Voices (Whisper Trilogy Book 3) (18 page)

“In there,” he grunted, motioning toward the scrub of trees at the roadside.

Leanne shook her head. She didn’t want to go in there with him. She didn’t want to be far away from any potential help which may come along, which she suspected was the exact reason he wanted the privacy. She’d heard on the radio who he was and what he had done. With no choice but to comply, she closed the trunk of the vehicle and walked toward the tree line, Henry and her son following.

“Please, I did everything you asked, just let us go,” she begged as they left the road.

Henry said nothing. He pushed the knife closer to her son’s throat and gave her a thin smile that said more than words ever could. Leanne did as he instructed, and he followed her into the woods. The voices chattered in his head, instructing him, guiding him away from the shreds of doubt in the little humanity that remained within him. Any semblance of the man he used to be before he became a slave to them was almost completely gone. There was no compassion left. No morals. Just an overwhelming desire to serve his new masters. The three walked deeper into the woods, two in hope of freedom, one lost to the voices of the dead.

Two hours later, as day turned to dusk, Henry Marshall returned alone. New blood covered old on his clothes, and fresh dirt coated his hands. He had tasted them, the woman’s flesh bitter with fear, the boy’s sweet with innocence. He felt better, stronger, and knew it would be something he would experience again. He scrambled down the small bank, checked the road was clear and climbed into the Ford. He adjusted the seat for his frame and shifted the mirrors so he could see, his dead eyes showing no remorse for the atrocities he’d just committed. The car started smoothly, the engine idling. Henry could hear them within its sweet notes, the voices of his guides, telling him where he must go, telling him what he had to do. He selected a gear. Parking brake off. Accelerator depressed, clutch lifted. The car pulled away. Henry Marshall had been given a mission, one which he would complete at all costs.

CHAPTER 21

Isaac sat at the table, arms folded, head down. He was refusing to play ball, making a point to his foster parents by using the childish logic that if he didn’t eat, then he would get his own way. The disagreement had started, as most of these things do, over nothing. Isaac had been instructed to take out the garbage before sitting down to eat, one of the jobs he’d been given when he first moved to the house. Today, however, he wasn’t in the mood to comply. He had suffered a particularly harrowing dream the night before, one which, as always, was compellingly real enough to make him wet the bed. It was something that he was embarrassed by, and although Grant and Tanya never chastised him for it, he had gone on the defensive anyway, stubbornly doing all he could to defy them. Tanya had reacted with patience and understanding, trying to put a positive spin on things. Grant saw it as a slap in the face of his authority.

“Come on, honey, eat up. You said you like spaghetti,” Tanya said, fixed grin in place as she glanced at her husband sitting opposite. Stubborn to the last, Grant wasn’t about to let it drop. He set his fork down and sipped his drink.

“Look, Isaac, if you want to stay here, you have to contribute to the family. I don’t think a few household chores are unreasonable, do you?”

“Grant, Honey, let it go,” Tanya said, keeping a close eye on Isaac who was doing all he could to convey his anger. Arms folded, head down.

“No, I think we need to address this,” Grant fired back. “There are certain rules that need to be adhered to. That’s how society works. With this and the bed wetting, I don’t know,” he sighed and picked up his fork, twisting spaghetti onto it. “I just think we need to address it as a family.”

Isaac muttered something under his breath.

“What was that?” Grant asked.

“Leave it, honey, let’s just have a nice meal together, okay?” Tanya said, hoping her smile would win her husband over.

“No, I’m sorry, but I want to hear whatever was said. My father always taught me the value of discipline and respect.”

Isaac slammed his hands on the table. “You’re not my father!” he screamed. “And this isn’t my house. Just leave me alone,” he ran upstairs, leaving Grant and Tanya shocked at the table. They waited until his bedroom door slammed closed, then sat silent for a moment. Grant tossed his fork back on his plate and rubbed his temples.

“Jesus, I didn’t mean to go off on him like that. It’s been a rough day. I guess I just brought it home with me.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure it will be alright,” Tanya replied, the smile now replaced by a furrowed brow as she set her own fork down. Like her husband, she no longer had an appetite.

“Should I go talk to him?” Grant said with a sigh.

“Maybe let him calm down first.”

“Good idea”

“Come on, you can help me with the dishes,” Tanya said, trying to lighten the mood.

She stood and kissed him on the head.

“Hell, why not, I don’t feel like eating now anyway,” he replied, stacking his plate on top of hers and following her to the kitchen. “What should I do with Isaac’s?”

“Leave it for now. He might want to eat it later.”

“Got it.”

He went to scrape the plates into the bin and remembered it was full to bursting. He locked eyes with his wife and the two shared a smile.

“Don’t say a word, okay?” he said, setting the two plates on the side. “I’ll just take it out myself and have a word with Isaac about it later.”

She smiled, a real one this time. She turned toward the sink and started to fill it with water, arranging the pans and dirty cutlery on the side. Grant pulled the sack out of the bin and set it between his feet, scraping the food into it. He handed the plates to Tanya and tied the sack.

“How about a little drink tonight?” he said, picking up the garbage and walking to the back door.

“Maybe, as long as you give me a foot rub.”

“Deal.”

He opened the door and stepped outside, almost walking into the filthy, bloody man who was waiting there. A flicker of recognition flashed in Grant’s eyes seconds before Henry Marshall slashed his throat. Dropping the sack on the ground, he staggered back into the house, blood spewing from his neck, spraying the door, spattering onto the hardwood floor. Henry stepped forward for every backwards step Grant took, crossing the threshold of the property. He shoved Grant with one hand, sending him sprawling to the floor where he gargled and bled. With the other, he slammed the door closed behind him. Tanya started to scream.

Henry closed the distance to her without breaking stride, his every movement delivered with purpose. Tanya’s natural reaction was to scramble away, but there was nowhere to go. She bumped against the work surface, pans and glasses clattering to the floor. Without any hesitation, Henry grabbed her by the hair and plunged her face-first into the sink. She thrashed her arms and kicked her legs as the scolding water burned her skin, dimly realizing what was happening. As hot as it was, the water didn’t bother Henry. He stared at his black ghostly reflection in the window above the sink; eyes dead, calm despite the pain he felt distantly up to his forearm. He pushed her face deeper, mashing her nose into the stainless steel bottom. Water spewed out onto the floor as Tanya scratched and clawed for anything she could lay her hands on, but her oxygen-starved brain was already starting to fade, and her desperate clawing only resulted in more dirty dishes being sent tumbling to the floor. Henry waited and listened to his masters as they soothed him through the process, telling him she was close to the end.

She stopped flailing.

One twitch.

A reflexive jerk of the foot.

Silence.

Still he held her there, waiting until they told him it was fine to stop. His own pain from the scolding water was irrelevant. He lived to serve them now. The boiler groaned, and in the sound he heard the approval he sought. He let go of her hair and removed his pink, blistering arm. They allowed him to feel the pain now, the voices in his head telling him he should savor it, should let it consume him. He gritted his teeth, looking at the swollen skin, the dull throb of his ravaged flesh lighting his pain receptors and sending the agony around his body.

Released from Henry’s grip, Tanya’s body slid to the floor, eyes open, mouth agape. Like his arm, her face was red and blistered. He stared at her body as water continued to spill out over the rim of the sink. Without thinking, Henry reached over and shut off the tap, plunging the house into silence. Now all that remained was what he had come here for. There was a knife on the floor, knocked from the work surface by Tanya’s flailing arms, and he picked it up, wincing at the pain of flexing his scalded hand around it. He switched, moving the knife to his undamaged left hand. Satisfied, he set off through the dining room to begin his search for Isaac Samson.

II

Isaac lay under his bed, feet pressed against the wall, eyes wide. His field of vision was narrow, but enough. He could see the bottom of his dresser, the bottom portion of his bedroom door which he had closed. He’d seen the man coming toward the house from his bedroom window and knew it was the man from his nightmares. Grant and Tanya had always told him it was just a dream, and that it couldn’t hurt him. Now he saw the man was real, and knew he had come for him. He heard the footsteps, slow and deliberate, as they ascended the steps. With no means of escape, Isaac pushed himself further into the corner and prayed he wouldn’t be found.

III

The night had cast the house into a shadow-heavy tomb. Amid the silence, Henry Marshall moved with deliberate leisure, knowing the boy was upstairs without any route by which he could escape. As a child himself, Henry had always feared the dark, but now he saw it as his ally. Those who dwelled deep in his consciousness waited for him to complete the task they had set him. He knew how vital it was, how important the boy was to them, and by proxy, to him. The message had been clear. The child had to die.

Henry reached the top of the stairs, pausing to assess the layout. Four doors; one open, three closed. He could imagine the boy cowering, hiding somewhere, probably in a closet or under a bed. It would be easy. He would butcher the child in such a way that he would be unidentifiable. Only then would his task be done and he could join his masters in death.

He opened the first door immediately to his left. A bathroom: Small, pristine, white tiled. Nowhere a boy could hide. Henry walked further down the hall, making no effort to keep quiet, knowing that every creaking floorboard, every sound of opening doors would increase the boy’s terror, and as he had come to discover, scared flesh was the sweetest tasting. He opened the second door, this one an office or study of some kind. A desk filled with clutter around the computer, bookshelves filled with books on science and history, geography and politics. Henry stepped inside, looking for anywhere a young boy could be hiding. He looked behind the door, under the desk, between the two filing cabinets. The room was empty. Striding back out, he paused again. The other two doors were a little further down the hall. The idea of building up the fear in the child was too much. Henry started to whistle, a happy jingle. He started to walk, deliberately, slowly. He dragged the tip of the knife blade across the wall, hoping the sound would filter through to wherever the boy was hiding. He came to the final two doors, each on opposite sides of the corridor. One was plain white, the other adorned with a poster of a sports car. It was plain to see which one was Isaacs’s room. Henry turned toward it, slowly depressed the handle and opened the door. Like the rest of the house, night had almost taken it. Shadows were long and black. Outside, just a sliver of golden orange daylight remained. Henry stepped into the room, taking it in. It was a child’s room; that much was obvious, however there was no personality to it. The room was little more than a blank canvas to which Isaac had just started to add his own touch.

“I know you’re in here,” Henry said, watching for any sign of movement. “Just come out. I won’t hurt you.”

Henry looked around the room. There were only two places the boy could be: the closet, or under the bed. Henry reached out and flicked on the light, dismissing both shadows and hiding places alike. He turned toward the closet then stopped, looking toward the bed. He moved toward it and sat down, elbows resting on knees.

“I know you’re under there,” he said. “They can sense you. You can never hide from them.”

He waited for a reply, enjoying the game, trying to imagine the fear the boy must be feeling.

“You know you have to die, don’t you? You were meant to die before. If you come out, I’ll make it quick. I’ll make sure it doesn’t hurt.”

Again he waited, listening, giving the words a chance to sink in.

“If you make me come under there to get you, then you’ll suffer. You’ll beg for death by the end.”

Henry grinned as the voices in his head told him what to say, whispering ideas to him.

“If you’re hoping the light that saved you before will do the same, then you’ll be disappointed. That power is long gone. He can’t save you now. I won’t ask you again. Come out now.”