Dead Silence

by Kimberly Derting

  Jay’s hand went still, and he stiffened beside her.

  “Jay . . .” Violet frowned, squeezing his fingers with hers. “I didn’t . . . you know what I meant.” She peeked up at him. She wasn’t the only one bothered by this subject. Jay still blamed himself for not getting to her house sooner, and her parents felt as if they never should have left her alone in the first place. “It wasn’t your fault, you couldn’t have known he was there. No one did.”

  She thought of Rafe and Gemma and Krystal, even Sam. None of the members of her team, even with all their special abilities, had been able to predict that the killer was coming after her. None of them had been able to stop it from happening.

  He dropped her hand and pulled her close, protectively. “I know,” he sighed. “It’s just . . . I’m sure they feel the same way I do, that they wish you hadn’t had to go through any of that. I’m sure they just want to make sure it never happens again, even if that means they’re a little overprotective.”

  Violet decided she was tired of pretending that every nerve in her body wasn’t straining to be closer to him. She rolled on top of him, so that her chest was pressed against his. “And you know what I think?” she asked with a wicked smile as she stared at his lips, thinking how warm and soft they looked. How badly she wanted to taste them. “I think they just want to make sure we don’t do this.” She lowered herself then, letting her mouth softly graze over his as a tremor rocketed along her spine, making her flesh prickle. She drew back, just enough so she could speak. “I gotta say, though, I kinda want to.”

  His breath gusted against her lips as he grinned back at her, pulling her down so she was no longer teasing, tempting him. When her mouth parted for him, her pulse exploded, and suddenly she was aware of nothing—not the music-box imprint or the creaking of the bedsprings or her looming curfew. All she cared about was Jay, and the fact that their hearts were beating in time, and she was kissing him. She just wanted to keep kissing him.

  His lips were soft and salty and tasted like shelter from the storm that raged inside her. His unintelligible words, as he whispered them against her mouth, were like a melody all their own, drowning out all else.

  She pressed herself closer . . . as close as she could get. In Jay’s arms, she felt alive. And free.

  At peace.

  Violet squinted against the sun that came in through her windshield as she reached the stop sign, and then she turned, if for no other reason than to avoid the glare. She knew the wrong turn would delay her arrival even more, but she didn’t care at the moment. She wasn’t lost or anything—she knew exactly where she was—yet she was in no hurry to get to her destination.

  She was already late, there was no changing that fact now.

  Still, she felt bad she wasn’t making more of an effort to meet them on time. It wasn’t their fault her head was ringing. Literally.

  She continued to drive like that—with no real plan in mind—turning, and turning again, winding along side roads, and then back roads, until she could see glimpses of the lake between the houses lined up along the opposite side of the street. Turning up the radio, she was able to drown out the other song that was in the car with her, the one she wasn’t in the mood to listen to.

  It wasn’t until she felt the familiar quivering beneath her skin that she realized she hadn’t been driving without a purpose after all. That at some point, her course had begun to mean something . . . at least to her.

  She didn’t have to distinguish an echo to recognize its presence. And it didn’t take more than a second to realize it wasn’t the one she carried with her.

  These vibrations reached into the center of her body and tugged at her, telling her there was a body out there . . . calling to her.

  She came to a fork in the road, one she’d passed before—dozens, maybe hundreds of times—one she’d never even considered before this very moment. Normally, she would veer right, following the main road as it continued, eventually winding away from the lake and heading into town.

  But this time she pulled her steering wheel in the other direction, to the left. It was just the slightest variation, requiring the barest touch, so it was strange to feel so much change all at once. That’s how she knew she was close.

  Behind her eyes, colors began to pop and flash, becoming something vibrant and viral, closing in on the periphery of her vision, almost as if her windshield were cracking from the outside in, morphing into some sort of strange psychedelic optical illusion.

  At the same time, she could smell coffee. Not warm and fresh brewed, like coffee should smell. But cold and bitter and stale, like old grounds that had been left sitting in the trash for too long.

  She pulled to a stop in front of a closed gate that was set between two massive stone walls that stretched around the grounds of an impressive lakefront estate. Violet could see the house that stood beyond the wrought-iron spindles of the gate. It was large and imposing with an enormous circular driveway out front . . . everything you’d expect of a private, gated home.

  Whatever, or whoever, had summoned her, lay beyond that gate, she was sure of it. Yet she had no idea what to do as she watched the firework-like display of colors bursting at the corners of her eyes, spreading and parting and then coming together again in entirely different formations.

  Most visual echoes remained fixed—attached—to the body, making it impossible for Violet to recognize them until she was just steps away. It was unnerving the way this one behaved, less like a visual echo and more like a tactile one . . . becoming a part of her. Attaching to her from the inside out, making it seem as if she were looking at the world through a kaleidoscope.

  Every nerve in her body sang in anticipation and she could feel the magnetic pull to be closer, nearer to the body. Or bodies, rather, since she’d sensed two distinctly different echoes, noting the coffee-grounds smell that hovered in the air.

  “You can’t do this. You have to wait for the police,” she told herself, thinking that if she said the words aloud they might mean more, might carry more weight. She tried to remind herself of the things Sara had tried to teach her, and even the techniques Dr. Lee had offered, to help her contain her impulses . . . so that she could avoid situations like this. So that she wouldn’t wander into dangerous situations on her own. But her words sounded hollow and robotic in her own ears, and she knew she didn’t mean them, any more than she meant to stay in her car and call for help.

  She couldn’t help herself.

  She had to go in there.

  Turning off the ignition, she stepped outside her car. The sun beat down on her from overhead, reminding her that she should be elsewhere. With her friends, she thought vaguely. Having fun.

  Not here.

  She tucked her phone into her pocket, maybe the only intelligent thing she could think to do at the moment as she raised her hand to her eyes and searched for signs that someone was out there, on the grounds beyond the closed iron bars of the gate.

  But it was just her . . . and the flashing colors and the decayed coffee grounds.

  She wasn’t sure what she should do next.

  Pacing in front of the entrance, she eyed the wall. It was too high to scale, at least without help. On impulse, she pressed the button on the intercom that was attached to a stone post.

  She waited for a long moment, and then pressed it again. After the third buzz, she realized no one was going to answer.

  The edginess inside of her was building, the call of the dead had reached a fevered pitch as the echoes grew. The sensation caressed her skin and rattled her bones, alternately seducing and terrifying her.

  It was strong, this need to be found. So very, very strong.

  Violet edged closer to the gate once more and gripped the iron rails in her hands. She strained to see to the other side of the grounds, to the waters beyond. That was when she realized the flaw in the wall surrounding the home. The lake. The tall stone fence line ended where the shoreline began. Where the water met the shore, she
could get around the wall.

  That realization set her in motion, propelling her into action.

  She began moving, slowly, uncertainly at first, but soon she was running, following the tall stone barrier. She stopped when she reached yet another obstacle. The next-door neighbors had a similar fence surrounding their house. Also tall and also imposing, and also blocking her way.

  But she was determined now, and she went around to the other side of the house. Her body was tingling everywhere, her vision disrupted by the shattering colors. Her breath hitched when she reached that side of the property, where still another house stood.

  A house without a fence of its own.

  Violet sighed out loud as she started running again, racing now toward the water’s edge. When she reached it, she didn’t stop, or even slow, she just stumbled into it, letting it splash all the way up to her knees until she’d rounded the end of the stone wall and had made her way back up onto the firm green lawn on the other side.

  She didn’t stop to think about what she was doing . . . and what might await her if she didn’t turn back.

  Her wet feet plodded over the grass as she ran up the sloped yard toward the house. She had no plan, no idea what she’d do if the bodies that beckoned her turned out to be human. All she knew was that they needed her.

  She passed flowered gardens that had been pruned to perfection, and a detached garage with four regular-sized car doors and one oversized one. Through a window in the side of the structure, she could see a polished boat with bright red stripes parked inside.

  When she came around the front corner of the house, reaching the entrance, she stopped dead in her tracks, suddenly feeling the gravity of her situation as a cold tingle of apprehension crept down her spine.

  The front door stood open, and from where Violet stood, the colorful explosions were moving, drifting from her periphery and crowding her line of sight.

  This was it. This was where the bodies were.

  And what if it wasn’t just the bodies in there? What if whoever was responsible for the echoes was still inside as well?

  She held her breath and strained, trying to decide if she could distinguish imprint from echo . . . if she could tell if there was a killer in her midst. She listened, trying to hear beyond her own imprint, but all she could hear were the sounds coming from the lake beyond: splashing and waves lapping, shrieks of laughter, boat engines that seemed to blur, one into the next.

  And still, the bodies begged to be discovered. And still, her body ached to answer them.

  She took one cautious step forward, her self-control teetering on the edge as the toes of her wet shoes abutted the front step. She stood there, letting the coffee-grounds smell and the medley of shapes envelop her, letting them overshadow all else.

  Even common sense.

  And then she stepped again.

  It was the third step that led her across the threshold—of both the house and of reason—and into the darkened entryway.

  The first thing she was aware of was the air-conditioning. It was set entirely too high despite the outside temperatures. The second thing she noticed was the smell. A real one that pierced even the bitter coffee-grounds scent that had been suffocating her. She knew now, more than ever, that she was in the right place.

  It was the scent of death. Of newly decaying flesh.

  Bodies.

  She strained toward it, like a ravenous predator. Her hand closed around the phone in her front pocket now as her heart raced and she bit back her breath, afraid it might disturb the air around her and give her away.

  But if someone was in there with her, it was already too late. Her shoes were still wet, and they squeaked across the tiled entry, giving her away the moment she’d stepped inside. She slipped one foot out of her shoe, and then the other, leaving the shoes beside the front door as she crept inside on bare feet.

  She wasn’t afraid. She should be, she knew. But she couldn’t find the fear to hang on to.

  The entryway was dark, but only because the lights were out, and as she slipped past the wall, Violet could see the sunlight trying to strain through the narrow opening between the heavy curtains that were drawn in front of a large picture window.

  She went there first, her fingers clutching the soft fabric as she began to peel them apart, pulling them back along the curtain rod. Light washed the living room in its golden glow.

  It would have been a beautiful setting, if not for the blood. And if not for the victims.

  Violet gasped, choking on her scream as she staggered backward, falling against the window. She hit the glass hard—too hard—and she held her breath as she waited, listening for the sound of breaking glass to fill her ears.

  It won’t hold. She’d hit it too hard.

  Any moment it would shatter beneath her and she would just keep falling, all the way through it to the lawns below. And then to the water. And even then, she’d keep falling.

  Falling . . .

  But the sounds never came, not even a crack, although she couldn’t help wondering if it wouldn’t have been preferable to what she now witnessed.

  She’d known there would be bodies. Of course she’d known it, she told herself, as she shoved her palm against her mouth to keep from screaming out loud.

  She stayed frozen like that, with her hand pressed to her lips as she leaned against the window for several long seconds . . . minutes . . . or possibly hours.

  She couldn’t tear her gaze away from them.

  All three of them.

  Her vision was nearly blocked now as the colors of the kaleidoscope echo swirled and whorled and erupted in front of her eyes, leaving only gaps through which she could see.

  But it was enough.

  She could make out their sightless eyes. And their gaping wounds. And exposed throats.

  I have to get out of here, Violet realized, coming to awareness only as her stomach recoiled violently. She eased away from the glass, testing her legs and her balance for only a second before she started running, scrambling to get to the front door again on feet that felt suddenly slippery beneath her.

  Outside the door, she bent over one of the large potted plants that stood on either side of the entry and retched, clutching the sides of the ceramic planter and vomiting until her stomach was empty. Then she vomited some more, tasting the stomach acids that filled the back of her throat. And when her body had finally stopped convulsing, her head felt clearer. Too clear.

  She was alone in a house with a dead family.

  And that’s what they were, a family. A mother and a father and a boy—ten, maybe eleven, years old.

  They’d been seated on the couch, although Violet couldn’t imagine that that was where they’d died. Their placement was too peaceful, the setting too serene. This whole thing looked . . . planned. Posed.

  No, she was certain they’d been placed there.

  Afterward.

  She fumbled with her cell phone, her hands shaking so hard that she nearly dropped it. She had to try three times to get her Contacts list up, and even then she struggled to scroll through it. She searched for her uncle’s number, listed only under “Stephen.” He was the chief of police in Buckley, and although she might be outside his jurisdiction here on this side of the lake, she knew he’d be there in a flash. Less than a flash, if she called him for help.

  Her thumb hovered for several long seconds before she changed her mind and called someone else instead.

  When he answered, she whispered into the phone, her voice raw and her throat sore from throwing up. “I need you,” she pled almost silently. “Hurry.”

  Even when she’d called him, Violet had known that calling Rafe meant she was inadvertently calling Sara too. Sara was the team’s leader after all. But more than that, she was also Rafe’s sister.

  Violet hadn’t waited for them at the house, despite the nearly irresistible pull that continued to tug at her, trying to draw her back inside. Instead, she’d stumbled back around the stone f
encing that surrounded the estate until she reached her car, where she huddled inside and shivered, even as the temperatures climbed to nearly ninety degrees. Sweltering for the Northwest.

  This kind of heat kept the lake beyond busy and crowded, and Violet was forced to listen to that same constant drone of boats and jet skis out on the water, until finally she’d pulled out her iPod and turned up the volume. It took nearly an hour for Rafe and Sara to come all the way from Seattle, but the moment she saw Sara’s car, Violet felt something she hadn’t felt in ages.

  She felt understood.

  Rafe, more so than even her own uncle, knew what she was going through right now, since he too had an ability that allowed him to glimpse the world beyond their own. To see—and sense—things no one else could.

  She’d been so annoyed to see him and Gemma at her school, in a place she’d tried to keep free from that part of her life, but now, today, she needed him.

  And here he was.

  Violet practically fell out of her car when she got her first glimpse of Sara, and it was Sara who rushed to Violet, gathering her in her arms as she assured herself that Violet was safe before either of them spoke. Violet had nearly forgotten how cold Sara’s touch could be and she shivered once more. Behind Sara, Violet noticed Rafe glancing at her, scrutinizing her with his curious blue gaze, and she wondered if she looked half as frazzled as she felt.