One Last Scream

“Then I’ll warn her to stay away. And I’ll need you to give me directions to the cabin.”

“What, are you nuts? If Amelia’s in that house, I’m not letting you go there. That’s insane. Besides, you don’t even have a car.”

“I could rent one.”

“Karen-”

“Listen, George, let’s not argue about it just yet. For all we know, Amelia might not even be at Lake Wenatchee.” Karen sighed. “Have you come up with anything about the Schlessingers at the Salem Library? I’m not having any luck on the Internet.”

“I had the same problem on the computers here. But I went to the periodicals desk, and they’re digging up some newspaper microfiche files for me right now. I just stepped outside to take the call from Barb in Bellingham. I’m heading back in there now.” He paused. “So-you’ll talk to this policewoman, right? Report your car stolen, and Amelia missing….”

“Yes, George, I will,” she replied. But she knew it wouldn’t be easy. The police would have a lot of questions for her, and maybe a few charges, starting with obstruction of justice.

“Okay. Talk to you soon,” he said.

“Bye, George.”

She quickly clicked off the line, and then dialed directory assistance for Wenatchee, Washington.

At the periodicals desk, George gave the librarian his driver’s license as a deposit for a microfiche file for the Salem Statesman Journal for the week of July 11–18, 2004. The two microfiche-viewing machines were at a desk near a bookcase full of reference books and in front of a window looking into the lobby and the Friends of the Library Bookstore.

He switched on the machine, and it made a soft, hairdryer-like humming noise. George quickly scanned the file until he came to the front page for July 14, 2004, the day after Lon and Annabelle Schlessinger had died. He wasn’t sure what he hoped to find-perhaps a story about a car crash or a local boating accident. Maybe the story wasn’t even in the local paper. Like Uncle Duane, they may not have even died in Salem.

He didn’t see anything on page one, but noticed the newspaper’s index in the bottom left corner said the obituaries were on page A 19. George fast-forwarded to it, but didn’t see any Schlessingers among the dead. He went back to the first page. These were A.M. Editions. If Lon and Annabelle had died late in the evening on July 13, it might not have made the morning paper.

He scanned forward to July 15, and searched the front page. His eyes were drawn to a headline near the bottom right of the page, taking up three columns. He anxiously read the article:

LOCAL RANCHER AND

DAUGHTER PERISH IN BLAZE

Widower and Teen were Salem

Residents for 11 years

MARION COUNTY: The two-story house of a secluded ranch outside Salem became the site of a fiery inferno Wednesday night, claiming the lives of widower, Lon Schlessinger, 45, and his daughter, Annabelle Faye Schlessinger, 16. Marion County investigators believe the fire started in the upstairs master bedroom…

“Another fire,” George murmured to himself. He was thinking about Duane Lee Savitt burning down the adoption agency.

The article didn’t exactly say Lon Schlessinger had fallen asleep while smoking in bed, but they sure hinted at it. Annabelle’s charred remains were discovered in the hallway by her bedroom door. The Schlessingers had moved to the area in 1993. Mrs. Schlessinger died that same year, “an apparent suicide,” according to the article. There was no mention of her dead brother, and his murder rampage, at least, not on page one.

George anxiously scanned down to page two, where there were side-by-side photos of Lon and Annabelle Schlessinger. He was a slightly paunchy, balding man who looked like an ex-jock gone to seed. The high school portrait of Annabelle was startling. George might as well have been staring at a three-year-old photo of his niece.

Biting his lip, George went back to the article, which talked about Lon’s membership in two civic organizations, and his love for hunting and fishing. George was more interested in what they reported about Amelia’s twin:

“Annabelle was an extremely bright student,” said Caroline Cadwell, her sophomore homeroom teacher at East Marion High School. “She was very driven. With her intelligence, beauty, and determination, we were all expecting great things in her future. It’s a tragic loss….”

The article ended with a quote from Annabelle’s friend and classmate, Erin Gottlieb:

“Annabelle was like a force of nature. She was so strong and determined. She never let anyone get in her way when she made her mind up to go after something, and you have to admire that. I guess it took another force of nature, like fire, to stop her.”

It struck George as a slightly cryptic epitaph, almost unflattering.

There was a coin slot at the side of the microfiche viewer and, for two quarters, George made a copy of each page. Then he returned the microfiche file to the reference desk, and asked for a local phone book.

He hoped Caroline Cadwell and Erin Gottlieb still lived in the area. Maybe Annabelle’s teacher and her friend could tell him something about Mrs. Schlessinger’s apparent suicide and Uncle Duane’s killing rampage. Maybe one of them knew about Annabelle’s twin sister.

She got Helene Sumner’s machine.

Karen waited for the beep, then started in: “Hello, Ms. Sumner. I’m Karen Carlisle, a friend of Amelia Faraday. I’m sorry to bother you, but-”

There was a click on the other end of the line. “Yes, hello,” the woman said. “This isn’t a reporter, is it?”

“No,” Karen said, suddenly sitting erect in her desk chair. “I’m a friend of Amelia Faraday. I’m calling from Seattle. She drove off early this morning in my car, a black Volkswagen Jetta. I’ve been trying to locate her. I was wondering-”

“Well, I can tell you where she was as of nine o’clock today,” Helene interrupted. “She was at their house, just down the lake from here. It’s got the police tape on the front door, but that didn’t stop her from going inside, though I suppose she has a right to go in there.”

“Then you saw her?”

“I heard screams,” Helene said. “That’s what got my attention. The sound travels across the water. I’ve been keeping an eye on the place. The police told me to report any trespassers. Well, I almost phoned them this morning when I heard the screaming and laughing over there. But then I got out the binoculars, and saw it was Amelia.”

“Just Amelia, and no one else?”

“I only saw her, though it sure sounded like someone else was there, maybe that boyfriend of hers.”

“Boyfriend?” Karen said. “You mean Shane?”

“I don’t know his name. I’m sorry. I know you’re Amelia’s friend, but…” Helene paused for a moment. “Are you in college with Amelia?”

“I’m Amelia’s therapist, Ms. Sumner,” Karen admitted.

“Well, then you must know, for someone so sweet and pretty, she has terrible taste in boyfriends.”

“Does he have black hair and wear sunglasses?” Karen asked.

“Yeah, that’s him. I’m sorry, I hate to say the word, but he looks like a pimp, what with his cheap suit and those sunglasses. But I didn’t see him today, just Amelia.”

“You said she was at the house around nine o’clock. Have you seen or heard anything over there since then?”

“No. She may have left. She may have gone back inside the house. I’m not sure.”

“Is there a black Jetta or an old Cadillac in the driveway?”

“They don’t have a driveway. There’s a short trail through the woods to the top of a hill, where the road is. The Faradays always parked their car in this inlet up there. Do you want me to go over to the house, and check if