Silent Scream

David had read those words, recently. Valla Eam. “Defend her,” as in defend Mother Earth. “Valla Eam” was the way Preston Moss ended every speech. It had been the rallying cry of his followers.

Relaxing his hold a hair, David studied the man, wondering if he was looking at the person who’d created the Web site on which he’d found Moss’s speeches. Could Lincoln have helped Moss set his fires? Twelve years ago, Lincoln would have been in college.

“You followed Preston Moss,” David said quietly. “Why are you in my house? Did Moss send you?”

Lincoln’s laugh was muted, strangely disturbing. “No.”

David bent closer, careful not to increase the pressure. “How did I lie? Tell me.”

“You said you caught the ball.”

“I did. I caught the ball.”

“You didn’t. You couldn’t.”

“But I did. I don’t lie.” He thought of the girl, Tracey Mullen, of the gel on her hands. Of the dead guard and the faceless Tomlinson. “I was there,” he murmured. “At both fires. I saw the bodies.” He saw Lincoln flinch. “I caught the ball, Lincoln.”

“No. You didn’t. Not his. You put it there. You planted it there. You bastards.”

David blinked, surprised. “Why would you think I planted it, Lincoln?”

Lincoln shook his head hard. “I’m not talking to you.”

Yes, you will. David put more pressure on Lincoln’s arm. “I think you should reconsider that. Look, I’m a good guy. I pay my taxes and I put out fires. I even save old ladies’ cats from trees. Why would I lie about your damn ball?”

“It wasn’t his ball! You want to bring him down, again. But I won’t let you.”

“You think that I, a tax-paying, cat-saving firefighter, planted a glass ball in a burning building to make your crazy leader look bad? You’re more insane than he was.”

Lincoln’s laugh was brittle. “Oh yes. Crazy I am. Crazy I am,” he said in a singsong. “Doctor says it, mother says it, brother says it. Lincoln’s crazy. What happened to Lincoln? Why don’t you smile, Lincoln? Lincoln, why are you so fucking crazy?” Lincoln yelled the last three words and lunged, but David subdued him.

“Why are you crazy, Lincoln?” he asked softly.

“She was black,” Lincoln murmured. “Black. All black.”

Oh God. David remembered what Gle

“Burned up. All burned up. Took her away, but she’s always there. Always there.” He shuddered and went still. “Always there,” he whispered.

A shiver raced down David’s spine. Seeing a dead body could push someone to insanity. He studied the man, an unwelcome thought intruding into his mind. There, but for the grace of God, go I.

“Why did you come here, Lincoln?” he asked, his voice rough with a compassion he didn’t want to feel. It was a betrayal of the real victims. “What were you trying to find?”

“The letter with the lies. From the bosses. All made up.”

“You think my bosses told me to lie? You think they wanted Moss’s name dragged into this? To accuse him?”

Lincoln just sighed. David wanted to do the same. He’d get no further.

David gripped Lincoln’s gun. “I have your gun pointed at you. If you try to run, I’ll just take you down again. I don’t want to hurt you anymore. Do you understand me?”

Lincoln made no response. David released him, stepping several feet back in the same movement, relieved when Lincoln stayed put. He needed to restrain Lincoln until the police could arrive. David looked around for something to tie him with, finally cutting the pull cord from the blinds at the window.

Quickly he tied Lincoln’s hands and feet, then called 911.

Then he called Olivia. It went to her voice mail. “Olivia, it’s David. I’ve caught an intruder you’re going to want to meet.” He hung up and crouched next to Lincoln, who lay with his eyes closed. The man looked a little green.

“You okay?” he asked Lincoln.

“Go to hell,” Lincoln said wearily.

“I hope not,” he said honestly. “You need to understand something, if you can. I really did find a ball Sunday night. I saw another last night. Nobody’s lying to you.”

“No.” He said it simply, like a child. “Preston Moss can’t kill.”

But he had. Even if he hadn’t meant to, Moss caused the death of an i

No. It wasn’t the same. It was not the same. You go on believing that if it makes you feel better. David sat on the floor, Lincoln’s gun in hand, and prepared to wait.

Tuesday, September 21, 1:15 p.m.

In two and a half hours, they’d talked to twenty teenaged boys and so far not one knew anything. Or so they claimed. Olivia watched turbulent teen number twenty saunter out of Oaks’s office. “How many more?” she asked.

“Legions,” Kane said morosely. “Or six. Seems like the same thing.”

From across the table Val, the interpreter, chuckled, but said nothing. Olivia liked her. Val had done her job reliably and without a single complaint.

Principal Oaks appeared with the next boy. “This is Ke

Ke

“Hi, Ke

Ke

The kid’s eyes were as defiant as the twenty pairs that had come before. Except… except there was a flicker of something else there. Fear. This kid knew something.

Olivia slid Tracey’s photo across the table. “Do you know her?” she asked.

He watched Val interpret, glanced at the picture, then shook his head.

“Ke

Oaks stepped forward but Olivia warned him back with a glance. She tapped the table again, waiting until Ke

“I don’t know her,” he signed, but his hands trembled, ever so slightly. “I swear.”

I don’t believe you. Olivia flipped through the yearbook to his picture. “You lettered in track. I lettered in gymnastics. Now I biathalon. You know what that is?”

He shook his head, seemingly bored.

“It’s cross-country skiing combined with marksmanship. I tried rowing, but I got seasick.” She tapped the yearbook page with her finger. “This says you’re a rower.”

He shrugged, uncomfortably. “I do okay,” he signed. “So?”

“So, do you ever boat on the lake? Canoes, rowboats, that kind of thing?”

“Sometimes.” It was tentatively signed.

“Like at Camp Longfellow?”

Ke

“You were there, last summer. So was she.” Olivia pushed Tracey’s photo back to him. “Maybe you met her. Maybe you liked her. Maybe she liked you.”

He pushed the picture back. “I don’t know her.” Each sign was deliberately made, spaced apart. Val’s voice became clipped. Impatient. She was good.

“I wonder what the camp counselors will tell us, Ke

“No.” This word Ke

Val’s voice trailed behind. “No.”