{"id":1216,"date":"2009-03-17T20:56:38","date_gmt":"2009-03-18T01:56:38","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/\/?p=1216"},"modified":"2009-06-03T09:10:04","modified_gmt":"2009-06-03T14:10:04","slug":"scream-by-mike-dellosso","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/?p=1216","title":{"rendered":"Scream by Mike Dellosso"},"content":{"rendered":"

<\/a>\"\"<\/a>It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour<\/a><\/strong><\/span><\/strong> book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old…or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

Today’s Wild Card author is: <\/strong><\/div>\n
\n

Mike Dellosso<\/a><\/span><\/strong><\/h3>\n<\/div>\n
\n

and the book:<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/h3>\n<\/div>\n
\n

Scream<\/a><\/span><\/strong><\/h3>\n<\/div>\n

Realms (March 3, 2009)<\/p>\n

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:<\/span> <\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n

\"\"<\/a>Born in Baltimore, Maryland, Mike now lives in Hanover, Pennsylvania, with his wife, Jen, and their three daughters. He is a regular columnist for AVirtuousWoman.org, was a newspaper correspondent\/columnist for over three years, has published several articles for The Candle of Prayer inspirational booklets, and has edited and contributed to numerous Christian-themed Web sites and e-newsletters. Mike is a member of the American Christian Fiction Writers association, the Christian Fiction Blog Alliance, the Relief Writer\u2019s Network, and FaithWriters, and plans to join International Thriller Writers once published. He received his BA degree in sports exercise and medicine from Messiah College and his MBS degree in theology from Master\u2019s Graduate School of Divinity.<\/p>\n

Visit the author’s website<\/a>.<\/p>\n

Product Details:<\/p>\n

List Price: $13.99
\nPaperback: 320 pages
\nPublisher: Realms (March 3, 2009)
\nLanguage: English
\nISBN-10: 1599794691
\nISBN-13: 978-1599794693<\/p>\n

AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:<\/span> <\/strong>
\n<\/span>
\n\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Chapter 1<\/p>\n

1<\/span><\/h3>\n

Mark Stone could still smell the grease on his hands.<\/p>\n

No matter how hard he scrubbed or what fancy soap he used, the residue remained, stained into the creases of his fingers and caked under his fingernails. In a way, though, it was comforting. At least something in his life was still predictable. He gripped the steering wheel of his classic Mustang with both hands and willed his eyes to stay open. The hum of rubber on asphalt was almost hypnotic. It had been a long day at the shop, and he was ready to go home, soak in a hot shower until he puckered like a raisin, and get cozy with his pillow.<\/p>\n

Outside, the headlights cut a swath of pale yellow light through the dense autumn darkness. Stars dotted the night like glitter on black felt. A pocked moon dangled low in the sky in front of him, a cratered carrot on the end of an unseen string, leading him home, home to the comfort of his bed.<\/p>\n

His cell phone chimed the theme from The Dukes of Hazzard. Mark turned down the radio and flipped open the phone. It was Jeff Beaverson. \u201cJeffrey.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHey, buddy. How goes it?\u201d<\/p>\n

Mark glanced at the dashboard clock\u201410:10. \u201cKinda late for you, isn\u2019t it?\u201d<\/p>\n

Jeff laughed. \u201cYou know me too well. I was at my parents\u2019 house installing a new hot water heater, and it took longer than I thought it would. I\u2019m heading home now. Gonna walk in the door and drop myself right into bed. You in the car?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOn my way home.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBoy, you\u2019re putting in some late hours.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, business is good right now. Keeps my mind off…stuff. You know.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI know, buddy. I\u2019ve been thinking about you. Thought I\u2019d check in and make sure we\u2019re still on for tomorrow.\u201d<\/p>\n

Tomorrow. Saturday. He and Jeff were scheduled to meet for breakfast at The Victory.<\/p>\n

On the radio, John Mellencamp was belting out \u201cSmall Town.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah. Seven o\u2019clock. You still…kay with…at?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSure. Where are you? You\u2019re breakin\u2019 up.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMill Road. Down…oopers Hollow…lasts a…ittle.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mark paused and tapped his hand to the beat of the music. Jeff\u2019s voice boomed into his ear. \u201cAm I back? Can you hear me now?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, I can hear you fine now,\u201d Mark said with a laugh.<\/p>\n

Jeff snorted into the phone. \u201cI always lose my bars along that stretch. Hey, I\u2019ve been meaning to ask you…\u201d<\/p>\n

Jeff\u2019s voice was suddenly drowned by a hideous screaming. Not just one voice, but a multitude of voices mingling and colliding, merging and blending in a cacophony of wails and groans, grunts and cries. A million mouths weeping and howling in bone-crunching pain. Agony. As if their skin was being peeled off inch by inch and their burning anguish was somehow captured on audio. It rose in volume, lasted maybe five, six seconds, then stopped just as abruptly as it had started.<\/p>\n

Mark clicked off the radio and pressed the phone tighter against his ear. Goose bumps crawled over his arms. \u201cJeff? You OK, man?\u201d<\/p>\n

There was a pause, then, \u201cYeah. Yes. I\u2019m fine. What the blazes was that? Did you hear it?\u201d<\/p>\n

Mark massaged the steering wheel with his left hand. \u201cYeah, I heard it. Sounded like something out of some horror movie.\u201d Or hell. Weeping and gnashing of teeth. \u201cWeird.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe our signals got tangled with something else. Weird is right. Anyway, I\u2019ve been wanting to ask you\u2014and we can talk more about it tomorrow if you want\u2014how are you and Cheryl doing?\u201d<\/p>\n

Mark clenched his jaw, pressing his molars together. Cheryl. Don\u2019t make me go there, Jeff. It\u2019s too soon. \u201cI don\u2019t know. I think it\u2019s over.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOver?\u201d<\/p>\n

Over. Finished. Kaput. I blew it, and now I have to live with it. \u201cNothing official yet. But she pretty much made it clear she doesn\u2019t want anything to do with me.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jeff paused and sighed into the phone. \u201cMan, I\u2019m sorry. Is there anything I can do?\u201d<\/p>\n

Mark slowed the Mustang around a hairpin turn. He didn\u2019t want to talk about this now. He wasn\u2019t ready. And besides, it was late, and he was tired. \u201cNo. I don\u2019t even think there\u2019s anything more I can do. Can we talk about it in the morning?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAbsolutely. I just…wait. Hang on a sec. What\u2019s this guy\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

The sound of screeching tires filled the receiver. Rubber howling against asphalt. Then a low earthy rumble…Jeff grunting…crunching metal and shattering glass.<\/p>\n

Mark leaned heavy on the brake, and the Mustang fishtailed to a stop. The engine growled impatiently. \u201cJeff? You there?\u201d<\/p>\n

Nothing. Not even static. His pulse throbbed in his ears.<\/p>\n

Mark dialed Jeff\u2019s number. Four rings. \u201cHello, this is Jeff.\u201d Voice mail. Great. \u201cYou know what to do.\u201d A woman\u2019s voice came on. \u201cTo leave a voice message, press one or wait for the tone. To\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

Mark\u2019s thumb skidded over the keypad, dialing 911.<\/p>\n

2<\/span><\/h3>\n

Sheriff Wiley Hickock sidestepped down the steep embankment, sweeping the light from his flashlight to and fro in a short arc. Up above, a couple of firefighters were winding a hose; two others were stripping out of their gear. Lights flashed in an even rhythm, illuminating the area in a slow strobe of red and white. Red, red, white; red, red, white. The pungent smell of melted rubber and burnt flesh permeated the air. Three towers holding four floodlights each lit up the area like a baseball stadium during a night game.<\/p>\n

When he reached the bottom, Hickock surveyed the ball of twisted, smoldering metal that had once been a Honda Civic before it bulldozed ten feet of oak saplings and wrapped around the scarred trunk of a mature walnut tree. Tongues of smoke curled from the misshapen steel and licked at the leaves of the walnut. A large swath of ground had been dug up, exposing the dark, rich soil.<\/p>\n

Deputy Jessica Foreman headed toward him. Her dark russet hair looked like it had been hastily pulled back in a loose ponytail. Her uniform was wrinkled, a road map of creases. Her hands were sheathed in blackened latex gloves.<\/p>\n

Wiley frowned as she approached. \u201cSorry to get you out here on your day off, Jess. Thanks for helping out, though.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jess tugged off the latex gloves and swept a rebellious lock of hair away from her face and tucked it behind her ear. \u201cDo what\u2019s gotta be done, right?\u201d<\/p>\n

Wiley squinted and ran a finger over his mustache. \u201cThat\u2019s what they say. When did fire and EMS get here?\u201d There were still some firefighters milling around the wreckage, poking at it with their axes. Two paramedics were standing off to the right, talking and laughing.<\/p>\n

\u201c\u2019Bout twenty minutes ago. Didn\u2019t take long to douse the fire.\u201d She glanced at the paramedics. \u201cNo need for those guys. Did you notice the skid marks on the road?\u201d<\/p>\n

Wiley nodded, keeping his eyes on what barely resembled a car. The driver was still in there. He could see his rigid, charred body still smoldering. Mouth open in a frozen scream. Lips peeled back. Back arched. Fingers curled around the steering wheel. He\u2019d seen it only once before\u2014a burned body. It was revolting, and yet there was something about it that held his gaze, as if the burnt stiff had reached out with those bony, black fingers and grabbed his eyeballs\u2014Look at me!<\/p>\n

He shut his eyes tight, trying to push the memory of the other burnt corpse from his mind. He knew it would never leave, though. It was seared there by some psycho-something branding iron.<\/p>\n

Wiley opened his eyes and blinked twice. Concentrate. \u201cYup. Two sets of \u2019em. But only one car. I don\u2019t like it. Loose ends. What\u2019s your take?\u201d<\/p>\n

Jess shrugged and nodded toward the wreck. \u201cGot run off the road by a drunk or sleeper, lost control, and met Mr. Tree.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou sound fairly certain. Got a witness?\u201d<\/p>\n

Jess turned and pointed over her shoulder. \u201cAlmost. See that guy over there?\u201d<\/p>\n

Wiley looked up the embankment and saw a thirty-something average joe in a faded gray T-shirt and grease-stained jeans leaning against a classic Mustang, hair disheveled, arms crossed, shoulders slumped, eyes blank. \u201cYeah. Who\u2019s he?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe was on the phone with\u2014\u201d She jerked her thumb toward the wreck and the stiff. \u201cSaid he heard the accident happen and called it in. Got here before anyone else, but the car was already a torch. Name\u2019s Stone. Mark. Said our friend here said something like \u2018What\u2019s this guy doin\u2019?\u2019 then he heard the wheels lock up and busting up stuff, then nothing.\u201d<\/p>\n

Wiley eyed Stone again. In the light of the cruiser\u2019s strobes, his eyes looked like two lifeless chunks of coal. His mouth was a thin line, jaw firm.<\/p>\n

Wiley turned his attention back to the Civic. \u201cAnything else?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo. Not yet anyway.\u201d<\/p>\n

They both stood quietly, studying the remains of the car, until a man\u2019s high-pitched voice from their right broke the silence. \u201cSheriff.\u201d<\/p>\n

Wiley turned to see Harold Carpenter, volunteer fire chief, high-stepping through the tall grass, his chubby jowls jiggling like Jell-O with each movement. With his sagging cheeks, underbite, and heavy bloodshot eyes, the man looked like a bulldog.<\/p>\n

Carpenter stopped in front of Wiley, flushed and out of breath. \u201cSheriff. What\u2019d ya think?\u201d<\/p>\n

Wiley didn\u2019t even look at him. He kept his eyes on the corpse sitting behind the wheel. \u201cJust got here, Harry. Don\u2019t think much yet.\u201d<\/p>\n

Carpenter shoved a singed, brown leather wallet at Wiley. \u201cHere\u2019s the driver\u2019s wallet. One of my guys retrieved it from the…uh…back pocket.\u201d<\/p>\n

Wiley took the wallet and handed it to Jess. Opening it, she slipped out the driver\u2019s license. It was singed around the top edge. \u201cJeffrey David Beaverson.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDid you run the plates yet?\u201d Wiley asked.<\/p>\n

Jess nodded. \u201cSure did. Same Beaverson.\u201d<\/p>\n

3<\/span><\/h3>\n

It was a perfect day for a funeral. If such a thing existed.<\/p>\n

The sky was a thick slab of slate suspended over the small town of Quarry, Maryland, coloring everything in drab hues of gray. A dense mist hung in the air, a blanket of moisture, covering the region in a damp clamminess. The air was cool but not cold, and there was no wind whatsoever.<\/p>\n

Mark Stone walked from his car to the grave site, his black loafers sinking into the soft ground. With the exception of their little cluster of about twenty people, the cemetery was empty. Still and quiet. Eerie, Mark thought. For acres, granite headstones protruded from the ground like stained teeth, each memorializing somebody\u2019s loved one, lost forever. In the distance, maybe a hundred yards away, stood a mausoleum, a concrete angel perched on the roof above the doorway. Mark shuddered at the thought of a body lying inside. Dead and cold.<\/p>\n

Mark looked to his right then to his left. The other mourners\u2014friends and family of the Beaversons\u2014were climbing out of their cars and making their way across the wet grass, shoulders slumped, heads bowed low. Men held black umbrellas against their shoulders; women held white tissues to their noses. A few trees dotted the landscape, their twisted, half-barren branches reaching into the gray sky as if begging for even a glimmer of life. But there was no life in a place like this. Only death.<\/p>\n

Mark swallowed the lump that had become a permanent fixture in his throat and ran a sleeve across his eyes.<\/p>\n

The reverend (Mahoney, was it?) stood beside the black, polished casket, faced Wendy Beaverson, and opened a little black book. He cleared his throat and began reading, \u201cJesus said to her, \u2018I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in Me, though he may die, he shall live. And whoever lives and believes…\u201d<\/p>\n

Mark looked across the casket at Wendy. Her red, swollen eyes leaked tears that coursed down her cheeks in long rivulets. Her honey-colored hair was pulled back in a tight bun, accentuating the sharp angles of her face. She wore a black knee-length overcoat buttoned to the collar. In her left arm sat little Gracie, clinging to her mommy\u2019s neck.<\/p>\n

Poor kid. She\u2019ll never remember her daddy. He was a great guy, sweetheart.<\/p>\n

Wendy\u2019s right arm was draped over Sara\u2019s shoulder. The eldest daughter, just five, leaned against Wendy\u2019s hip, her head fitting perfectly in the dip of her mother\u2019s waist.<\/p>\n

A sob rose in Mark\u2019s throat, and he struggled to keep it under control. Death was a beastly thing. Showed no mercy at all. A daddy torn from his family; children left confused and empty; wife suddenly bearing the burden of raising two daughters by herself, no one to share joys and heartbreaks with. What a crock.<\/p>\n

Reverend Mahoney continued talking, his monotone voice a fitting backdrop to the dismal atmosphere. \u201cAnd so, as we bury Jeffrey today, it is true to say we bury one of us. We bury him in a cemetery…\u201d<\/p>\n

Cheryl had an arm around Wendy\u2019s shoulders, holding her tight. She always was the caring type. A real Mother Teresa. Mark wiped at his eyes again and watched his wife comfort his best friend\u2019s wife. Widow.<\/p>\n

\u201c…I have never yet heard anyone say there is a different heaven for each faith…\u201d<\/p>\n

A splinter of guilt stabbed at Mark\u2019s heart, and he was suddenly glad he and Cheryl had not yet had kids. He\u2019d hurt her enough. Ripped her heart out and tossed it in the garbage like last week\u2019s leftovers.<\/p>\n

\u2014It\u2019s over, Mark. Done.<\/p>\n

\u2014Cher\u2014Cheryl, wait…I\u2014<\/p>\n

\u2014No! Wait? Wait for what? Wait for what, Mark? Your apology?<\/p>\n

\u2014Cheryl, please don\u2019t go\u2014<\/p>\n

\u2014Shut up! You think saying you\u2019re sorry can make up for what you…what you did to me? To us?<\/p>\n

He would have never been able to bear knowing he\u2019d not only betrayed Cheryl but betrayed a son or daughter, or both, as well. Hurting Cheryl was enough. More than enough. Seeing her now, he could barely stand to be in his own skin. If only. That\u2019s what he\u2019d told himself a million times since she\u2019d found out. If only this. If only that.<\/p>\n

\u201c…we are all the same before God…\u201d<\/p>\n

Life was full of if onlys, wasn\u2019t it? But the kick in the gut is that those if onlys become a phantom, a haunting, relentless ghost that clings to the soul like a parasite, slowly sucking the life from its host. But there\u2019s not a thing to be done about it. No one can change the past. What\u2019s done is done. Live with it.<\/p>\n

Mahoney was still droning, \u201c…we take nothing with us when we die…\u201d<\/p>\n

Cheryl looked up, and her gaze met Mark\u2019s. A knot twisted his stomach at the sight of her hollow eyes. They were once so brilliant, so alive, so…blue. The color of a Caribbean surf on a cloudless day. From somewhere deep in his noodle (that\u2019s what Cheryl would say) a memory surfaced. Mark didn\u2019t want it to surface, not now. Save it for some lonely time when he was parked on the sofa in front of the TV with a microwave dinner on a little folding tray.<\/p>\n

The memory: sitting on a blanket in the park, Cheryl by his side, her head on his shoulder, a cool breeze playing with her hair, bringing the scent of her shampoo so close he could almost smell it now. Cheryl tilts her face toward his.<\/p>\n

\u2014What d\u2019ya know, babycakes?<\/p>\n

\u2014I know I love you.<\/p>\n

\u2014Really? Forever and ever, cross your heart and hope to die?<\/p>\n

\u2014Forever and ever. Cross my heart and hope to die.<\/p>\n

But now those eyes were dull, muted by the pain of betrayal and the ache of death. Her face was drawn and pale, thinner than the last time he saw her.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m sorry, Cheryl. So sorry.<\/p>\n

He wanted to scream the words, run to her and drop to his knees, but she would never forgive him. She held his stare for mere seconds, her eyes piercing his with a loneliness that he\u2019d brought on.<\/p>\n

Cheryl. Baby. Babycakes. I\u2019m sorry.<\/p>\n

\u201c…So as we bury Jeffrey, we bury one of us…\u201d<\/p>\n

Mark shifted his weight, clasped his hands behind his back, and lowered his head, letting the mist cool the back of his neck.<\/p>\n

When Mahoney finally finished, the mourners slowly cleared, whispering to each other. \u201cIsn\u2019t it a shame.\u201d \u201cWhat a horrible tragedy.\u201d \u201cThe poor woman. Two little girls with no daddy, but didn\u2019t they look precious.\u201d<\/p>\n

Back to life as they know it. Life goes on. For some.<\/p>\n

Wendy approached the casket and rested her hand on the glossy surface. She whispered something Mark couldn\u2019t quite make out. Little Gracie turned her head to look at the box that held her daddy, and Sara choked out a sob, her tender mouth twisting into a broken frown.<\/p>\n

As Wendy passed Mark, she rested her hand on his forearm and squeezed. She didn\u2019t say anything, but her eyes said it all: Thanks for coming.<\/p>\n

Mark forced a smile and nodded.<\/p>\n

Cheryl followed Wendy. As she passed in front of Mark, he took her arm in his hand. \u201cCheryl, I\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t, Mark,\u201d she said, her voice strained with grief. She looked at the ground and her chin quivered. \u201cDon\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mark let his hand fall to his side and let his wife walk out of his life. Again.<\/p>\n

Ten minutes later he was sitting behind the wheel of his Mustang, tiny raindrops pattering on the windshield. The mourners were mostly gone now, heading to the Beaversons\u2019 home for the wake. He didn\u2019t want to go but knew he had to at least make an appearance?.?.?.?for Wendy. His mind wasn\u2019t on the wake, wasn\u2019t even on the funeral. It was on the screams. They were as fresh in his mind today as when he\u2019d first heard them a week ago.<\/p>\n

He\u2019d raced to Cooper\u2019s Hollow after dialing 911. The first thing he saw was the gyrating orange glow of the fire on the horizon, retching a pillar of smoke as black as new charcoal into the night sky. The next thing he saw was Jeff\u2019s Civic engulfed in angry flames and Jeff pinned behind the steering wheel, bloated and stiff. The sound of the fire was like a locomotive. The smell of burning fuel and flesh was hot in his lungs.<\/p>\n

The rest of the night was a black blur, a nightmare that would surface piece by piece until the whole ghastly affair played itself out like some cut-\u2019em-up horror movie in his head. And he would be forced to watch, eyelids taped open and head held in place. The last thing he remembered was arriving home, falling into bed, and dreaming of Jeff\u2019s blackened corpse writhing in anguish as flames licked at his flesh and wrapped his body in hell\u2019s chains.<\/p>\n

Mark ran his hands over his face, feeling the bristles of his morning stubble, a reminder that he hadn\u2019t shaved. He could still hear the screams, awful sounds, like thousands, no, millions, of voices lifted in agony, a chorus of misery and anguish. Every time the sounds of the outside world died and silence crept in like a demon, the screams were there, echoing through his head, filling his ears with the sound of the tortured. If it was nothing more than tangled signals like Jeff had suggested, where was the signal coming from? Hell, that\u2019s where.<\/p>\n

He shut his eyes and pressed both palms to his forehead. Maybe the wake would take his mind off things.<\/p>\n

4<\/span><\/h3>\n

Judge sat in an old brown metal desk chair in the center of a basement room, elbows resting on the armrests, fingertips lightly pressed together, forming a tent in front of his face. A gray metal desk sat against one wall, its surface covered with photo clippings and notebook paper scrawled with notes. To the left of the desk stood a metal bookshelf, empty except for one stack of spiral notebooks and manila file folders. To the right of the bookshelf stood a gray, metal, four-drawer locking file cabinet.<\/p>\n

Everything was metal. Firm. Dependable. Solid.<\/p>\n

Fire resistant.<\/p>\n

In the center of the room, a single 60-watt bulb dangled from the ceiling, casting sharp shadows on the walls.<\/p>\n

All four walls were covered with a collage of photos. A closer look would reveal that all the pictures were of four women in particular. One for each wall.<\/p>\n

His four victims.<\/p>\n

No, not victims. No way. They weren\u2019t victims. She was a victim. Katie was. They were perpetrators. Guilty and getting exactly what they deserved. Justice.<\/p>\n

He stood, walked over to the wall behind the desk, and stared at a photo of a brown-haired woman in a miniskirt and halter top. Amber. He knew everything about her. Probably more than she knew about herself.<\/p>\n

She got off work every night at ten. Took exactly thirty-seven seconds to walk the forty-five yards to her car. Drove a late model Chevy Cavalier that she bought from Prairie View Pre-Owned Cars eight months ago. License plate: LUV ME. Drove the five miles to her second-floor apartment in just under ten minutes, depending on traffic flow and traffic light patterns. She was thirty-one, five-six, hazel eyes, and drop-dead gorgeous.<\/p>\n

Drop dead, gorgeous.<\/p>\n

She was lovely, though, wasn\u2019t she?<\/p>\n

But it wasn\u2019t about love. No way. Not even about desire or lust or hunger. He wasn\u2019t a pervert like some. Sure, he liked to look as much as the next guy, but when it came down to business, it wasn\u2019t about the needs of the flesh. It was about justice. And he was the judge and the jury.<\/p>\n

That\u2019s why he called himself Judge.<\/p>\n

She was guilty. They were all guilty.<\/p>\n

He smiled and stroked the tuft of hair below his lower lip. He\u2019d heard somewhere that it was called a soul patch. A fitting name. His soul needed to be patched.<\/p>\n

He then smoothed his mustache with his left hand and gently stroked the photo with his right.<\/p>\n

Justice would be served tonight. His heart beat a little faster at the thought, and his stomach fluttered. This is what he was born to do. Be an agent of justice. An enforcer of right.<\/p>\n

An image flashed through his mind. A young girl, thirteen. Katie. She was innocent, and they killed her.<\/p>\n

And he did nothing. Cowering like a frightened kitten, fighting the urge to vomit, struggling to find oxygen, he did nothing but watch in paralyzed horror.<\/p>\n

Well, no more.<\/p>\n

He glanced at his watch\u20148:27\u2014and tapped a picture of Amber. \u201cSoon.\u201d<\/p>\n

The plan was ready, everything down to the last detail. Details were good. He would carefully execute the plan, documenting everything.<\/p>\n

Tonight. Justice.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s gonna be a hot time in the old town tonight.<\/p>\n

5<\/span><\/h3>\n

Amber Mann slipped off her apron and hung it on a brass hook on the wall. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, stood on her toes, and looked at herself in the small mirror that someone had hung a little too high for the averaged-height waitress.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou outta here, hon?\u201d Marge, her co-waitress for the evening, emerged from one of the bathroom stalls and went to wash her hands.<\/p>\n

Amber smoothed her eyeliner, puckered her lips, and applied a thin layer of lip gloss. \u201cYup.\u201d She glanced at the clock on the wall\u2014the one with Bertha\u2019s Diner in fancy script painted across the face. Someone had given it to Bertha for the diner\u2019s twentieth anniversary. She didn\u2019t particularly care for the style, so she\u2019d banished it to the lady\u2019s room. 9:57. \u201cThree minutes and I\u2019m punching out. I need every minute I can get.\u201d<\/p>\n

Marge chuckled and tilted her head to the side. \u201cYou goin\u2019 out tonight?\u201d<\/p>\n

Amber shot her a sideways look and a devilish grin. \u201cWhat\u2019s it to ya, mommy dearest?\u201d She quickly unbuttoned her uniform shirt, slipped it off, and replaced it with a black tank top with thin shoulder straps. Yanking her pants off, she pulled on a black miniskirt that barely covered her fanny. She then slid her feet into a pair of black pumps.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, if you ain\u2019t, you sure look good for just sittin\u2019 \u2019round your \u2019partment.\u201d<\/p>\n

Amber laughed. \u201cYeah, I\u2019m going out. Over to Bruno\u2019s, see what kind of action is happening tonight.\u201d<\/p>\n

Marge put her hands on her hips and gave her a motherly look. \u201cWell, be careful. Bruno\u2019s ain\u2019t the safest place for a girl lookin\u2019 like you to be goin\u2019. Lotsa tough guys tryin\u2019 to impress the girls there.\u201d<\/p>\n

Amber stuffed her uniform in a pink duffle bag. She grinned wide. \u201cDon\u2019t worry about me, mommy. I can handle myself around the boys.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou doin\u2019 anything special this weekend?\u201d Marge said, drying her hands with a paper towel.<\/p>\n

\u201cTomorrow I\u2019m going over to my sister\u2019s to spend some time with my nephew. You should see him; he\u2019s so adorable. I just can\u2019t get enough of him. How \u2019bout you? Got any big plans?\u201d<\/p>\n

Marge humphed. \u201cYeah, right. All Jim wants to do is sit around and watch football. The old goat. I\u2019ll keep myself busy \u2019round the house, though.\u201d<\/p>\n

Amber looked at the clock again. \u201cHey, it\u2019s time. Gotta run, Marge. Love ya, girl.\u201d She pulled on a red coat and gave Marge a loose hug.<\/p>\n

\u201cLove ya, hon.\u201d<\/p>\n

They left the bathroom, and Amber headed for the back door. As she pushed through the door she heard Marge call out one more time, \u201cYou be careful now.\u201d<\/p>\n

She let the door close and breathed in a chestful of cool autumn air. Bruno\u2019s should be hoppin\u2019 tonight. And Mitch would be there. She could almost feel his thick arms around her waist as they danced, her head on his chest, breathing in his masculine scent. They would stay like that for hours, bodies intertwined, moving in unison to the steady rhythm of the music, then go back to his place. It was perfect, heaven on earth if there ever was one.<\/p>\n

She strode across the parking lot toward her car, heels clicking on the asphalt, echoing in the stillness of the evening. She hadn\u2019t told Marge about Mitch. He was a tattoo artist, had his own shop downtown. Mommy Marge would never approve. She watched over Amber like a mother hen, closer than her own mom did. Amber could just imagine what old Marge would say if she ever found\u2014<\/p>\n

She started and took a quick step to her left. A man was suddenly there, walking beside her, step for step. \u201cOh, hey. You scared me.\u201d<\/p>\n

The man stopped and faced her. \u201cAmber Mann?\u201d<\/p>\n

She stopped too. One hand rested on her duffle bag, the other hung loosely at her side. Somewhere in the distance, a few blocks away, a car horn honked. \u201cYes. Is something wrong?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCan I ask you a few questions?\u201d<\/p>\n

Amber brushed some hair off her face and tucked it behind her ear. She noticed her hand was suddenly shaking. \u201cUh, sure. Is something wrong?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, ma\u2019am. Nothing\u2019s wrong. Just need to ask you a few questions. It\u2019s about Mitch Young.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mitch. Amber felt her stomach twist into a knot, like someone had gut-punched her. She knew what she had with Mitch wouldn\u2019t last. It couldn\u2019t. Her life didn\u2019t work that way. \u201cUm.\u201d She bit on a fingernail, not sure if she wanted to answer questions, not sure she wanted to know Mitch\u2019s secrets. \u201cI guess.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLet\u2019s walk to your car,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, OK.\u201d She turned and headed toward her Cavalier. She was within feet of the car when something exploded in the back of her head.<\/p>\n

6<\/span><\/h3>\n

It was nearly half an hour later by the time Judge dragged Amber to the barn. He\u2019d had to knock her several times to subdue her enough to get the ether over her mouth and nose. She was quite the feisty one. It was too messy, though, too sloppy. During the time it took, someone could have driven by or come out of the diner. But she was the first. Now he knew; he\u2019d have to be more careful with the others.<\/p>\n

He gripped her by the wrists and pulled her into a corner where a bed of straw had been prepared. Outside the barn, the dogs were barking like maniacs, over and over, nonstop. Judge kicked hard against the barn wall. \u201cQuit your bawling! Or I\u2019ll roast you!\u201d The racket ceased for maybe five, six seconds\u2014long enough to notice the sound of crickets in the distance\u2014then resumed in a flurry of yelps and coughs.<\/p>\n

Removing a pocketknife, he flipped it open and cut the duct tape from Amber\u2019s wrists and ankles. Just a precaution during the long ride over. He didn\u2019t need her coming to and throwing a hissy fit in the backseat while he was driving. Safety first.<\/p>\n

She moaned and tried to roll over, but a grimace twisted her face and she relaxed again, letting out a strained sigh. He could see two goose eggs on her head but knew there were more. He\u2019d walloped her at least three times.<\/p>\n

\u201cSleep tight, beautiful,\u201d he said, squatting beside her. \u201cYou\u2019re gonna have one killer headache when you wake up.\u201d<\/p>\n

The dogs continued their onslaught, like an old smoker trying to clear fluid from his lungs. Judge stood and kicked the boards again. \u201cShut up!\u201d<\/p>\n

Placing his hands on his hips, he looked around the barn. Enough light from the full moon was seeping through the cracks between the wall planks to dust the spacious interior with soft blue light. Straw, strewn across the floor like a loosely woven carpet, glistened under each moon ray. It was actually a very pleasant evening. What a shame to have to ruin it for little miss LUV ME here.<\/p>\n

He stared at her for a moment, taking in her graceful, feminine form. She lay on her side, hand resting on her head, long legs slightly crossed. She was a fine specimen, indeed. But it wasn\u2019t about that, he reminded himself. It was about justice and justice only. Nothing more, nothing less. Don\u2019t personalize it.<\/p>\n

But still, he couldn\u2019t deny the fact that she was beautiful. Maybe just a peek under that skirt. She would never know\u2014<\/p>\n

No! It\u2019s not like that. I\u2019m not a monster.<\/p>\n

He went outside, walked around to the back of the barn, and stopped in front of two metal dog kennels. Stooping to unlock them, he said, \u201cNow boys, you keep good watch over our guest. And don\u2019t stray too far. She\u2019s gonna get lonely, you hear?\u201d<\/p>\n

7<\/span><\/h3>\n

Amber rolled onto her back and lifted both hands to her forehead. Her whole skull throbbed, felt like it would explode any second. She peeled her eyes open and noticed the first rays of light filtering through rough-planked walls, dust swirling in the air. Something crunched beneath her. Where was she? What happened last night? Her mind spun. She winced and ran a hand gently over her head. Where did she get these lumps? So tender. She moaned and tried to push herself to a sitting position, but her body felt like it was filled with lead, and her muscles refused to cooperate. Finally, she settled on scooting herself back and propping up on the mound of straw.<\/p>\n

Straw? Wait a minute. She was on a bed of straw. She looked around again. Wooden planks rose vertically on either side of her about fifteen feet into the air, held together by wooden beams. A few slanted bars of sunlight slipped past the gaps in the planks and dotted the floor with golden light. Straw was scattered over the worn flooring.<\/p>\n

Amber\u2019s mind was slowly beginning to piece things together. Straw. Wood. Beams. She was in a barn. For the first time since regaining consciousness, she drew in a long breath. Yes, definitely a barn. The musty, earthy odor of straw and rotting hay and who-knows-how-old animal dung was unmistakable.<\/p>\n

She looked around. The barn was obviously abandoned. There were no stacks of bales, no tools, no tractors, and as she listened, no rustle of animals. As far as she could tell, she was the only occupant. She leaned to her left and pressed her face against a gap between two wall planks. Outside the barn, the ground sloped away toward what looked like an overgrown pasture. On the other side of the field, maybe a quarter mile away, stood a line of trees that stretched as far as she could see to the left and right. North and south. The sun peeked out just over the treetops, and beyond that, fingers of pink light reached into the pale blue sky.<\/p>\n

A jolt of panic, like a thousand-volt shock, buzzed through her nerves.<\/p>\n

Where was she? How did she get here? And how did her head get so banged up? The questions stood like giant bullies, refusing to leave until answered. Like her dad. An image of him towering over her, thick arms crossed, forehead wrinkled, asking over and over again \u201cHow many bales today?\u201d flashed through her mind. How many bales? She was only nine. She just wanted to do a nine-year-old\u2019s worth of chores and go play. But he made her work and work and work. And if she didn\u2019t make her quota? Well, well, \u201cYou\u2019re not goin\u2019 anywhere, missy, until you finish your chores.\u201d He\u2019d corner her and fire questions at her, quizzing her on mundane farm facts\u2014how many square feet in an acre, how many acres in a square mile, how many quarts in a peck and pecks in a bushel\u2014and wouldn\u2019t let her eat or sleep until she answered every one correctly. The bully.<\/p>\n

But this time she had an answer, one that made her shiver. She\u2019d been kidnapped. Taken against her will. Abducted. Apparently beaten and?.?.?.?she didn\u2019t even want to think about what else. Instinctively, she tugged at her skirt, wishing she\u2019d worn pants.<\/p>\n

Slowly, like a TV station slowly picking up the signal from a rotary antenna, her memory faded in. She left work last night and a man approached her in the parking lot. She remembered his face, lean and angular, mustache and patch of hair under his bottom lip. But that was all. Just his face. He\u2019d asked her a question, she knew that. But what the question was, was yet another question. Unanswered.<\/p>\n

And what about Liz? She was supposed to visit Liz and Christopher today. Surely they\u2019d miss her and report it, right? They\u2019d have cops looking for her before the day was over. Or maybe not. Maybe Liz would just assume something came up, something more important. But if Liz didn\u2019t report it, surely Mitch would. She was supposed to meet him last night. Mitch. He must have been worried sick when she didn\u2019t show. That settled it in her mind. By the end of the day, there would be a massive search effort underway. There had to be. Somebody would miss her.<\/p>\n

She pulled her knees up and looked out between the planks again. Suddenly, a furry, toothy face appeared only inches away, mouth curled into a snarl. A dog! Then another face appeared. Two dogs! Dobermans. Outside the barn. The dogs began clawing at the planks, snarling and growling. Amber tried to push herself away from the wall, but her hand slipped on the straw, and she tumbled to her side. A jolt of pain shot up her neck and pounded in her head, and she let out a scream.<\/p>\n

\u201cI see you\u2019re awake,\u201d a voice said from one of the far corners. A man\u2019s voice.<\/p>\n

Amber started and sat up straight, her head scolding her for the sudden movement. She searched the far corners of the barn and noticed a man standing in one. He was wearing jeans and tanned leather work boots. The rest of his body was hidden in the shadows.<\/p>\n

\u201cGood morning,\u201d he said. His voice was in no way cheerful but not altogether sinister either. The voice from last night. This was the man she\u2019d met in the parking lot. And no doubt the man who gave her the killer headache and brought her here.<\/p>\n

Amber tried to push farther back against the wall, but she was already pressed against it. She tugged again at her skirt. \u201cWho are you?\u201d<\/p>\n

The man shifted his weight and crossed one leg over the other. \u201cNo need to bother with names here. Let\u2019s not make this personal. You can just call me Judge. There\u2019s a gallon of water and bag of apples to your right. That should hold you over for now.\u201d<\/p>\n

The dogs to Amber\u2019s left began chewing at the wooden planks, snarling, their tongues flitting in and out of their mouths. Amber shot them a wary look.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t worry about them,\u201d the man said. \u201cThey can\u2019t get in. They\u2019re to keep you from getting out. Don\u2019t even think about making a run for it. We\u2019re miles from nowhere, and the dogs are very hungry. Do you know what it\u2019s like to be eaten alive? Meat pulled from your bones while you\u2019re still kicking and screaming? No, of course you don\u2019t. And trust me, you don\u2019t want to find out.\u201d<\/p>\n

Amber covered her mouth with her hand and choked back a sob. Her eyes burned with tears, and a lump the size of one of those apples had lodged in her throat. Fear had wrapped its bony fingers around her neck and tightened its grip. \u201cWhat\u2014what are you gonna do with me? Why am I here? What do you want?\u201d<\/p>\n

The man chuckled and uncrossed his legs. \u201cSoon enough, my dear. You\u2019ll get answers to all your questions soon enough. You\u2019ll be getting some company too. I don\u2019t want you getting lonely all the way out here. The dogs are good for some things, but they\u2019re lousy conversationalists.\u201d<\/p>\n

There was a long moment of silence, and though she couldn\u2019t see them, masked by the shadow as they were, she could feel his eyes on her. And it made her skin crawl.<\/p>\n

Finally, he walked to a cutout door in the middle of the larger, rolling barn door, opened it, and paused, still obscured by a slanting shadow. \u201cUntil later, Amber.\u201d And then he was gone. She heard a lock slide into place and something large and heavy thud against the door at the bottom.<\/p>\n

To her left, the Dobermans continued their gnawing and chewing.<\/p>\n

8<\/span><\/h3>\n

It was almost three o\u2019clock in the afternoon when Mark finally took a break to eat lunch. After the funeral yesterday he\u2019d gone to the wake and numbly stood in a corner of the den in Jeff\u2019s home (the same den where he\u2019d spent countless hours playing poker, shooting pool, and rooting for the Washington Redskins) nursing his iced tea and watching Cheryl mingle with their friends. Correction, her friends. After she left him and the news became public, their friends suddenly wanted nothing to do with him. Jeff and Wendy were the only ones who had remained loyal. The rest had proven to be fair-weather friends\u2014the worst kind.<\/p>\n

He\u2019d spent less than an hour at the wake, returned home, fell onto the sofa, clicked on the flat screen, and zoned out. How long he sat there or what he watched he had no idea. But it was late, wee-hours-of-the-morning late, by the time exhaustion finally overtook him. When he\u2019d had enough, he trudged into the bedroom, the one he used to share with his wife, and collapsed on the bed, falling quickly asleep still wearing his dress clothes.<\/p>\n

This morning he\u2019d debated whether to go into work or not. It was, after all, Saturday. He could stay home and play zombie all day, regretting how his life had turned out, regretting every poor decision he\u2019d ever made, regretting there was nothing he could have done to save Jeff. Or he could go to the garage, lose himself in some engine or transmission, and hopefully keep his mind off the hopelessness of life and retain his sanity for another day.<\/p>\n

The prospect of sanity finally won.<\/p>\n

Mark sat in a gray swivel chair in his cubicle-sized office and opened his cooler. Ham sandwich, barbecue chips, and an apple. He wasn\u2019t hungry, but he unwrapped the sandwich and took a large bite anyway.<\/p>\n

Jeff\u2019s death was a shock, of course, and Mark\u2019s heart ached for Wendy and the girls. Every time he pictured the girls in their pretty dresses standing beside that casket, a lump rose in his throat, and his eyes burned with tears. But one thing that kept hammering in his mind like a hyperactive woodpecker was the phone call he had with Jeff just before the accident. There was that awful scream that had interrupted the conversation. What was it? Where did it come from?<\/p>\n

Mark took a long swig of Diet Pepsi, wiped the condensation from his hand, and took another bite of his sandwich. In the main shop area, his boom box belted out some guy singing.<\/p>\n

\u201c…you had a bad day…\u201d<\/p>\n

Mark grunted. That pretty much summed it up. How \u2019bout bad life?<\/p>\n

His mind went back to the scream. At the time he\u2019d thought nothing of it. Just some interference in the cell phone signal or something. But now, for some reason he couldn\u2019t explain, he wasn\u2019t so sure. But what was it? It was the first time he\u2019d ever heard such a thing, and it just so happened to occur on the same night\u2014only minutes before\u2014Jeff got in a bizarre car accident and died? Not just died, burned to death. Weird. Very weird.<\/p>\n

He reached for a chip and flipped it into his mouth just as the phone on his desk rang.<\/p>\n

Mark quickly chewed the chip, took a gulp of Diet Pepsi, and answered the phone on the third ring. \u201cStone Service Center.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMark, it\u2019s Jerry down at Detweiler\u2019s. How\u2019s it going?\u201d<\/p>\n

Crappy, Jerry, but thanks for asking. That\u2019s what he wanted to say, but he had no desire to talk about Jeff\u2019s death yet. Play it safe. \u201c\u2019Bout half. What, you working Saturdays now too?\u201d<\/p>\n

Jerry chuckled. \u201cWhen business is good you do what it takes to keep it that way.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou got a point there.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHey, I have that fuel injector you ordered. For the \u201999 Cavalier. You\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

Screams cut off Jerry\u2019s voice like a guillotine. The screams. The same ones Mark had heard before\u2014before Jeff died. Hideous, tortuous wails and groans. An image of thousands, maybe millions, of twisted faces, distorted with pain, flashed through his mind and his blood ran cold, as if someone had jammed an IV of ice water into his vein. Goose bumps freckled his skin, and his neck and jaw tingled. His throat suddenly tightened, and he found it hard to breathe.<\/p>\n

Like last time, it lasted maybe five seconds then ceased abruptly.<\/p>\n

\u201cMark? Mark, you still there?\u201d Jerry was talking to him, but Mark\u2019s mind was not registering it as actual words spoken to him. They were off in the distance somewhere. \u201cHello?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cUh, yeah, Jerry, I\u2019m still here.\u201d He had to force the words out past his restricting trachea.<\/p>\n

\u201cDid you hear that?\u201d<\/p>\n

Mark closed his eyes, willing his muscles to relax. He took a deep breath. \u201cYeah, I heard it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat was it? Sounded like screaming.\u201d<\/p>\n

Like hell itself. \u201cI know. I don\u2019t know what it was.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jerry snorted into the phone. \u201cCrazy. Anyway, I\u2019ll run the injector over to you right now.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mark still wasn\u2019t thinking clearly. He was still hearing the screams ringing in his ears. \u201cO-OK. No, wait! Jerry. Wait.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m waiting. What is it?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you calling from a landline?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou mean a regular phone? Yeah. Why?\u201d<\/p>\n

A thought had suddenly occurred to Mark, and it made his heart thump. He was on a landline too. There was no way the screams were some kind of interference, signals crossing with something else. \u201cUm, nothing. Just wondering. You don\u2019t have to bring the injector out here. I\u2019ll come get it.\u201d<\/p>\n

There was a pause, and Mark could hear paper rustling in the background. \u201cNo, I\u2019ll drop it off. I have a couple other parts to deliver, and you\u2019re on the way.\u201d<\/p>\n

Panic seized Mark. He gripped the phone tighter with a sweaty palm, tried to sound calm. This was crazy! \u201cJerry, really, I insist. I need to get out of the shop for a little. Cabin fever thing, you know? I\u2019ve been putting in some long hours, and I\u2019m getting stir-crazy. I\u2019m leaving right now. I\u2019ll be over in ten minutes. Don\u2019t go anywhere, OK?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cJerry, please.\u201d He knew his voice was rising, and he knew Jerry probably thought he\u2019d completely lost his grip on reality, but he didn\u2019t care anymore. He pressed his molars together then relaxed them. \u201cDon\u2019t go anywhere. I\u2019m coming right over. OK?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOK, OK. I\u2019ll wait for you. Don\u2019t be too long. I got things to do, you know.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mark blew out a breath and loosened his grip on the receiver. \u201cThanks. See ya in a few.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOK. A few.\u201d<\/p>\n

9<\/span><\/h3>\n

Mark raced down Broadway in his 1973 Ford Mustang, slowing only for the dips in the road at each intersection. Pineville was a small town, hokey even, and anywhere one wanted to go in any direction was no more than a ten-minute drive\u2014going the posted speed limits. But Mark wasn\u2019t anywhere near the posted limit.<\/p>\n

His mind raced too. He\u2019d heard it again, hadn\u2019t he? Were the screams real? Of course they were. He\u2019d heard them with his own ears. Weeping and gnashing of teeth. And Jerry heard them too. So did Jeff. They were real, all right. Too real. Made his skin itch just thinking about it.<\/p>\n

Crazy. That\u2019s all Mark could make of it. And his bizarre reaction. Just because Jeff died shortly after the screams didn\u2019t mean Jerry was in immediate danger. Or any danger at all, for that matter.<\/p>\n

Crazy. Jerry had to think he was half out of his mind. Maybe he was.<\/p>\n

But what if he wasn\u2019t? What if there really was something to the screams? What if Jerry\u2019s life really was in jeopardy? He couldn\u2019t afford to be wrong. Jerry couldn\u2019t afford it. No, he\u2019d done the right thing. Jerry was safer just staying put and waiting for Mark to pick up the injector.<\/p>\n

At the intersection of Broadway and Clayton, Mark slowed the \u2019Stang just enough to keep rubber on asphalt and took the ninety-degree turn at a tire-screaming speed. An elderly man working in his garden jerked his head up and around and yelled an obscenity, flailing his arms wildly.<\/p>\n

Up ahead, Detweiler\u2019s sat on the corner of Clayton and Monroe. Mark pressed the accelerator; the engine rumbled, tachometer climbed steadily. Just before the entrance to Detweiler\u2019s parking lot, he stomped on the brake and jerked the steering wheel hard to the right. The car bounced into the parking lot and came to a stop.<\/p>\n

Mark jumped out of the car and ran for the front door. His pulse was pounding out a steady rhythm in his ears, and the adrenaline rush had left him nearly out of breath. He was lucky to make it here without getting pulled over.<\/p>\n

Swinging open the glass door, he stepped inside and called for Jerry. When no answer came, he looked around and noticed the store was empty. No customers in the aisles. No Jerry behind the counter.<\/p>\n

C\u2019mon, Jerry. Don\u2019t tell me you left anyway.<\/p>\n

Mark peered out the storefront window and saw Jerry\u2019s tan Chevy S-10 sitting in the parking lot, Detweiler\u2019s Auto Parts emblazoned across the door panel.<\/p>\n

\u201cJerry!\u201d He listened and approached the counter. \u201cHey, Jerry. It\u2019s Mark. You here?\u201d<\/p>\n

No answer.<\/p>\n

\u201cHello? Jerry?\u201d<\/p>\n

Still no answer.<\/p>\n

Mark leaned over the counter and nearly choked on his own saliva. There, behind the counter, lying prone on the cement floor, was Jerry Detweiler.<\/p>\n

Mark rushed around the counter and rolled the large man over. Jerry\u2019s empty eyes, like two blank TV screens, bulged toward the ceiling, mouth open, a trickle of blood curling around his nostril. Mark pressed his fingers against Jerry\u2019s carotid but felt nothing. No life-giving blood pumping through the artery. No steady pulse throbbing under his fingertips. A groan escaped from somewhere deep in Mark\u2019s chest, and he clenched his jaw tight, cursing under his breath.<\/p>\n

Jerry was dead. But it couldn\u2019t have happened more than five minutes ago. Mark had just talked to him, and the drive here only took seven minutes tops. He reached for the phone on the counter and punched in 911. Then, with phone jammed between his ear and shoulder, he placed both hands on Jerry\u2019s barrel chest, one on top of the other, and started compressing.<\/p><\/div>\n

MY REVIEW:<\/strong><\/p>\n

In Scream<\/a>, Mike Dellosso delivers an edge-of-the seat thriller that will keep most readers wanting to read just one more page then another one. Once I recovered enough from a blinding sinus headache to actually concentrate, I stayed up until I had finished the last page.<\/p>\n

More than just a thriller, Dellosso gives the reader a deeper look into the thoughts of the characters and their motivations. The hero is just a down-to-earth guy with a failed marriage and who is very aware that he doesn’t have all the answers. As the story progresses, enough is revealed about the villain’s traumatic past that his diabolical plan almost makes sense.<\/p>\n

But what is truly terrifying about Scream<\/a> is a sense of the inevitability of death and the absolute horror of dying without the saving grace of Jesus. It also brought to my attention how many people believe that their form of religion will save them but actually have no relationship to Christ. Scream left me with much to think about. I hope others will do the same.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[8],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1216","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-books"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1216","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=1216"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1216\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1550,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1216\/revisions\/1550"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=1216"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=1216"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=1216"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}