One Last Scream. Kevin O'Brien
A Killer’s Trap
Tucking the Salems in the pocket of her windbreaker, Wendy approached the minivan. The little girl had been struggling with one of three bags. But now she stopped to stare at Wendy. The child kept shaking her head over and over. Tears slid down her cheeks. She seemed to be mouthing something to her.
“It looks like you could use an extra hand,” Wendy said.
Propped up on his crutches, the father smiled. “I really appreciate this. If you could just slide those bags into the backseat, we can take it from there.”
“No problem.” Wendy hoisted one of the bags into the back. The young girl stood by the open door. She whispered something, and Wendy turned to her. “What did you say, honey?”
“Run,” the child whispered.
Bewildered, Wendy stopped to stare at her.
The father cleared his throat. “If you could get in there and slide the bag to the driver’s side. Just climb right in there…”
Wendy hesitated.
“Run,” the young girl repeated, under her breath.
For a second, Wendy was paralyzed. She squinted at the child, who began to back away from her. Wendy wasn’t looking at the man.
She didn’t see him coming toward her with one of his crutches in the air.
“Run!” the child screamed at her. “No—”
It was the last thing Wendy heard before the crutch cracked against her skull….
Books by Kevin O’Brien
ONLY SON
THE NEXT TO DIE
MAKE THEM CRY
WATCH THEM DIE
LEFT FOR DEAD
THE LAST VICTIM
KILLING SPREE
ONE LAST SCREAM
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
ONE LAST SCREAM
KEVIN O’BRIEN
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
This book is for my friend Doug Mendini.
Contents
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Epilogue
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My thanks to my editor and good friend, John Scognamiglio, who always knows just when I need a pat on the back or a kick in the butt. I couldn’t have written this book—or any of my others—without him. I’m grateful to everyone else at Kensington, especially the wonderful Doug Mendini. About time I dedicated a book to this classy man!
A great big thank-you also goes to my agents extraordinaire, Meg Ruley, Christina Hogrebe, and the terrific people at Jane Rotrosen Agency.
I owe another big thank-you to Tommy Dreiling, for his support, encouragement, and friendship.
As usual, my talented writer-friends were incredibly helpful with their suggestions on how to make early drafts of this book better. Thank you to Cate Goethals and David Massengill; and to my Writers Group pals, Soyon Im and Garth Stein.
Thanks also to Lori, at Open Adoption & Family Services, for answering so many of my questions about adoption and foster care.
I’d also like to thank the following friends for their support and encouragement: Lloyd Adalist, Dan Annear & Chuck Rank, Marlys Bourm, Terry & Judine Brooks, Kyle Bryan & Dan Monda, George Camper, Jim & Barbara Church, Anna Cottle & Mary Alice Kier, Paul Dwoskin, Tom Goodwin, Cathy Johnson, Ed & Sue Kelly, David Korabik, Jim Munchel, Eva Marie Saint, John Saul & Michael Sack, Bill, JB, Tammy & Fran at The Seattle Mystery Bookshop, Dan, Doug and Ann Stutesman, George & Sheila Stydahar, Mark Von Borstel, Michael Wells, and the gang at Bailey/Coy Books.
Finally, thanks to my wonderful family, Adele, Mary Lou, Cathy, Bill, and Joan.
Chapter One
Moses Lake, Washington—1992
She turned the key in the ignition, and nothing happened, just a hollow click, click, click.
“Oh, shit,” Kristen murmured. She felt a little pang of dread in her stomach.
The battery wasn’t dead, because the inside dome light had gone on when she’d climbed into her Ford Probe a minute ago.
Biting her lip, Kristen gave the key another twist. Click, click, click. Nothing.
It was 11:20 on a chilly October night. Hers was the only car in the restaurant lot. Kristen had just finished a seven-hour shift waiting tables at The Friendly Fajita. She’d closed up the place with Rafael, the perpetually horny 19-year-old busboy, and he’d just taken off on his rusty old Harley. Kristen could still hear its engine roaring as he sailed down Broadway. It was the only sound she heard.
There was a phone in the restaurant, and she had a key. But she and Rafael had already set the alarm. It would go off if she went back inside, and she could never remember the code, especially while that shrill incessant alarm was sounding. She’d have to go look for a phone someplace else, and then call a tow company or a cab. Her boyfriend, Brian, was out of town at a golf tournament down in San Diego.
“Please, please, please,” she whispered, trying the ignition once again. The car didn’t respond except for that hollow click, click, click.
“Damn it to hell,” she grumbled. Grabbing her purse and a windbreaker from the passenger seat, Kristen climbed out of the car and shut the door. She didn’t bother locking it.
She took a long look down the street. Most of the other businesses along this main drag were closed for the night. There were a couple of taverns farther down Broadway. Kristen loathed the idea of hoofing it several blocks along the roadside. The waist-length windbreaker didn’t quite cover her stupid waitress uniform. The Friendly Fajita’s owner, Stan Munch, who was about as Mexican as she was, made her wear this señorita getup with a white, off-the-shoulder peasant blouse and a gaudy purple, green, and yellow billowy skirt over a petticoat, for God’s sake. With her