“Sir? Ticket please.” said a tall, round-bellied bus driver.
The man turned and held a ticket toward him.
“How many bags?”
“Four.”
“Thank you, sir. You may board. We leave in five minutes.”
The man put his hand out to David, and David shook it.
“In your whole life you might never get another reward for doing good. Let this be the reward for them all.” He gripped David’s hand and pulled him in slightly.
If the eyes truly are the window to a man’s soul, there could be no doubt that this man’s soul was boiling in the torment of regret.
He let go of David’s hand. David looked down at the key and back at the man. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say anything.”
David gave silent acknowledgment to the man’s request.
The man chuckled again at a private thought. “You know, it’s ironic,” he said, “I spent my whole life giving people the one thing I can’t give myself.”
“What is that?” David studied the deep lines in the man’s tired face.
He looked off into space and gave a short inward laugh. “Life,” he said. And with that, he backed away, turned on his heel, and disappeared into the bus.
David watched as the last of the passengers boarded. He watched as the baggage doors were closed, and he watched as the bus pulled away. But he didn’t see the man again. That was when he decided to believe that the most incredible thing that had ever happened to him, was actually happening.
He turned and walked up the sidewalk to where the black Porsche sat gleaming in the afternoon sun. The style suggested that the car could be as little as four years old, which meant it could easily be worth more than fifty thousand dollars. Was this really happening?
On the curb, behind a newspaper vending machine, David spied a trash can. He looked down at the red backpack, which reminded him of the soup kitchen, and strode over to the trash can. He stuffed the backpack into it then practically skipped his way around the Porsche to the driver’s door. But before he could open it, his attention was drawn to a word fluttering on a flag above a storefront. His mind went into autopilot, and soon his eyes had bounced their way to the end of a new message.
His heart began to pound, and the breath left his body. He squeezed the keychain in his hand, tilted his head back, and screamed into the sky. “YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Jon squinted at the afternoon sun and turned his face from it as he rushed down the sidewalk, putting as much distance as humanly possible between himself and that bank. He was only too happy to comply with the manager’s wishes. The last place on earth he ever wanted to set foot in again was Norfolk County Savings and Loan. As far as he was concerned, Elliot James could rot in that building with the weird bank manager and the stranger from the booth next to him. He now had the resources to leave all this behind and go live on an island somewhere near the Bahamas.
“Fun, wasn’t it?” interrupted a voice in his head.
“He’s having fun,” said another.
Not exactly fun, said Jon, inwardly, as he slowed his pace on the sidewalk, his head bowed to hide his face from stray pedestrians.
“We’ll have more fun now,” said a woman’s voice.
Jon came to a stop. Who are you? he thought.
There was silence for a moment.
“Show him,” said the voice that had spoken first.
Had the voices always had the ability to speak to him while he was fully awake, or had they strengthened in power? There had been a few isolated incidents, but nothing like this; the voices were definitely getting stronger.
“See the black Porsche?” said a new voice, boldly.
He did. It was parked on the side of the road, three cars up.
“Under the bumper, under the plate,” said the new voice.
Jon gave a paranoid look up and down the sidewalk. No one paid him any attention. There was no pursuit from the bank, no suspicious blue cars waiting to gun him down. But still, he felt as if they were there, hunting him.
“The doctor won’t be back,” they said. “Go ahead.”
Steal it?
“Borrow,” they said, “not steal.”
Why? I have money now.
“Just do it.”
He waited for a gray-haired lady with a dog to pass by, then skirted over to the Porsche. His fingers groped under the bumper and found something hard. With one motion, he gripped it, pulled it free, and stood. It was a magnetized Hide-A-Key box. He pressed his thumb on the cover and slid it open. Inside was a gold key with a red Porsche logo.
His head snapped back up, eyes scanning the road and the windows on the buildings to each side. No one was watching.
“We can give you anything you want,” said a scratchy voice.
I have the money to buy a Porsche, why do you want me to borrow one?
“Why should the rich get good things?” said a deep voice, “while you wallow in your muck?”
“We can change your fate,” whispered another.
How many of you are there?
“Do you feel it, Jon? The shackles of your pathetic fate loosed from your soul?”
The feeling was there, unmistakably. He had always felt bound, bound to poverty, bound to misery, unable to claw his way out of his wretched circumstances. But holding the briefcase full of money and staring at the sweetest ride he had ever seen filled him with a satisfaction he had never known. He didn’t have to follow the rules anymore. What had the rules ever done for him, anyway? His life, if you could call it a life, was nothing but a prison. But now the prison door was creaking open. Why not? Why shouldn’t he?
“You deserve better than the hand you were dealt, Jon.”
“Everything can change today.”
“There is nothing we cannot give you.”
“And no one to stop you.”
He stepped around the car and slipped the key in under the door handle. The faint sound of suction could be heard as the door seal broke. It was the sound of quality craftsmanship, something Jon had been denied his whole life.
Why is it that one person is born into money, and another is forced to live in squalor? Why should one person be born smart and another barely able to get a GED? he thought. But—were they his thoughts? It was getting hard to tell his own thoughts from the voices.
This is where you change your destiny. Reclaim your life. You can have it all. You don’t have to live in shackles.
What would he be giving up? His life had no meaning, no value. It was hard and full of the destruction of other people’s choices. He didn’t deserve the life he’d been given, but what was this new life opening up before him? Was it criminal? Was it even real? What if he was experiencing a psychotic break (which he strongly suspected).
What difference did it make? It felt real. Whatever this was, it was far better than what he had before. He slid into the car, placed the briefcase and iPad on the seat next to him, and closed the door with a warm thump.
The interior was brown leather with black trimming. The console and controls infused him with a sense of power. He attempted to slide the key in, but there was a cap on the ignition. A sliver of a hole on the side of the cap was just large enough so he could pry it off. He slid the key in, twisted, and the engine roared to life. The dash glimmered with the golden light of a hundred letters and symbols; it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He was sure that driving this car for ten minutes would be worth a lifetime in prison.
He checked and adjusted the mirrors, shoved the automatic stick shift in gear, and pulled out into traffic. The responsiveness of the steering took his breath away. The only two vehicles he had ever driven were his father’s truck and the fifteen-year-old Chevy Dart he had owned for five months, both of which steered like a sailboat.
This little Porsche moved like it knew what he was thinking. He turned left, and the tires gave a short sque
ak as they gripped the road. He turned right, and his body pressed into the firm, leather door cushion.
His mind whispered, “Go faster.”
But prudence gripped him in its all-too-familiar clutch. He was driving a stolen car with a briefcase full of stolen money—not to mention the fact that he was wanted for murder. The car slowed, and the engine shifted down as his body reacted to the thought. Get a grip, Jon! You’re not out of the woods yet!
You are in command of your destiny, his mind whispered. You don’t have to live in fear anymore.
I’m wanted for murder! his mind screamed, as though at itself.
“We can fix that,” a voice said.
How?
“We can lead you to the murder weapon.”
You can what?
BEEEEEEEP.
He swerved back into his own lane.
But how can I get to it? The police are guarding my house.
“It’s not at your house.”
Then where is it?
“At the police station.”
Well good. Right? I’ll just wait for them to check the prints, and I’m set.
“It’s hidden,” said another voice.
What? Why would it be... Before he could finish the thought, he realized the implication of the statement. Could someone at the police department be working for Elliot James? Did that mean his father was innocent? Was his father supposed to shoot Sandra and lose his nerve?
Whose prints are on the gun?
“We will guide you,” they said.
I’m supposed to trust you now? Where were you when I was floundering at the bank? How do I know you won’t do that to me again?
“We didn’t know you were the one.”
“Now we know.”
Don’t blow this, Jon, his mind chastised him. Do you want to go back to who you were? A loser? A nobody?
He gripped the steering wheel. What do you want me to do?
“Go to the murder weapon, your name will be cleared.”
You won’t have to run from the police any more, his thoughts whispered. You will be free to live your life, to spend your money. You won’t have to run anymore.
But to drive right into the belly of the beast in a stolen car with a case full of bank robber’s loot? That was crazy! Did he possess the strength to do that?
We are strong, said his mind.
He downshifted and the engine roared. The wheels bit into the road as he did a U-turn and headed back through town to the police station. He had to be out of his mind, or perhaps in his right mind for the first time in his life.
What would your life be like right now if you had taken charge? If you hadn’t been so weak, you would have made a name for yourself. You would have fought back against the bullies who pantsed you in gym class just because you’re different. You would have stood up to those stupid teachers who couldn’t teach to save their lives and made you look like the stupid one. If you had taken charge, you would have made them respect you. When they hear about this, it’s gonna blow their minds.
Jon found a spot in front of the police station and pulled in. His eyes rested on the three police cruisers sitting in a small parking lot on the side of the building. It was all he could do to not imagine officers inside them, watching him, waiting for him to exit the stolen vehicle so they could take him down. It took a few minutes for him to build his courage, but finally his hand shot out and pulled the handle. The door swung open, and he climbed out onto the tar.
The building was a towering monster. Every window was an eye taking note of his arrival. He imagined officers scrambling inside. Arming themselves. Preparing to take him into custody. This was the worst idea of all time.
His hand reached for the driver’s door handle, and froze.
“Go to the rear of the car,” said a very clear voice.
“Yes, we need him.”
Who? he thought.
“Go to the rear...”
Jon shimmied along the side of the car, keeping it between him and the police station.
“Pound on it.”
On what? The trunk?
“Pound it! Pound it hard!”
He clapped his hand down on the trunk.
“One more will be glorious!” said another voice.
He made a fist and struck the trunk three time as hard as he dared to.
“Open it. Open it up!”
He did as ordered. The trunk flipped up and Jon’s body reacted to what was inside. He leaped backward and stifled a scream.
An arm shot up out of the trunk. “Don’t shoot me, I’m unarmed!”
Jon clutched his chest and took a step backward. He stood staring, ready to sprint.
The man in the trunk sat up, blinking into the afternoon sun. He looked at Jon.
“We need him,” a voice spoke low in Jon’s mind. “Do not be afraid.”
“Wh- who are you?”
The man blinked, shielding the sun with his hand, “David Chance.”
David Chance? Canary had spoken the name. She’d said he could trust him. “Wh- what are you doing in my trunk?”
“Your trunk?”
Jon recoiled slightly. Did the car belong to this man? Had he stolen a car with the owner in the trunk?
“It’s your car. Don’t listen to him,” said a voice.
He puffed his chest out, “Yeah, my trunk.”
This had a noticeable effect on David. “Are you the son?”
“Yes, the doctor’s son,” a voice whispered low.
“Yes, the doctor’s son,” he parroted.
David lay back down in the trunk and balled his fists. “I knew it! I knew it was too good to be true! Nobody gives away a Porsche.”
“He is so easily moved,” Jon’s mind whispered. Jon sensed an intense hatred in the thought. Was the hatred for this man? He stepped closer to the car. “What are you doing in there?” he asked again.
David squirmed. “Does it matter? Just shoot me. Shoot me and get it over with.”
Jon studied the man a moment, trying to figure why his voice sounded so familiar. He was sure he’d never seen the man before. “Why on earth would I shoot you? I just want you out of my trunk!”
David rolled onto his belly and pushed a leg out. With a few grunts and a whole lot of complaining, he was finally on the sidewalk, brushing himself off.
Jon slammed the trunk. “What were you doing in there?”
David looked up, and his eyes widened, like he was seeing a ghost. “Wait a min... You’re not... You’re Jon Blake!” he said, aghast.
And there it was. He hadn’t even gotten into the police station before someone recognized him. But a voice suppressed the thought. “You know where the murder weapon is.”
“I know where the murder weapon is!” he blurted.
It was clear from David’s expression that he was attempting to figure out why Jon had blurted something so random.
“That’s why I’m here,” said Jon, “the murder weapon.”
“Here?” David looked up at the building for the first time, then back at Jon. “The police station? The weapon is here?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s weird,” David said to himself. “Karen didn’t say they found the weapon.”
“They didn’t. Well, someone did, but it’s hidden.”
David’s face went slack. “At the police station?”
“Yeah.”
David’s eyebrows scrunched as he let this new information sink in. “Wh- What are you planning to do? You can’t just waltz in there and accuse them of hiding evidence and expect them to bring you to it.” His body flailed. “How do you even know it’s in there?!”
“He is supposed to help.”
“You’re supposed to help,” Jon parroted.
Yet again, David’s brain was processing. “How?”
“Locker 2881.”
“It’s in locker 2881.”
David started to pace. “Let me get this right. God told me to climb into the trunk
of a car, which gets stolen, but then I end up at the police station, which is where I wanted to go in the first place, and then...”
“God told you?” Jon interrupted. This day was getting weirder by the minute.
“Yes. That’s my thing. God shows me messages, and like an idiot I follow them. Don’t you watch the news?”
“Okay. I get it. You’re nuts,” Jon said, backing up.
David puffed up. “Yeah. I’m the crazy one! You showed up at a police station in a stolen vehicle to tell them one of them is hiding evidence, and you think they’re gonna let you walk in there and show ‘em where it is?”
“Tell him he’s going to do it,” said a clear voice.
“No, you’re going to do it,” he said, unable to keep his face from revealing his complete shock.
“And that!” said David, pointing. “How do you know that!”
Things were beginning to spiral out of control. This was not going at all the way he had imagined. He thought the voices would guide him into the police station and lead him to the location of the weapon, maybe by announcing where the police were standing and which way they were facing, like something out of a movie. Not this! This was insanity.
“Come to think of it,” said David, “Why did you pound on the trunk like you knew I was inside, but then you leaped back when you opened it?” His head tilted. “You didn’t know I was in there.”
Jon inched backward.
“And now you say I’m going to go into the police station and point them to the evidence like you know this for certain. You don’t even know me!”
Jon’s fight or flight instinct drove him back around toward the driver’s door.
David pursued him. “If you want my help, you need to tell me something. Are you getting messages too?”
“Yes. Tell him yes!”
“Yes,” he said.
David’s mouth hung open.
“I’m just like you. Following messages,” said a voice.
Was it true? Did this David guy hear voices too? “I’m following messages too,” Jon said.
David deflated. “I thought I was the only one.”
“So did I,” Jon said. It was true. He thought it was just some weird thing his mind was doing. But if the voices were coming from outside of him, what was the source? He patently rejected the idea that God was speaking to him. Beyond the fact that he considered religion a fairy tale, it was absurd to think that God would speak to him in a hundred different voices. But, if it wasn’t God, then what was it?
VOICES: Book 2 in the David Chance series (Suspense, Mystery, Thriller) Page 15