the gun went flying through the air.

  A second, shorter, swing, hit Marcus's in the side. He flew across the room and came to a stop beside the gun. He grabbed it and pointed it at Todd for a moment before remembering it didn't work. He shoved it into his waistband along with the papers he'd gotten from Todd. He looked through the front window at the cops running into the house.

  Marcus looked over at the pictures arrayed along the floor, trying to commit all these images of his daughter he had missed to memory.

  He stood and sprinted towards the back door. Todd moved to cut off his path.

  “Freeze!” shouted one of the cops as he barged into the living room.

  Todd froze, dropping the bat and dropping to his knees at the shout of the cops. That gave Marcus enough time.

  Marcus barged through the back door and sprinted across the grass toward the fields of wheat. He looked over his shoulder. One of the cops was standing in the back door, aiming a gun at him.

  He entered the wheat and kept running until he was confident he had put enough distance between himself and the cops.

  He looked back. He could only see the peak of the roof over the top of the wheat.

  Marcus turned and walked back to the neighbor’s fence. He jumped the fence and ran through their empty yard. Sirens came from the direction of the Shembly House. He ran across two more properties before coming to a stop.

  His legs were aching. He'd exerted himself more in that one run than he had in total over a decade.

  He sat down against a wooden fence post and waited to regain his breath.

  The lights of the nearby houses turned on as the number of sirens grew.

  Marcus took the bank statements out of his pocket and hurriedly read them by the light of the nearby house.

  Most of the records were standard farm expenses. Among the charges that seemed out of place were a criminal lawyer getting a monthly retainer, an expensive daycare for the twins, and monthly payments to someone named Jamie Kessington.

  Most odd, however, were payments to the nearby municipality of Frederick Sound, a popular cottage town. Interspersed among the records were tax payments, notes about repairs, and security fees, all going to Frederick Sound.

  If they were running somewhere, it made sense that they would go to a cottage they owned.

  “That’s as good a place to start as any," said Marcus.

  He receded back into the fields and began running toward his car.

  It took several hours as he took a long detour to avoid the cops, and it was one in the morning by the time he arrived.

  He felt as though his legs were going to fall off, although he didn't feel mentally tired.

  He climbed into the car and breathed a sigh of relief, rubbing his legs and trying to get feeling back into them.

  He drove out of the parking lot
and took another long detour to avoid the Shembly house.

  He pulled onto the highway and followed the signs toward Frederick Sound.

  16

  Angela was admitted to General Thompson's office around nine in the morning. She'd been awake all night thinking through her options.

  The blinds were pulled down against the rising sun. She blinked to adjust her eyes to the dim interior.

  The general was chewing on a pen and leaning back in his chair, looking through a stack of papers.

  “Miss Weber," he said without looking up, "I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  “Call me Angela, please.” She sat across from him and waited while he chewed the tip of his pen for a few moments before writing something down and turning to her.

  "Sorry," he said. "What can I do for you, Miss Weber?"

  “If it’s no trouble,” said Angela, trying to sound as cordial as possible, “Marcus and I would like to stay a few more days.”

  Thompson tapped his fingers along the top of the table. “You were scheduled to leave tomorrow, and I've already extended your stay once. At a certain point, it makes me look bad."

  Angela sighed. “Marcus isn't doing too well. He doesn’t want people to know.”

  A look of genuine concern crossed Thompson's face. “What do you mean?”

  “Marcus had been dealing with pain medication ever since he was paralyzed. The bullet lodged itself in his spine and the doctors weren’t able to remove it without a dangerous surgery. He’s on pain medication, but he develops a tolerance every few years and the medication needs to be switched out. We are waiting on his doctor to prescribe him a new, stronger, medication. He worries people will see him as weak.”

  Thompson nodded. “You mentioned that the last time you were here, but I had no idea it was so bad."

  “We just need to stay another day or two.”

  “We have a doctor on the base. He can take a look.”

  Angela shook her head. “It’s a simple issue. I wouldn't want to waste his time.”

  “The doctor would welcome some variety. It's not like we're getting war wounds out here.”

  Angela shook her head again. “Marcus wouldn’t like that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Marcus has an immense amount of pride, sir. The doctor lives and works with the soldiers.”