Voices (Whisper Trilogy Book 3) (17 page)

“You’re suggesting we just let him go?”

“Not at all. I’m suggesting that you let him enter the town then go in after him.”

“Impossible. There are too many places he can escape to. We couldn’t possibly cover all that woodland.”

Kimmel removed his glasses again, and this time Petrov was sure he was looking at the Kimmel of old, the intensity in his face once more changing the detective’s impression of him. “If you send men up there to wait for him, they’ll die.”

“Why are you trying to frighten me off?”

“I’m trying to help you. Fisher was the same. Didn’t believe it until it was right in front of him. Please, just listen to what I have to say.”

Petrov held the diary toward Kimmel. “Here, I have to go.”

“Keep it. Read it again.”

“I don’t think—”

“I’m confident you’re a smart enough man to do the right thing, Detective Petrov. Keep the diary. The damn thing brings nothing but bad memories for me anyway. Read it again and ask yourself if you really want to risk the lives of your men by sending them up there.”

“What if you’re wrong?”

“What if I’m right?” Kimmel countered. “Are you really prepared to live with the consequences if I am?” He stood, fastened his jacket and picked up his briefcase. “Good luck, detective. I really hope you make the right decision.”

Petrov watched the General leave, walking briskly down the path as the jogging couple came in the opposite direction. He sat there for a while, half watching the tireless Alsatian chase its ball until both owner and dog were tired of the game and made their leave. He stared at the diary, hating that Kimmel had got under his skin enough to almost convince him that there could be something to his story. “Screw this,” he muttered, then stood and walked back to his car, hoping the drive back to the station would at least allow him to clear his head and decide what he should do about the whole Henry Marshall situation.

CHAPTER 20

The search for the fugitive Henry Marshall was in full swing. Scores of police were scouring local woodland with dogs in search of the escapee. In addition, local and national news had been alerted, warning the public to remain vigilant and to report any sightings. As Petrov had promised Melody, roadblocks had been set up in an effort to capture Marshall before he could get too far. Embarrassed that the escape had been perpetrated so easily, the authorities had thrown a lot of resources at it in an attempt at damage-limitation.

Thirty six year old Karl Sloane had been manning one such roadblock for the last five hours. It had been drizzling steadily, and even with his rain poncho, the officer was soaked to the bone. Traffic had been light, for which he was grateful, however, he knew that when rush hour came, it would be absolute chaos. They knew Marshall had stolen a vehicle, but hadn’t reported it to the press. The last thing they wanted was for him to know they were aware. The hope was that he would be stupid enough to try and pass the roadblock. Karl put a hand on the butt of his gun. They were authorized if need be to use lethal force to stop Marshall if they encountered him, which was a proposition Karl wasn’t looking forward to. His hope was that the threat would be enough. Two cars approached the roadblock. He waved the first one through to his position, his colleagues keeping an eye on the van behind with the tinted windows.

The first vehicle was a grubby red Ford. Karl waved it closer and held up a hand. The vehicle stopped as instructed and Karl motioned for the driver to wind down the window. She was a lone female in her thirties. Business suit, hair pulled back and tied at the rear. She glanced at Karl, then his weapon.

“Traveling alone, miss?” Karl said, following the script. Going through the motions.

“Just heading home from work. What’s this all about?”

“Have you seen the news, ma’am?” Karl said, keeping a close eye on the van behind.

Something about it didn’t sit right with him, and it made him nervous.

“I heard about that man escaping. Is this related to that?”

“Just precautionary. Have you seen anyone or anything suspicious during your travels today?”

“No, not a thing,” she said.

“You haven’t been flagged down or noticed anything out of the ordinary?”

“No, nothing. I came straight from work.”

Karl glanced at the van, hating that the windows were blacked out. It would be an ideal vehicle if someone wanted to make an escape.

“Alright,” he said, standing up straight. “Go straight home and keep your doors locked. If you see or hear anything unusual, report it straightaway to the police. There’s also a dedicated number being aired on both radio and television.”

“I will. Thank you, officer.”

He waved her through, turning his full attention to the van. He put his hand on his gun, and locked eyes with his colleagues, the silent message received.
Be careful.

II

Henry lay in the pitch black, knife to his prisoner’s throat, the thrum of the engine vibrating as the car rolled forward. He recalled his former life, before the blood, before the death. Back when he was just a councilor, a man like any other, filled with pointless ambitions. He recalled a statistic from the time he tried to enforce a new traffic calming bill. It stated that approximately forty-seven percent of people would stop to offer assistance to a vehicle stranded by the roadside. Henry had needed just one. He had staged the scene perfectly. The doctor’s body had come in useful, and once Henry had sat it in the car by the side of the road, hood open, he waited in the trees, watching, waiting for someone to take the bait.

He recalled fishing trips with his father when he was a boy, hot sticky summer days spent by the water’s edge, waiting for a bite, waiting for something to break the monotony. This was much the same. The sporadic traffic had, for the most part, passed without stopping. He was patient, careful not to be seen. Eventually, the bait was taken and someone was fool enough to stop. As always, he let them guide him, acting completely in accordance with their commands. In the end, it was easy. He waited now, his hostage weeping and terrified, Henry anticipating passing the roadblocks so he could do as his new masters commanded. He pressed the knife harder into the flesh of his prisoner’s neck as he waited to be set free.

III

Sloane waved the van toward him, his two colleagues approaching the passenger side, surrounding the vehicle. A fourth officer waited by a patrol car beyond the roadblock on the off-chance that someone tried to crash through it, his dog leashed and tense. Karl approached the driver’s side window, motioning the driver to wind it down. The driver was somewhere in his early twenties and had a narrow face and large nose, which Karl thought gave him the appearance of a rat. His eyes shifted and darted at the police who surrounding the van, causing Karl to raise his alert level even further. He had seen nervous behavior before, and this was a classic example. Across from the driver, in the passenger seat, sat another man. They shared the same strangely proportioned facial features and shifty demeanor.

“Where are you boys heading?” Karl asked, the smell of marijuana drifting out of the van.

“Just on our way home,” the driver said, eyes still darting. “What’s this all about?”

“Just the two of you?”

“Yes, just us.”

“What’s your name?”

“John Smith.”

Karl nodded. John Smith was a false name if ever he’d heard one, and certainly wasn’t given in any sort of convincing manner. For now, he let it slide. “Have you picked anyone up on the road today?”

“No, like I said, it’s just us.”

“What’s in the back of the van?” Karl asked, adjusting the grip on his gun.

“Nothing.”

“Step out of the vehicle please.”

Karl could see in the driver’s eyes that the man wanted to run, and probably would have if he’d had the guts. He was afraid of something; that much was obvious. Reluctantly, he complied, climbing out of the vehicle. He was much shorter than Karl had expected, only standing shoulder high to the officer. Without being asked, he turned and put his hands on the hood.

“Alright, I see you know the drill,” Karl said as he patted him down. The driver half turned toward Karl, speaking quietly, the words changing the game as far as Karl Sloane was concerned.

“He’s in the back,” the driver whispered.

Karl saw then that it wasn’t agitation, but fear causing the driver to act so strangely. Acting on instinct, Karl cuffed the driver and sat him on the ground. He motioned to his fellow officers across the front of the vehicle, beckoning them over, sharing the information. Now caution was out of the window. With both driver and passenger cuffed and on the ground being watched by the dog-handler, the other three officers drew their weapons and converged on the rear doors of the van. Karl swapped his gun hand, wiping sweat from his palms on his trouser leg before reverting to a more familiar weapon stance. The officers took up firing positions as their colleague placed a hand on the door. The three men looked at each other, knowing the gravity of the situation, knowing the danger they faced. The one holding the door mouthed the countdown from three to one then yanked it open, Karl and his fellow officer pointing their weapons at the man crouched in the back, bellowing instructions. However, it wasn’t the snarling blood-covered Henry Marshall they saw, but a skinny runt of a teen who shared the same genetic pool as his siblings. He lay on the floor of the van, hands behind head, terrified at the aggression in the officer’s voices, wondering why an outstanding arrest warrant for the robbery he had committed a month earlier would require roadblocks. He, like his brothers, had no idea that the officers were looking for a much bigger and more dangerous fish, one which was sadly almost a mile up the road and away from their net.

IV

Three miles away, Leanne Patterson pulled her dented and dirty red Ford off the road and put her head on the steering wheel. The temptation to tell the police at the roadblock what had happened to them had been great, but the knowledge of what would happen if she did was greater. The instant she’d been waved through, the tears had come, and now her face was streaked with make-up. Trembling, she did all she could to compose herself, as the ordeal wasn’t over yet by a long shot. The road was quiet, a tree-lined stretch of highway with little to no traffic. She got out of the car, eying the trees, wanting to run but knowing it was impossible. She was a restraintless prisoner. She approached the rear of the car and opened the trunk, stepping back as terror once again overwhelmed her. Henry Marshall held the knife to the eight year old boy’s throat. He glared at the woman as he struggled to his knees, one bloody hand still gripping the boy’s shoulder. Like his mother, he too was red-eyed from crying. The two locked eyes, and Leanne heard herself telling the boy it would be all right, that, just like the man had promised, they would be set free just as soon as they had helped him.

She had only stopped because she saw the car by the side of the road, hood open, hazard lights flashing, driver slumped across the wheel. Her intention was to check on him, to see if she could help. The area where the car had been was isolated, overgrown with a low hanging scrub of trees by the hard shoulder, and she didn’t like to think of whoever it was stranded out here having no access to a phone. In hindsight, she should have driven away, and yet, she couldn’t do it. She’d got out of the car, curious but in no way afraid, at least not until she’d approached the driver’s side door and saw the blood. Saw the mess of his mangled flesh. She never saw Henry come out of the woods; he’d waited until her back was turned before dragging her into the trees, away from anyone who might help her.

She didn’t care for herself. All she could think about was her son who was sleeping in the back of her car.

He had pinned her to a tree, hand around her throat, eyes blazing. She had told him she would give him money, even give him the car if that was what he wanted, just as long as he left her alone. The man stared at her, and she saw nothing in his eyes. No pity, no compassion. No emotion. She could just as easily be looking into the eyes of a shark.

He held a penknife to her throat and told her what he wanted. He needed her to get him safely through the roadblocks and away from the police checks.

She responded by telling him again that he could take the car as long as he let her and her son go. Something changed in his eyes at the mention of her son, a light of recognition that told her she had made a huge mistake.

His next instruction had been simple. Get him past the police blockades and he would let them both go. If she told anyone or was stopped and the car searched, her son would be killed. She’d watched as he climbed into the trunk, taking her terrified son with him and telling her to remember his instructions. Now she’d complied, she could only hope that he would do as he promised.

Henry struggled out of the car, filthy, bloody and wild, a chorus of demonic voices in his head, guiding him.