by Michael Bray
“It’s a fuckin’ mess in there, Alex,” Warren said, taking a cigarette offered by Petrov.
“Any sign of the kid yet?”
“No, not yet. Although we have it confirmed that it was Henry Marshall who did this.”
“Jesus,” Petrov said, looking at the house. “That’s bold, really bold. Are we sure?”
“Half a dozen people saw the kid charging down the street and jumping into the car, and Marshall getting into his vehicle and giving chase. It’s him.”
“How the hell did he slip the roadblocks?”
“Damned if I know, but he did.”
“So where are we on this? What’s the timeline?” Petrov asked.
“Come on up to the house, its better you see it for yourself.”
Warren led the way, Petrov following behind, avoiding the crime scene officers in paper forensic suits milling around the property. They went around the back, where a white tent had been erected over the door, and ducked inside, Petrov immediately seeing the scale of violence.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. No matter how many crime scenes like this he saw, the brutality of man never ceased to confuse and depress him.
“So, here’s how I’m guessing it goes down,” Warren said, who, unlike Petrov, was unaffected by the bloodbath. “Marshall comes around the back of the house. The guy on the ground there opens the door to take out the garbage. Marshall is waiting, slits his throat on the doorstep and gains entry. He shoves the husband down on the ground and puts the knife right there through his skull. The wife, she doesn’t move. Marshall drowns her in the sink then goes looking for the kid, who was hiding upstairs. Anyway, the boy escapes through the back door here and Marshall gives chase.”
“Not bad,” Petrov said. “Almost right, too.”
“You think you know better, Alex?”
Petrov nodded. “The husband died later. Probably when the kid was trying to escape. You see the smears in the blood there from his hands? You don’t do that if someone plunges a knife in your skull. You go down and stay down. My guess is, Marshall slits his throat when he opens the door and leaves him there bleeding out. He comes in and drowns the wife just like you said, then finds the kid. Chases him back down here. See the shoe print in the blood there?”
“Yeah,” Warren said.
“Size seven. My best guess is the kid is cornered here by Marshall, the stepfather has a little fight left in him and tries to help, and that’s when he eats the knife in the skull. It gives the kid enough time to run and get out of the house.”
“And that’s when he got picked up around the corner?”
“Exactly.”
“Yeah, I see it now,” Warren said. “Marshall chases them. It seems they ended up heading out of town when Marshall runs them off the road. The car is a mess, and—”
“I know. I just came from there. The kid and the people he was with had disappeared before I got to them,” Petrov grumbled.
“Shit. Didn’t anyone think to stop them?”
“Why would they?” Petrov said, rubbing his temples. “Nobody knows who they are. They were just victims of a car accident waiting to be taken to hospital to be checked over. There was no need to detain them, not at the time anyway.”
“Jesus Christ,” Warren grunted. “What about Marshall? Any sign of him?”
“More than that. He was right there at the crash site. Apparently he was trying to get into the car. With everything going on, nobody noticed him leave the scene. I had to pull the men stationed in Oakwell away to help with the search. They’re out now looking for him.”
“So who are these people who helped the kid?” Warren said, looking at the devastation in the kitchen. “Jesus, it’s a real mess, ain’t it?” he added as he popped a stick of chewing gum into his mouth.
“We don’t know who they are,” Petrov sighed. “None of this is adding up, Warren.”
“Does it ever?” Warren said.
Petrov didn’t respond. He was tired, not just physically, but mentally. Over the last couple of years, he had found himself struggling more and more to switch off at the end of the work day. Of course, some of the things he saw would live with him forever no matter how much he wanted them to go away, but it seemed for some reason, the part of his brain that filtered out the usual shit that made living a normal life possible wasn’t working.
“You alright, Alex?” Warren asked, sensing how distracted his partner was.
“Yeah, I’m good, just struggling to process everything. Let’s get the hell out of here.” Petrov ducked back out of the tent covering the door, inhaling the fresh air, a light sweat forming on his brow. His brain felt as if it were pulsing in his head, a sure sign of a coming migraine.
“Why don’t you knock off? I can take it from here,” Warren said.
“I’m fine.”
“You look like shit.”
“Love you too.”
“I’m serious, man. You look like you need a break.”
“I can’t now, Warren, not with this thing unraveling the way it is. We need to find this kid and fast.”
“I know. I’ll tell you something; I wish we still had the death penalty here for when we catch that prick, Marshall.”
“Yeah, well, if he carries on being as bold as this, we stand a decent chance.”
“So what do we do now?” Warren asked.
“Stick around here and question the neighbors. You’re good at that. See what you can squeeze out of them.”
“What about you?” Warren said as Petrov walked toward the front of the house.
“I’m going to tell the Samson woman her kid is missing.”
“Why don’t you see if local law enforcement can cover it?”
“No, I’d rather do it myself. Besides, I could do with having a little time to think.”
“What the hell fuck do you think’s going on here, Alex?” Warren said.
Petrov hesitated, unsure what he wanted to say or how to say it. Some things, he reasoned, were better without words, or at least any form of committal answer.
“At this point, I don’t know. Let’s just play it by ear and see what we can find out.”
Petrov skirted around the house before Warren could ask any more questions. He ducked back under the tape, pushed through the crowds and got into his car.
PART THREE:
FULL CIRCLE
CHAPTER 24
Detective Petrov pulled up to the rundown apartment building and gave it a cursory once-over as he shut off the engine. He sat for a moment, composing his thoughts, taking a second to get what he wanted to say clear in his mind. He exited the vehicle, paused to take a look up and down the street and entered the building.
Some places were nicer inside than out, however this wasn’t one of them. The hallways were dark and dusty, the wallpaper cheap and a good few years past its best. He took the stairs to the fourth floor, paused outside room 413 and, after popping a stick of chewing gum into his mouth, knocked on the door. When no answer came, he knocked again, and was about to do so a third time when the door to the next apartment opened and a short, dumpy hag of a woman stepped out into the hall.
“Who you looking for?” she asked, looking Petrov up and down.
“I’m here to see Mrs. Samson. Have you seen her?”
“Maybe. Who are you?”
Petrov flashed his badge. “Police. It’s important I talk to her.”
“She’s not in,” the old woman said with a shrug of her shoulders.
“Are you certain?”
“Listen, son, I’m neighborhood watch. You and I are on the same side. I keep my eyes and ears open. You have to in a place like this. I was telling my grandson last week that he really ought to—”
“Ma’am? You were saying about Mrs. Samson.”
“I was?”
Petrov stared and said nothing.
“She went out earlier. Seemed in a hurry. She normally talks to me in the hall. Her husband died you know, and her kid, well she n
ever talks about him. I think there’s something going on there. Nobody has that many secrets.”
“Did Mrs. Samson say where she was going?”
“No. She had a bag though, and she seemed upset. Course, she always does. My cousin is the same you know, has that depression. Strange thing if you ask me. I told my grandson—”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Petrov said, already striding down the corridor.
“Don’t you want to take my name? In case you have questions?” she called after him.
“No, thank you. You were a great help.”
Petrov jogged down the steps two at a time and ran out to his car. A man used to trusting his instincts, he had a good idea where she was going.
CHAPTER 25
Getting the woman to stop was easier than he anticipated. Even looking the way he did, he knew it was only a matter of time before someone naïve or trusting enough would pull up to the roadside to ask if he was okay. The woman driver, who was now sitting in the passenger seat, was in her twenties. Henry looked at her, dressed in her business attire, brown hair tied into a bun high on her head, deep blue eyes which would have been sensual if not for the fear that filled them. The roads had been remarkably free of police, another thing for which he thanked the voices for. He sped past the sign telling them they had reached Oakwell, and he pulled to the side of the road, stopping the car. He looked at his prisoner, hands bound with duct tape. She was docile and afraid. Beyond, just visible through the trees, were the few white flashes of rooftops of the abandoned town. As confident as he was that there was nobody there waiting for him, he wasn’t prepared to take the risk. He turned to the frightened woman, watching her, eyes hungry, not for her flesh like most men, but for her blood. His eyes flicked to the road behind them, ensuring it was clear, then landed on what was on the back seat. He reached back and brought it to the front.
A half dozen red roses. He pulled the small white card out and read it.
Rachel,
So sorry about everything. I hope you can forgive me and know I still love you.
Billy.
“Is Billy your husband?” he said, watching her, enjoying her fear.
She shook her head.
“Boyfriend?”
She nodded, still terrified, wanting to run but knowing she would never dare.
“What did he do?”
She didn’t answer, instead stared out of the window, looking for help.
“Nobody’s coming,” Henry said, watching as she cried, make-up streaking down her face. “This road only leads here and nobody but us has any cause to come this way. The bulk of traffic will be taking the highway. If you’re looking out there for help, it’s not coming.”
“Please let me go,” the woman pleaded, her voice no more than a whisper.
Henry looked at the flowers, then back at her. “What did he do? This Billy. Why did he buy you flowers?”
“Please, just let me go.”
She wasn’t listening, and Henry was growing angry. It was easier to hear them now, those things in his head, especially now they were so close. He breathed in the flowers, closing his eyes, trying to remember the last time he’d experienced such scents. The only smells that seemed pleasant to him anymore were those of fear and blood. His eyes flicked open.
“What did Billy do?” It wasn’t a question but a demand. She sensed it, because this time she answered.
“He forgot my birthday,” she said.
“Is it today?”
“Yesterday.”
“How old are you?”
“Look, please—”
“How old!”
“Twenty. I’m twenty.”
Henry nodded, satisfied. “That’s a good age. A whole life ahead of you if you do as I tell you. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“What do you want?” she asked.
“Do you have tow ropes in the back? A toolbox?”
She wept, a mucus bubble expanding and contracting in one nostril as she breathed.
“Answer me!” He glared at her, hoping she saw, hoping she understood that he wasn’t joking around.
“There are ropes, I think,” she replied, refusing to look him in the eye. “But I don’t have a toolbox.”
“You really should carry one,” Henry said, stroking her hair with filthy fingers. “You never know when you might need one.”
“I only got the car a week ago. It’s new,” she said, risking a look at him.
“Birthday gift?”
She nodded. “My parents. They… they’ll be missing me.”
“I have no doubt,” Henry said, opening the car door. “Come on. It’s time to go.”
“Where are we going?” she asked, looking beyond him into the trees.
Henry walked around to the passenger side door, opened it and led her out by her elbow. He led her around the car, pausing to pop the trunk, then as an afterthought, popped the hood as well. He saw her looking and grinned. “In case somebody comes by and wonders why the car is here. They’ll think it was a breakdown.”
He led her to the trunk and found the tow ropes where she said they would be.
“Are we coming back?” she asked, trembling.
Henry didn’t answer. He ducked back into the car and grabbed the roses, shoving them into her hands.
“No, I’m afraid we’re not,” Henry said as he led her off the road and into the forest. As dense as it was, he knew the voices would make his passage easy. After all, he had a very important job to do.
CHAPTER 26
Consciousness was slow to come back to Isaac, and for a few precious moments, he had forgotten what happened to him. As he woke, it came to him in pieces. First the pain. The dull throb in his wrist, the ache in his neck and shoulder. Next came sound. Screams, agony. Pain. Or was it? He concentrated his efforts, trying to listen through the fuzzy cloud of near consciousness. Not screams. Singing. Music. It was a radio, the DJ talking around a chart hit that Isaac didn’t recognize. He turned to his other senses. Inhaling, mentally reeling at the smell of rotting flesh and decay. Only, it wasn’t decay. It was a good smell. Bacon frying. He could hear it sizzling behind the chatter of the radio presenter. He opened his eyes, squinting at the white light, trying to get a feel for his surroundings. He was on a sofa, head propped up on two pillows, twisted cover over his body. The room was dusty and cluttered with all kinds of objects that seemed to make no stylistic sense. He lifted his head, the headache screaming its arrival the instant he moved. Point taken, he lay back down again, taking in what he could. Trying to make sense of what had happened.
It came back to him without warning. The man from his nightmare. Grant and Tanya. The crash. The people who had helped him. He remembered the footsteps coming toward him as he lay trapped in the car, seeing him at the window, desperate to get in, desperate to get to him like some kind of wild animal, and then… black, and he couldn’t remember anything after that.
He risked lifting his head to get a look at the room, this time the headache bearable. He was on a sofa, in a standard sitting room. The window across the room was open, letting in dust-filled bars of sunlight. Ahead of him, beside the overfilled bookshelf, was an open door beyond which he could hear the sounds of the radio and smell the cooking bacon. He could also hear voices speaking in whispers.
“Hey kid, you feelin’ alright?”
Isaac turned toward the source of the voice. A man stood framed by the open door, one he recognized from the car. He had his arm bandaged and a large plaster on his head.
“Where am I?” Isaac mumbled. “Who are you?”
“Take it easy, kid, you’re safe here. My name’s Truman, and if it helps, I don’t have a damn clue what’s goin’ on here either. Hang on, I’ll get Emma. She’s the person you need to talk to. She seems to know what the hell this is about.”
With no means of arguing the point anyway, Isaac lay back on the pillow and waited for someone to come and tell him what was going on.
II
“
You don’t remember me, do you?”
Isaac shook his head. “No, I don’t know you.”
“I’m a friend, okay? You don’t need to be scared.”
“That man. He wanted to hurt me,” Isaac replied, his lip trembling as he recalled the snarling face of Henry Marshall as he tried to get into the car.
“You can relax here. Nobody will hurt you.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Emma. This is my house. How do you feel?”
Issac shrugged. “Okay I guess. I don’t remember.” He sat up, staring at the window. “What if he followed, that man…”
“He didn’t. You’re safe here.”
“Are you sure?”
Emma nodded, and took a deep breath. “I need to talk to you about something important, Isaac. Something that you might not understand at first and that might be scary for you, but you need to hear it.”
“You don’t have to talk to me like a baby. I’m ten years old, not four.”
Emma smiled. “I’m sorry. I’m not used to talking to kids.”
“It’s okay,” he said, settling back down on the sofa. “What do you need to talk to me about? Is it about that man?”
“No, not him. How much do you know about your mother?”
“She doesn’t want me anymore. That’s why I had to live with Grant and Tanya. They said she’s sick,” Isaac said, not making eye contact with Emma.
“Your mother does want you, Isaac. Don’t believe otherwise.”
“Then why did she send me away?”
“I’m sure she wouldn’t have done if she didn’t have to. Right now, I need you to focus on this talk, okay?”
He nodded, watching her and waiting.
“What do you know about the place where your parents used to live?”
“The bad place,” Isaac replied straight away. “I dream about it, even though I’ve never been there. Sometimes I hear them in my head, those… things. I don’t like them.”