Voices (Whisper Trilogy Book 3) (19 page)

Henry waited, listening to the house, listening to the voices in his head.

“Alright,” he said to the room. “We can do it your way.”

He stood, grabbed the bottom edge of the bed and lifted it up. Lying there on the floor, looking up at the man he never imagined could be real, Isaac cowered. He had never been more afraid. He could taste it in the back of his throat, could feel it in the way his heartbeat raced. Some inner instinct told him he had to act, and he did so without thinking. He scrambled to his feet, surprising Henry as he ran past him. Henry let go of the bed, swinging the knife at Isaac. The blade sliced the air inches from his face. Isaac was in the hall, but there was no respite. Henry Marshall was just a few steps behind him, face contorted in rage. Isaac ran, feet thudding on the wooden floor, driven on by something beyond terror. He charged down the steps, two at a time, too afraid to look but able to hear his pursuer close behind him. He snatched at the front door, twisting the handle, fumbling with the lock. He could sense Henry behind him, and darted to his left, again trusting his instinct. Henry slammed into the door, screaming as his burned arm was sandwiched between the wood and his own body. Isaac charged through the living room, conscious of how vital time was, how every second was crucial, and also knowing that his only chance to escape was through the back of the house. Barely missing a beat, Henry was back on him, a vision of rage as he ran through the room. Isaac pushed through the door to the kitchen, intending to go to the back door. Instead he stopped, gasping as he saw the bodies of Grant and Tanya.

Blood.

Blood everywhere.

Grant had bled out spectacularly, and yet somehow still wasn’t quite finished. He lay twitching, eyes wide, hands clutched to his own throat to stem the flow. Tanya lay where she had fallen, still staring at the ceiling, blistered and burnt, and obviously dead. Again, Isaacs’s instinct saved him, and he ducked to one side. The knife sliced the air where Isaac had stood seconds earlier. He ran for the other side of the room, determined not to look at Grant as he passed him. The door loomed in front of him, his way out, his exit. A glimmer of hope that he might escape. He reached out for the handle then slipped on the bloody floor, going down on his side and slamming into the kitchen cupboard. He scrambled around, pushing himself into the corner. Henry Marshall stood triumphant, breathing heavily, knife hanging limp at his side. Both of them knew there was nowhere else to run, no way of escape. Marshall stepped toward him, adjusting his grip on the knife. He stepped over Grant, his grin wide and yellow. Isaac pushed against the wall, kicking his feet against the bloody tiles. Henry reared back, face twisted into a grimace. But, before he could swing, Grant grabbed at his legs, using the last of his strength to pull Henry off balance. Henry stumbled, and although Isaac couldn’t decipher the words, Grant’s weak gargles were clear enough. He scrambled to his feet and opened the back door, leaping off the porch and running into the night. Enraged, Henry plunged the knife up to the hilt into Grant’s skull, the blade passing all the way through and embedding in the floor. Henry pulled it free, the scraping, wet sound incredibly loud in the otherwise total silence. Without giving the body a second glance, he hurried out into the night after Isaac.

IV

He ran, arms and legs pumping, skirting around the house with no idea where he was going. His fear had become a living thing, growing inside him, spreading into his bones. Even at such a young age, he was aware of what had happened, and knew that the man from his nightmares, who had impossibly appeared in the real world, wanted him dead. He thought about Grant and Tanya, and a fresh surge of grief hit him. In the back of his mind, he knew he was once again alone in the world. More than that, he wondered what he had done wrong to constantly have the families he was sent to live with taken away from him. He ran into the street, feet thumping on concrete, shadow thrown into four ghosts running along with him by the streetlights. He couldn’t go to a neighbor, as he knew what the man would do to them – he would do the same as he had to Grant and Tanya. Instead, he had to get away, find somewhere to hide. He reasoned that the man who was after him was old, and couldn’t keep up on foot. At the same time, anyone who could come out of his dream world and into the real one might not operate by the same rules as everyone else.

He put his head down and pumped his arms and legs, pushing himself to the limit. Ahead, the street gave out onto a main road that dropped downhill toward the shops and cafés, supermarkets and bars. Places where there would be people, places where he would be safe if he could get there. He exploded out of the street, almost losing his balance as he veered right, heading downhill. The lights of homes he passed looked so inviting, but he kept going traffic honking at him as he ran into the road, then back onto the path. Isaac was getting tired now, and his breathing was coming in short, sharp gasps. He looked over his shoulder, pleased to see there was no sign of the man, and risked slowing to a jog, keeping a close eye on the exit to his street. As he regained his breath, a car skidded to halt beside him. He stared at it, frozen in place, unsure what he should do. The door was thrown open by the driver, who leaned over the seat.

“Come on kid, get in,” the female driver said, staring at him.

He hesitated. She looked familiar, although why, he didn’t know. He looked in the back of the car. There was a man there, dark skinned. He glanced out of the back window then back at Isaac, clearly agitated.

“Come on, we don’t have much time,” she snapped.

A squeal of tires distracted them as the battered old Ford driven by Henry Marshall rocketed out of Isaac’s street, almost clipping a motorcyclist going in the opposite direction. It was all the encouragement Isaac needed. Whoever these people were, they were better than the man who was trying to kill him. He clambered into the passenger seat and shut the door as Emma floored the accelerator, the car snaking away, leaving thick black lines of rubber on the road.

“Put your seatbelt on,” she said as Isaac leaned over the seat to look out of the back window. The twin headlights were getting closer, following them as they navigated the streets.

Now that the initial panic was over, Isaac started to cry, blinking away tears. “That man…” was all he could manage between sobs.

“It’s alright, we’ll get you somewhere safe,” Emma said, glancing in the mirrors.

“He’s still back there,” Truman said from the back seat. The chase went on, Emma cutting down side streets, trying everything to get away, but no matter what they did, Henry stayed with them, never more than a dozen yards behind. Now, with suburbia at their back, she pulled onto the freeway, changing gear and letting the car stretch its legs. Isaac watched the speed increase as the needle climbed to fifty, then sixty.

“It’s workin’, we’re losin’ him,” Truman said, grinning as the headlights began to shrink into the distance behind them.

“Who are you, what’s going on?” Isaac said, not crying anymore but clearly shaken. “That man killed Grant and Tanya…”

“It’s okay, just relax, you need to calm down,” Emma said.

“It’s not okay. They died and it’s all my fault. If I hadn’t come to live with them…”

“Stop that. This isn’t your fault.”

“Oh shit,” Truman said. Isaac turned to look; Emma saw it clearly enough in her mirrors. The headlights of Henry Marshall’s car were coming closer, growing larger as he closed in.

“Floor it, do somethin!” Truman said.

“I’m going as fast as I can.”

The red Ford pulled out into the opposite lane, causing oncoming traffic to weave off the road to avoid a collision. Henry accelerated alongside their car, glaring across at them. Isaac screamed as the Ford broadsided their car, slamming into it hard and sending it off the road. Emma tried to correct, to catch the slide, but the speed was too great, her skill level too low. The car skewed right, then left as she tried to correct the spin. One wheel went off the edge of the tarmac and into the dirt, making any hope of regaining control impossible. The car left the road and slid down the grass embankment before the tires found purchase in the soft earth, flipping the car over into a high speed roll. Glass shattered, metal crunched and deformed as the car shed body parts. Its passengers were tossed violently, screams lost in the shriek of broken metal. To those inside, it seemed to go on forever before the car came to rest some twenty feet down the embankment on its roof, smoke rising from a broken radiator, ferns and branches pushing into the spaces where the rear window once was.

Silence.

Isaac came to, blood in his eyes and mouth, head ringing and neck sore from the impact. He was hanging upside down, still held in place by his seat belt. He breathed in, separating scents. Copper. Oil. Pine. Next to him, Emma was also conscious, and like Isaac, was allowing her shaken brain to reset itself. Her face was bloody, but she looked otherwise okay. In the back, Truman had come free of his seatbelt and was lying face down on the car roof, hair covered in tiny fragments of glass, blood pouring from a nasty gash on his arm.

Swimming in and out of consciousness, Isaac heard the distinct crunch of feet on grass as someone approached the upturned car. He hoped it was help, someone coming to aid them after seeing the accident, but he knew without doubt that it was the man from his nightmare.

He wanted to scream, but could only let out a pained moan as consciousness threatened to leave him again. A sound punctuated the night. Sirens growing closer, a symphony of them. Isaac closed his eyes, trying to clear the headache which raged without reprieve. His awareness of what happened next was vague, filled with gaps as he drifted away then back to consciousness again.

The car started to rock as hands yanked at the door handle, trying to pull it open. Isaac cowered away from the feet he could see from his inverted position. He recognized them of course; they were the same ones he’d seen from under the bed. Their owner dropped to his knees, and Isaac screamed. He was face to face with the man from his nightmares, the thin, cracked glass of the rear window the only thing separating boy from pursuer. Henry grabbed the door again, teeth gritted in fury as he tried to yank it open. Isaac stared at the buckled door, aware that the bent steel was all that was preventing the man from gaining access. Emma mumbled, and was now also watching as Henry tried to gain access to the car. He head-butted the glass, eyes wild and filled with a fury neither she nor Isaac could comprehend. He slammed his fist against the car, paying no heed to Emma. He stared only at Isaac, the boy cowering in response.

More people were coming now, other drivers who had seen the accident and were racing down the banking to help. Henry stared at Isaac, face contorted into a mask of rage, and then he was gone, fleeing from the scene like a phantom into the night.

The other people who had abandoned their vehicles to help now surrounded the car, trying to figure out the best way to get them out. Someone brought a tire iron and smashed the front window, and two of their potential rescuers crawled in to assist them. Isaac and Emma barely heard their questions, both were too busy looking out into the night for Henry Marshall.

Hands on Isaac now, dragging him out into the light, his scrambled brain unable to comprehend what was happening as he fought to stay conscious. A silhouette above him, a face, the features unclear. He was moving now, those hands, which had pulled him from the car under his armpits, pulling him away from the wreck. He could see the vehicle now. Upside down, smoldering. Broken.

He stared at the sky, the pale moon like a beacon of light to protect him from the black thing that seemed hell-bent on hurting him. He concentrated on trying to bring it into focus, trying to force himself to stay awake and fight, but it was all too late, too much to ask. The light of the moon, which represented his freedom, was slammed closed as his body gave in and he lost consciousness. As darkness filled his world, he imagined the monster that was chasing him parting his blood red lips and giving a smug, humorless grin.

CHAPTER 22

The road had been sealed off. Police had arrived
en masse
, and were questioning witnesses as to what had happened. Truman, Emma and Isaac waited in the back of an ambulance, their wounds dressed, Isaac still drifting in and out of consciousness. The paramedics had already assessed him and had assured them he would be fine, but would need to go to hospital for observation.

“We can’t let these assholes get us to the hospital. They’ll find out we fed them a load of bull,” Truman said, dabbing the small head wound with the pad he’d been given.

“I know. I’m just waiting for an opportunity to slip away. Besides, I want to be sure Marshall isn’t anywhere nearby,” Emma replied, looking out of the back of the ambulance into the growing crowd.

“He’ll be long gone by now. Anyone with any sense would be, especially with all these cops around,” Truman said, sounding more as if he were trying to convince himself.