Hearing evil, p.20
Hearing Evil, page 20
“This isn’t the way to your house,” Michael said, though he hoped he was wrong.
“I’m taking you to a safe house where we won’t be disturbed.” Ryan glanced in her rearview mirror. She’d done it often, as if she was afraid they were being followed.
They had crossed out of Fall River. That much, Michael knew from the Now Entering Lakeville sign they had passed. He had no idea whether or not they were still in Lakeville. If not for the road itself, Michael would have believed they had left human habitation altogether because the walls of pines on either side were so thick he couldn’t see anything else.
Save for the narrow strip of sky above, the only light came from their headlights. The smell of compost swirled in through the cab’s partially open windows. The only sounds were the hum of the engine and the chirping of what had to be a million crickets.
Ryan slammed on the brakes when a rabbit darted across the road. A coyote followed, hot on the smaller animal’s heels. “That’s you.” She pointed out the window to where the animals had disappeared into the forest.
“The coyote?”
“The rabbit. But we’ll make a coyote out of you yet.” She stepped on the gas, and they continued down the road.
“You’re kidnapping me.”
Ryan slapped the steering wheel. “I’m trying to help you.”
“How? By making me a killer?”
“By teaching you how to control your ability. Teaching you how to kill and get away with it, that’s just an added bonus. Trust me, you’re going to thank me someday.”
“I don’t think I have it in me. Even if I wanted to...”
Ryan smiled, her emotions as flippant as a child’s. “You don’t give yourself enough credit.”
She slammed on the brakes again. Michael instinctively threw a hand out to brace himself, but the seat belt did its job. He rocked forward then whiplashed back. Staring through the windshield, he expected to see another rabbit hopping in front of the car, but all he saw was empty road.
“Sorry,” Ryan muttered. “Sorry.” She put a hand on Michael’s leg.
He stiffened. If she was trying to comfort him, her actions were having the opposite effect.
“My teacher, the man who did for me what I am trying to do for you, insists that you’re not ready for this, that you will be my downfall and bring unwanted attention to the rest of us.” She stroked Michael’s thigh in a way that might have been arousing had she been someone else.
“But you wouldn’t do that, would you, Michael? You wouldn’t give us up.” She turned to face him and smiled, and Michael saw for the first time how yellow and cracked her teeth were, how sunken and glassy her eyes seemed. She looked like a cross between a pale-faced witch and death itself. She had that lost sort of look that starving Somalian children shared in commercials looking for donations to stave off world hunger.
Play along. Sam will find you. She has to. “N-No. I would never tell on you.”
Ryan looked upward. “See?”
Michael wondered if she was talking to him or this teacher she professed to hear. But when she looked back at him, her face was as hard as stone. The glassiness in her eyes had vanished, replaced by that animalistic sheen he had seen in Jimmy’s not long ago. The eyes of a killer.
“I wish I didn’t have to ask, but you do know that if you expose me, he’ll find you, right? My teacher will find you.”
Michael nodded slowly. “Yeah. I wouldn’t do that.” I’m sorry, Sam. You were right about everything. I was wrong. Please, just find me soon.
After turning down more dark paths and nameless roads that were impossible to keep track of even with the knowledge that his life could depend on it, she steered through a large iron gate that seemed to emerge out of the forest itself. The gate was covered in brambles and looked centuries old, gothic even, a bar to the entrance to Dracula’s homestead.
Despite the gate’s antiquity, the security systems were modern enough. Ryan pulled up to a card reader half hidden by vines. She took what looked like a credit card from her pocket and slid it into the machine. Immediately, the gate swung open. Michael heard no rusty squeal, so someone had obviously been caring for it.
The paved driveway on the other side was surrounded by a well-manicured lawn lined with flowers. An ornate water fountain depicting statuesque cherubs at play stood in the lawn’s center. Water flowed noisily, and Michael wondered who else might be in the place.
The house was large but new and seemed to contrast with the gate and fountain. It was Victorian-style but equipped with a host of modern comforts, including a satellite dish and a two-car garage with a remote-controlled door. Ryan parked her beat-up Ford in the stall on the right beside what looked like a brand-new BMW.
Michael climbed out of the truck after she did. He thought about running and looked around wildly to see where he might head.
As if sensing his thoughts, Ryan rested an arm over his shoulder. He hadn’t even heard her approach.
“Give it a chance, Michael. Like I said, you’ll be thanking me later.” She gave him a little push toward the door that led into the house.
I could run. I should run. But he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. He surveyed his surroundings but saw no one. He imagined the barking of dogs set free as soon as he set one foot toward freedom. He walked to the door.
“Go ahead. It’s open,” she said.
He twisted the knob and pushed open the door. As he stepped inside, someone grabbed him from behind. A cloth doused in a strong chemical, like hospital disinfectant or ammonia, was pressed over his mouth. He struggled to breathe as he fought against the arm restraining him. Even in his panicked state, he recalled enough movies and TV shows to know what was being applied over his nose and mouth: chloroform. But it was too late. He was already starting to fade.
But why? he wondered as he tried to bite the hand holding the cloth. I was cooperating.
“Hush, hush,” Ryan said from behind him. “Don’t fight it. Everything will be all right.”
Michael wanted to scream. Everything was not all right. Darkness clouded the corners of his vision. His head throbbed as if it were swelling. In a last-ditch effort, he stomped his feet and swung his arms wildly. The fight left him quickly as the darkness prevailed.
SHE FEELS THE WIND on her face. The breeze carries with it the smell of surf and the taste of salt. The roar of the waves and the cries of gulls soaring high above are the only sounds. Pleasant sounds. Her breathing slows.
She lifts her feet, and sand slides between her toes as if through the bottleneck of an hourglass. But time is frozen even if the birds, wind, and waves don’t know it. There, she has found peace. The sun warms her skin, her heart, and her soul.
Laughter.
She stares at the water and smiles. Michael, only three years old, splashes a few yards away where the waves spread thin over the beach then retreat. In his hand, he holds a shovel as though it were a mighty sword. Its corresponding pail is atop his head, his helmet as he does battle against the forces of Morgana. He is Gawain, the Green Knight—Gain, as Michael calls him, his small mouth not yet able to form all the syllables—his favorite knight pulled from the kiddy versions of the King Arthur fables she reads to him at bedtime. The same stories she would have read to...
A twinge of sadness. For whom, she cannot remember, doesn’t want to remember. Michael is her boy now. She watches him and laughs. Gawain was her favorite too.
A cloud passes over the sun. No, not just one cloud. The whole sky darkens. Something is wrong. Something beyond the weather. She can feel it panging hollow in her stomach.
“Michael,” she calls, but he doesn’t hear. He slashes the water with his shovel, giggling away. “It’s time to go, Michael.”
Her heart stops dead in her chest when she sees the fin, black and razor sharp, cutting across the water, heading toward Michael. It can’t possibly reach him in the few inches of water he’s in, but the thought does little to allay her fears. She jumps to her feet and darts to the shore. But her movements through the sand are slow, while the fin moves so impossibly fast.
It is nearly upon Michael. How the rest of it remains underwater, she cannot comprehend. A yard away from her boy, the predator submerges completely. She screams.
“It’s not real, Ryan,” a voice whispers in her ear.
The shark has come ashore.
She turns to face the speaker, a man old enough to be her father, who at times she wished had been more of one. Wrinkles spread across his face as he smiles softly but without a hint of weakness. His platinum hair is parted on the side, its color matching the whiskers sprouting from his ears. His skin is bronzed and leathery, every part of him indicating his age save for his eyes, which are a brilliant blue, twinkling, and full of life.
He gently grabs her arms. “This isn’t real. It will never be real. You must let it go, or it will destroy you.”
Ryan sniffles. A tear rolls down her cheek. “I am already destroyed.”
Lightning flashes, and the shark-toothed grin behind the old-man mask can be seen, but only for a moment. “I’ve done all I can for you,” the man says. “Don’t throw away everything we’ve worked for on this... this fool’s errand.”
“This is real!” Ryan screams. “I’ve seen it. This will be!”
The old man sighs. “Then it is too late. The drugs have won, not your visions. Goodbye, Ryan.” He kisses her forehead.
“Fine. Go.” Ryan looks away for only a second, and when she looks back, the man-shark is gone. “Wait. I...”
She turns to face the water. “Michael?”
The boy has vanished. His bucket hat floats atop the waves. Ryan races to the water’s edge, scanning the surf for any sign of him, but in her heart, she knows he is gone. Just like her Gawain, her Green Knight.
“Michael?” She tears at her hair and drops to her knees. “Michael!”
THE SOUND OF SOMEONE screaming his name shook Michael from sleep. Across from him, Ryan lounged in a recliner with her leg draped over the side. A rubber tube was tied around her right arm.
She jerked awake the way Sam did when her own snoring startled her. Her eyes were hazy, and she dripped with sweat, though the way her body was trembling, Michael would have thought her freezing. Her face was pale. For a second, Michael half expected to hear that strange hiss-growl zombies made in the movies.
She eyed him for a moment without saying a word, then she got up and stuck her hand in the crack on the side of the cushion. When she pulled out a long needle, Michael squirmed and noticed he’d been tied up.
Don’t panic. Think. What would Sam do?
What looked like a seat belt crossed his waist. He was sitting in a something that resembled a dentist’s chair. Another strap ran across his shoulders and two more over each wrist. The binds were loose, and he was sure he could wriggle out of them as soon as his audience was distracted.
“You don’t mind sharing, do you?” she asked. “I promise I don’t have anything. I’ve always been safe.”
“Sharing? What do you mean?”
She winked and walked around behind him. A minute later, Michael heard the clink of a lighter flicking open. When she returned, what looked like dirty water filled the syringe. A bead of the fluid slid down the sharp metal needle. She took a step toward Michael.
“Wait!” He struggled against the belts. “What are you doing?”
“Relax, honey,” she said, smiling and reaching toward his arm. “This will help you see so much better.”
CHAPTER 31
Tagliamonte called out, “Detective, you should see this.”
The Fall River Police Department was tearing apart Ryan Chambers’s home. Rollins had gotten the search warrant with ease, even at the late hour, with the bullet found in Sam’s apartment and Michael’s cryptic plea for help. So far, their search had revealed nothing but newspapers. Lots and lots of newspapers.
“I found this in the bedroom. It was all by itself, like it was special or something.” Tagliamonte held up an article. The title was “Murder-Suicide in the Flint.”
She ripped it from her officer’s hands and started reading.
“What is it?” Frank asked.
She didn’t look up from the paper. “It’s an article about Michael.”
“Yeah, they’re all over the house,” Frank said.
“Not an article about Michael Turcotte, but Michael Flo—who Michael was before he was Michael Turcotte.” She folded the article and stuffed it into her pocket. “Thank you, Officer.”
She and Tagliamonte shared a look of understanding. He was one of the few officers who knew where Michael had come from, since he’d been one of the first responders to Michael’s parents’ crime scene. He nodded and went back to the search.
Sergeant Rollins hustled over with a stack of newsprint. “Detective, do you remember Muriel Costa?”
“The woman who drove her car off the pier, drowning herself and her two children?” Sam said, shaking her head in disgust. “How could I forget?”
“Yeah, her husband swore foul play was involved, that Muriel loved her children. Couldn’t believe she’d done it. What about Laurence Castor?”
Sam shook her head.
“He went missing off a cruise line, presumed dead. Out of our jurisdiction. We could do little for his family, but... hold on. The article’s here.” He shuffled through the stack in his hands.
“I remember now.” Sam stroked her chin. “Where are you going with this?”
“Well, many of these articles pertain to people, and the survivors of people, who have been murdered, committed suicide, or died under suspicious circumstances or even by a commonplace accident. At least, that’s how they were written off. Others in these articles vanished altogether. There’s Janie Morgan, Fisher Marko, Noah Stapleton, Eddie Cruz, Victoria—”
Sam put up her hand. “I follow you, but what do you suppose it means?” Sam had her own theory, but she wasn’t one to steal the glory from one of her men who was showing stellar recall and excellent police work.
“I’d say easily a quarter of our cold cases are here.” Rollins paused, found his confidence, and showed why he was next in line for detective. “She’s either an amateur investigator, someone with an avid interest in local crime, or someone who has a more personal stake in the outcome of these failed investigations.”
“Are you suggesting...” Frank scratched his head. “One woman? All these crimes?”
Before he could outright dismiss it, Sam spoke. “It’s really not that hard to believe when we consider the facts. She’s kidnapped Michael. She was present at the warehouse earlier today. If she single-handedly took out the Suarez gang, Chambers is no one to be trifled with. Add to that the foresight Michael claims she has—”
“Foresight?” Frank scoffed. “Like psychic? The FBI has worked with many so-called psychics over the years, and I can tell you from first-hand experience, they’re wrong a hell of a lot more often than they’re right.”
Sam bit back the anger rising in her gullet. “It’s different with Michael, and if he says Chambers is different, then I believe him. I’ll forgive your doubt. I had it, too, once. I had to learn to accept it the hard way. A boy died because of my disbelief. But even if you doubt him, put your trust in me.”
Frank bristled. “Like you put your trust in me when it comes to the Four Pi?”
Sam thought it a low blow, but she had no retort. She scowled then softened. “I was wrong. There is something bigger at play with the Suarez gang. You’re wrong about this.”
“I’m sorry, Sam.” Frank’s shoulders drooped. “I was—”
A phone rang. Everyone froze.
When it rang a second time, Sam hustled over to where the sound was coming from. A mobile phone lay a few inches under the bed. She picked it up. “Hello?”
“Detective Reilly?” The voice was clearly disguised. It grooved like a record turned slowly. “Detective Samantha Reilly?”
“Yes?”
“If you ever want to see your boy alive again, go to lot 17, plot 4, on book 1364, Lakeville.”
Sam covered the mouthpiece and called out to the room. “Lot 17, plot 4, book 1364. Someone write it down! Pull up the Registry of Deeds website.”
“Hurry, Detective,” the voice said. “Your boy doesn’t have much time.”
“Wait. Who has him? How many are there?” The phone went dead. The caller had hung up.
She looked at the men staring back at her. “Well, what are you all standing there for? An extra vacation day to whoever gets me directions to that address first, even if I have to give you one of mine to make it happen. Feed it into Rollins’s computer. Send backup to the address once you’ve got it.”
She turned to the sergeant. “Rollins, we’re heading to Lakeville.”
CHAPTER 32
Darkness.
Yet familiar.
Michael has been here before. But something is different. His head pounds against the wall, but he stops it. His pudgy, baby fat legs are crossed under him. He uses them to stand. The wall, with its crackled paint and sandpapery surface, is his only barrier. The blockade put up by his subconscious has fallen. He can see if he wants to.
But am I ready?
“Turn around,” Sam’s voice whispers in his ear, though he knows she’s not here. She can’t be here. Not yet.
The darkness that has shrouded his eyes for so long has lifted. He doesn’t want to turn, but he must turn—he knows he must, for he may not have this opportunity again. Repressed memories want to stay repressed.
The smell of sweat and sex fills the room with an air of depravity. The clock ticks, and the radiator hums louder than all the other times he’s been there. The only thumping now is that of his heart, pumping furiously in his chest.
He takes in all the air his little lungs can hold then lets it out slowly. Crying, he turns.
The muffled voices are no longer muffled. He hears them clearly and understands the words far better than his feeble three-year-old mind possibly could have at the time. Fifteen in mind, three in body, and altogether helpless to stop what will be done, to undo what has already happened.
