Voices (Whisper Trilogy Book 3) (15 page)

What a joke.

The relationship with her sister that had once been so strong had been irreparably broken by the events that took place in the aftermath of the hotel attack; so much so that she’d moved away, leaving no forwarding address. At the time, Melody was convinced she didn’t care. However now, with this latest news, she wanted nothing more than to confide in her sibling or hug her and take comfort from her, things she knew were impossible.

Now, some four hours after the doctor had delivered the devastating news, she sat at the kitchen table, her coffee cold and untouched, absolutely paralyzed with dread and unsure what she was supposed to do. There was a knock at the door, a sharp rat-a-tat-tat. She wondered if it was that bitch from next door looking to get the scoop on why the doctor had made a house call, but the tone of the knock wasn’t like that of Mrs. Richter. This was an authoritative call. On weak legs, she crossed the room and opened the door.

“Melody Samson?”

There was a flicker of recognition when she saw the man standing in the hall. Her mind sifted through its fractured contents, trying to put a name to the face, to recall where she knew him from. He was tall and broad, with chiseled features, sandy hair and matching stubble. His eyes were a piercing blue and he was dressed in a sharp black suit, the purple shirt underneath open at the neck.

“Yes,” she replied, still in a daze.

He thrust a hand toward her. “Detective Alex Petrov. I wonder if I could speak with you for a moment.”

The name triggered a memory. “You were there at the hotel. You investigated it,” she mumbled.

“I did. I believe I interviewed you shortly after the death of your husband.”

“Yes, I remember. It’s all a bit of a blur to be honest. Why are you here now?”

“It would be better if we could talk inside,” Petrov said.

She stepped back and opened the door further. “Come on in.”

The detective entered the apartment, remaining stony-faced at the mess. Dishes were piled high in the sink, and empty takeout containers filled the countertops. A dozen empty wine bottles told him how she’d spent most of her nights, and a prickle of embarrassment made her blush.

“Sorry, I haven’t had a chance to tidy the place yet.”

“It’s alright,” Petrov said, declining to tell her he had seen much worse places over the years.

“What’s this about?” she asked, wringing her hands as she stood by the table.

Petrov looked at her, shocked at how her appearance had changed in the relatively short space of time since he’d last seen her. She had the look of someone struggling with ill-health. She was pale and exhausted, like she was tired of the world kicking her in the teeth on a daily basis. It didn’t make the reason for his visit any easier. He cleared his throat and followed procedure.

“Mrs. Samson, what I’m about to tell you may come as a shock. What I want to do is remind you not to panic. Everything is under control.”

“What’s happened?” she asked, keeping eye contact with him.

“Henry Marshall escaped from Creasefield hospital yesterday, injuring several staff members in the process. For obvious reasons, we wanted to get out here and check on you.”

Melody felt her legs tremble and, for a moment, she thought she was going to collapse.

“Are you okay?” Petrov asked, putting a hand on her elbow and leading her to the kitchen table. She sat and put her head in her hands, the influx of information proving difficult to deal with.

“How did he escape?” she finally asked, still staring at the table top.

“We don’t know the details yet apart from that he waited until the morning shift change to do it.”

“Was anyone hurt?”

“I’m afraid so. Several staff members were hurt trying to restrain him.”

“Is anyone dead?”

Petrov hesitated, trying to decide how much to say. It was obvious that Melody wasn’t coping at all well, and he was determined not to push her any further.

“We don’t have information on that at this time. I came straight here to ensure you were safe.”

“So where is he?”

“We don’t know. We have our best people on it.”

“Oh god, do you think he’s coming after me?”

“We don’t think so. I just came here as a precaution and to advise you to stay on your guard. I’m going to have officers keep a regular watch on the place until we get him back. We’ve set up roadblocks and have an extensive search team on the case so he won’t be out there for long. Just keep a close eye on your surroundings. Watch people. Make a point of noticing those things you might normally ignore. If you sense anything – and I do mean anything – is wrong, you give me a call straight away, no matter what time it is.” He handed her a card with his number embossed on the front.

“I will,” she said, feeling detached and distant as she slipped the card into her pocket. “Please, do your best to find him. The idea of him out on the streets…”

“Don’t you worry about that, Mrs. Samson. I’ll do whatever it takes to find him. That I can promise you.”

It was easy to believe him. The intensity in his eyes was utterly convincing, and it was enough to take the edge off her fear until something dawned on her that made her feel nauseous.

“What about my son? What if Henry Marshall goes after him?”

“No, we’ve already considered that. Marshall has no way of knowing where he is, and no means of finding out. Chances are, the only thing on his mind right now is escape and lying low. Even so, I’m having an officer go out to your son’s foster home to advise them of the situation.”

“Okay, thank you,” Melody said, making sure she was very careful in her response so as not to alert the detective.

She had learned from her therapy sessions that nobody in an official capacity would believe her account of the supernatural forces at work on her and her family. She was also convinced that Henry Marshall’s escape was no coincidence. She suspected that, far from wanting to run away and lie low, he would want to make a very different use of his freedom. She also knew that, despite Detective Petrov’s assurances, Henry Marshall wouldn’t need to access police records or other confidential documentation in order to find out where Isaac was. He had access to the things that had attached themselves to his psyche to guide him. Somehow she remained calm, despite the urgency to get to her son and make sure he was safe. The last complication she needed was to be arrested or arouse suspicion. She glanced at her watch, calculating the time it would take to get to her son before Henry Marshall. Now at least, with her own death a certainty, she had nothing to lose.

CHAPTER 19

Petrov stood at the entrance to the park, his eyes scanning the thin scattering of people who were enjoying its amenities. A couple of joggers made another lap, iPod buds wedged in ears. A man played catch with his dog, the muscular Alsatian retrieving the tennis ball with eager energy. Kimmel was waiting exactly where he said he would be. He was sitting on a bench, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, briefcase on his lap. He looked impeccably smart: charcoal suit, leather shoes.

You can take the man out of the army, but you can’t take the army out of the man
, Petrov thought as he approached the former general. Kimmel saw him and stood, setting the briefcase on the bench.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet me, Detective,” Kimmel said, holding out a hand. Petrov shook it, the old man’s grip still firm.

“Not a problem, General. I have to admit, your phone call made me curious. I didn’t expect to hear from you again.”

“You wouldn’t have if not for… uh… recent events. Please, take a seat.”

Petrov sat beside the General, a wall of silence between them. He was about to break it when Kimmel began to speak.

“I asked you to come here when I learned of Henry Marshall’s escape yesterday.”

Petrov said nothing, even though his curiosity was already piqued. He glanced at Kimmel, but the General was staring straight ahead as he spoke.

“I don’t think I need to tell you where he will be heading, do I?”

“Oakwell. We think he’ll try to make his way there,” Petrov said, waiting for confirmation from Kimmel. There was no response. “We have roadblocks set up; we’ll catch him before he gets there. Even if we don’t, we’ll ambush him in the town. He won’t escape us.”

“I wouldn’t underestimate him.”

“Don’t worry, we don’t. He’s already killed six people.”

“Even more if your men try to restrain him.”

Petrov turned to face Kimmel, unsure of why he was so angered by his comments. “He’s just a man. I appreciate you come from a military background, General, but this is my world. Don’t hype him up to be more than he is.”

“What if he is more? More than you think anyway.”

“Come on, General, if you have something to say to me, just say it. What’s your point?”

“How much do you know about that place? Oakwell I mean.”

“I know I don’t like it. I know it interests me. I know it has a history.”

“Do you remember when we last spoke in the Plaza? You were telling me about how you were removed from the case without warning and have been trying to figure out what happened ever since. I think you will agree it has become some kind of an obsession for you?”

“I was fine with it until your people threw me out,” Petrov replied.

“Not me. Fisher. He threw me out too, remember?”

“What’s your point, General?”

“My point is, that place is unlike anywhere else in the world. It changes people. Twists them and corrupts them until even they don’t know who they are anymore.”

“I’m aware of the stories. And for the record, I don’t believe them.”

“That’s why I asked you to come,” Kimmel said, turning toward Petrov and taking off his sunglasses. His eyes were tired. “The fact that you don’t believe them worries me.”

“I appreciate your concern, but it’s unwarranted.”

“Please, just hear me out,” Kimmel said. He was holding the sunglasses, absently folding and unfolding one of the arms. Noticing what he was doing, he slipped them into his pocket. “I was like you once. Saw everything in black and white. That place changed me though. It changed all of us.”

“I’m sorry, General, but I really don’t have the time to sit here and listen to this. I’m up to my neck in a manhunt as you well know. From the message you left, I was under the impression that you had a specific reason to meet me here.”

“Yes, yes I do,” Kimmel muttered, reaching into his briefcase. He handed Petrov a brown folder. The detective took it and opened it. Inside was a diary, the front red and water-damaged.

“What’s this?” Petrov asked.

“I want you to read it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“As you know, I’m not allowed to divulge anything to you about what happened up there when we took over. Privileged information and all. The fact that I’m retired now makes this easier, especially as what you’re about to read doesn’t officially exist. To be honest, when we found it, I had no idea what the hell to do with it. I hesitated before calling you at all, Detective Petrov, but I think in light of these most recent events, it would pay for you to read it.”

“What is it?”

“A diary made by one of my men during our brief stay on the hotel grounds. I won’t say anymore yet as I don’t want to influence you. We found it buried under his tent when we were clearing it away. I didn’t know what the hell to do with it so I just took it with me and kept it quiet. Truth be told, I wish I’d never laid eyes on it.”

Petrov took the diary out of the folder and turned it over in his hands.

“You want me to read it now?” Petrov asked.

“I’m sorry for being so vague, but I don’t want to influence you in any way. Please, just read it.”

Petrov stared at the General, who seemed to have a little of the fire back in his eyes as he held his gaze. He glanced around the park, finding it even more bizarre that life went on around them as normal. The dog and its owner still played catch. The joggers still lapped in tandem, and Kimmel still stared and waited, now opening and closing the dull gold lighter instead of messing with his sunglasses. Petrov turned to the book, reading the name penned on the front.

Lance corporal Frederick Landro

D.O.B 10/9/83

Holding the diary brought with it an intense feeling of foreboding. He could feel the waxy, slick texture of the cover, and the book smelled faintly of damp. The first dozen or so pages had been torn out, leaving jagged edges in the gutter of the book. The text written inside was small and neat, the handwriting slanting toward the top right of the page.

June 9th 2014

This should have been an easy assignment after the last two years of hell spent in the desert wondering if each day would be my last. What a surprise, then, that I would gladly take that life back if it got me away from this godawful place. We’ve been told by General Kimmel that this is a sensitive situation, and one we’re not allowed to discuss, even amongst ourselves. The whispers still get around though. You hear about things that have happened and hope to God the stories have been exaggerated. Worse still is the feel of this place. It has a dirty, sinister vibe which is making the rest of the men stationed here cranky. Some of them bullshit that it doesn’t bother them, but their eyes tell a different story. It doesn’t help that we’re not allowed into the hotel. What bullshit! That place is kitted out with all the mod-cons and here we are slumming it in tents in the car park. Typical. The waiting is the worst part. We’re set to patrol the area in groups. I’m scheduled in for my first taste of it tomorrow. A couple of the guys who came back in this morning said it’s not too bad until you get to the clearing across the river. That, they said, was unlike anything they had ever experienced. Kimmel shut them up before they could go into detail, which prompted me to start this diary and log what happens. I’m curious, and although I won’t admit it to the others, a little afraid. Some soldier I am! Let’s hope tomorrow goes smoothly and without incident. So far, despite the ominous threat of some unseen presence, all is quiet.