VOICES: Book 2 in the David Chance series (Suspense, Mystery, Thriller)

by Hileman, John Michael

  What?

  "Ask her."

  Why?

  A baritone voice replaced that of the little girl. "You need to remember who we are and what we are capable of. Our power can be yours."

  He looked at the waitress clearing a table nearby. What were they up to? Should he do what they asked? Should he set his foot on that road again? He knew where it led. It would begin with an easy task but soon he would be caught up in something beyond his control. No. He would be careful this time. But he would do it, because the questions on the napkin screamed for answers, and this was the only way to get them.

  "Miss?" he found himself saying.

  She turned and looked at him with a welcoming smile.

  "I have a question."

  "Sure, sweetie, what is it?" She left her rag on the table and walked toward him, adjusting her apron as she approached.

  "Where is your daughter?"

  She came to a stop, and her brow scrunched. "Why would you ask me that?"

  Great. He could tell from the switch in her demeanor that he had poked a hornet's nest. They were already setting him up for failure. "I'm sorry," he said, "I didn't mean to pry."

  "Do I know you?"

  The little girl's voice filled his head again. "Tell her you have a message from her daughter."

  He did as she requested.

  The waitress scowled. "Is this some kind of sick joke? My daughter is dead."

  His body went numb. "I- I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I..." He fumbled to put the napkin in his pocket.

  The little girl spoke again. "Tell her I love her."

  What? he thought.

  "Tell her it wasn't her fault."

  Horror gripped him. Were these voices from people who had moved on? There was no time to reflect on the revelation.

  The waitress pressed in on him "Why would you say that about my daughter?"

  He set his eyes on hers. "She wants me to tell you it wasn't your fault and that she loves you."

  Her face twisted, her head shook with disgust. "That's it. I don't need this." She turned and began to walk away.

  "Wait!" pleaded the little girl. He spoke it aloud to her mother, with desperation. "Tell her I have watched her cry alone where no one can see."

  "She has watched you crying," he repeated. "She has seen you cry alone where no one can see."

  "Because she doesn't want anyone to know how sad she is."

  "Because you don't want anyone to know how sad you are."

  The waitress came to a stop, but didn't turn.

  "I saw you kiss my clothes as you packed them away in boxes, I cried with you." He repeated the little girls words.

  The waitress turned with tears flooding her eyes. "How could you possibly know that?"

  Jon fought back his own emotion. "Because I think I’m talking to her right now."

  The waitress wiped at her tears. "That's not possible."

  "I know you want to be strong for Grammy but she needs to see your tears," said the little girl in his head.

  He shared the message with the waitress, and watched as her body seemed to groan in agony as the words hit her like a wave. "Danni?"

  "Yes, Mom, it's me," said Jon.

  "It's really you?" she whispered.

  "Tell her Grammy needs to see her tears."

  He shifted in his seat. "She says Grammy needs to see your tears."

  The woman's face tightened. "I can't, honey. It would be too much for her to see how broken I am. I need to be strong for her. I need her to know I'm going to be okay, that she won't lose me too."

  "She needs to see your tears, Mommy. She needs to see how sad you really are."

  He repeated the words.

  "I've put her through so much. I don't want her to think I would try to take my life again. I'm stronger now. I need her to know I'm all right this time."

  "But you aren't, and we are both scared for you."

  He relayed the message.

  The waitress was a mess of tears and redness. "I'm trying so hard." Her voice broke off.

  "Go to Grammy and tell her how you feel."

  "She wants you to go to your mother and tell her how you feel."

  "I can't..."

  "It's what you need," he said, on his own initiative.

  "You don't understand!" she screamed, "I killed her!" The air in the room seemed to suck out as the waitress stood like a wounded animal, trembling in the middle of the cafe, every eye focused on her. "I killed her. I killed my baby girl."

  "It was a mistake," said the little girl in his head. "The ladder was left in with the pool cover on. It wasn't her fault."

  "It wasn't your fault," he said.

  "I was so caught up in my own stupid life, my own stupid comfort. I'm so sorry."

  "Tell her it didn't hurt. It was scary, but it didn't hurt."

  "She says it didn't hurt."

  "It was like going to sleep. It was warm and peaceful."

  He relayed the message.

  The waitress gripped her gut with crossed arms and sank into a chair.

  "I'm sorry but that's all I have time to say. I have to go. They're calling me."

  "What?" he said out loud. "Who's calling you?"

  "Tell her to be honest with Grammy and that I forgive her."

  Wait! Where are you going?

  She didn't answer his question. Her response was a simple "Thank you for helping me." Toward the end it grew faint and distant.

  The waitress scanned the air with her eyes. "What's happening?"

  He took a deep breath. "She said she had to go."

  "Go?" Her eyes were wild with desperation. "She can't go!"

  "She wants you to be honest with your mother."

  The woman shook with grief. "She can't go! Tell her not to go!"

  "And she wants you to know that she forgives you."

  The woman fell at his feet. "Don't let her go. I need her."

  He swallowed back the emotion crawling up from his chest. "I'm sorry. There isn't more."

  "Please!" she pleaded.

  A strong firm masculine voice resonated in his mind. "This is who you are with us, who you were meant to be."

  The woman gripped his legs and cried.

  Who are you? The question drifted away into the numbness buzzing in his head. Are you the voices of the dead?

  "Death is not what you think it is, Jon. We are not dead, and neither is this woman's daughter."

  He put his hand on the sobbing woman's head and tears breached the corners of his eyes. I don't understand. The girl is alive?

  "No. But she could be again. We have the technology to regenerate her physical body from a single cell."

  Who are you?!

  "This is a lot to take in, Jon, you are not ready yet."

  He wasn't sure why, but he found himself peering out the window at the rooftops and down the windows of the building across the street as though he might find someone watching him from a staked-out position. He knew it was a fruitless effort. They weren't out there.

  Are you here, in the room?

  "Jon. You need to get up and leave the woman. There is much to do and very little time."

  What do you want me to do?

  "We are going to remind you what your life can be if you trust us."

  Chapter 2

  The pretty young woman with golden curls sat, as she had for the past ten days, watching and remembering every detail of the enormous casino floor. Though she had been born deaf, the eyes God had given her were able to remember and catalog every image they had ever seen, not only images, but patterns as well. In this case, the patterns were the paths people would take through the maze of tables and slot machines below. Each appeared in her head as a string in a cat's cradle. Each string was given a name.

  From her perch on the balcony of the casino bar she saw the string called Patty enter from the elevators. Her string was so reliable it was almost a constant. She arrived every evening at 8:00 p.m. and headed up the side stairs to the bar.
Though an army of waitresses were adept at keeping a steady flow of alcohol to the gamblers around the tables, Patty enjoyed getting her first drink from the bar. And since it correlated with the pattern called Bartender Tom, it was reasonable to conclude that they were sleeping together— because every night, for the past six nights, patterns Patty and Tom had disappeared at 9:45 and reappeared at 10:30 when the pattern James arrived from outside the casino with his briefcase and pressed suit.

  James would always find Patty at her favorite Blackjack table. After a random amount of time the two would cash their chips and make their exit through the elevator from which Patty had emerged.

  On rare occasions the pattern called James would appear in the matrix again, but it would always wander aimlessly with no helpful purpose, and thus, was of no interest to her.

  Ultimately, the focus of her acute attention had been reduced to one pattern, the pattern called Agent Bob. There were many guards and security agents in the casino, but his was the one she had isolated as the most vulnerable, partly because she could get him where she needed him at precisely the right time—but mostly because he was easily distracted by anything in a skirt.

  She took a sip from her drink to coat her mouth, then stood. The security patterns were about to lock into their pre-night routine. There was a margin of error but at 8:15 that margin was considerably reduced. She walked casually to the stairs and sauntered down. There was no doubt her short skirt and low, loose-fitting shirt was attracting attention, but once she reached her position on the floor, tucked behind a wall of slot machines, only one person would have an easy view of her assets. That was the plan, at least.

  From the middle of the stairs she took note that the security patterns were moving as expected. Agent Bob was working his way up the side from the front of the casino. Her mobile device vibrated in her purse, signaling that she had arrived at the bottom of the stairs at precisely the right moment to get to her position under the balcony. All eyes would be on the front of the building where a group of officers met with internal security on the plush lobby rug for their daily exchange, and hopefully not on her, as she baited her prey into the only blind alcove in the room.

  She teetered forward on high heels, allowing her discomfort and inexperience with heels to play off as inebriation. Her target was sure to be in position at this point and would no doubt have her locked in his sight as he made his walk around the back of the casino. It was his responsibility to keep a ground-level eye on things during the officers’ transaction, but that eye tended to wander.

  There was a subtle shiver in her ribcage as she reached her mark, but she drew in a breath. This grift was nothing more than a series of variables laid down by professionals whose life goal it was to study people, then take advantage of them. All she had to do was follow the script. Funny, for most, the actual sleight of hand and misdirection would have been the challenging part, but not for her. For her the social interaction would be the challenging part. For a girl whose best friends were C++ and TcP ip networks, getting into someone's personal space in a non-threatening way seemed like an insurmountable task. She didn't even understand what the words "personal space" meant. Her only hope was that her sex appeal would be enough to allow her into his no-fly zone.

  Her purse buzzed again. This was it. They were in position. Her heel drove into the lush red carpet, her body lurched to the side. With a few stumbles she came near the wall and caught it with her hand. This was the tricky part. He was sure to have said something, but she had no way of knowing so she pretended to be fighting the liquor and turned in his direction with a bright smile.

  As she had hoped, he was standing close with an expectant look on his face.

  "I caught my heel on the rug," she said, swaying. "I must have had— one too many."

  His eyes were studying her now, possibly wondering if she was old enough to be drinking. Hopefully the generous amount of foundation she’d put on would give the appearance of age. It didn't matter. If he carded her, it would only increase her chances of success. While fumbling for her fake I.D. she would have plenty of time to get the job done. Her hand reached out and clutched his lapel, as though steadying herself. He offered no resistance.

  Good.

  His lips fluttered the words, "Are you okay?"

  She shifted to make sure she could catch each sentence, but this was a delicate matter. The secret to pick pocketing is controlling where a mark is looking. If she kept him looking at her eyes or her face, he would not move as she needed him to.

  She let out a light calculated breath to allow him to smell the alcohol, but not too much. It was important to give the impression that she was in no condition to do anything requiring dexterity, while still maintaining her sex appeal. If her calculations were correct, her perfume and body spray would be just enough to overpower the alcohol, and she hoped her loose-fitting blouse would make his imagination run wild. Her tactics seemed to be working; his face had the dopey expression all men have when they have been conquered. This gave her a much-needed jolt of confidence.

  Everything was set.

  She slid two fingers along his shirt toward his badge while her other hand swung up loosely and thumped on his chest. This would draw his attention while she deftly lifted the ID and swooped it down into her purse. "I really should watch what I drink," she said, bringing her eyes up to meet his.

  His eyes snapped up from examining her body, just as she’d planned.

  She didn't want him to be aware of how long she kept her hand in her purse, swiping his card down the credit card peripheral attached to the top of her hacked smartphone. One good swipe was all she needed to capture his data. She gave him another smile, forcing the warmth of it to spread up into her eyes. "You're so muscular. Do you cross-train?" Her hand slid across his chest and down his arm, purposefully keeping his eyes away from where the badge had been removed.

  "I play a lot of racquetball," he boasted.

  The art of picking pockets, according to the video she’d acquired from a hacker friend's private collection, was a lot like playing the piano. Both hands had entirely different roles to play, but by writing the notes in a line, one on top of the other, the victim’s mind could be tricked into believing they were doing one thing instead of two. For her, it was more like a dance. One hand rubbed and squeezed the man's biceps, while the other did what she had spent days training it to do, hold the card with two fingers, lay two more on the face of the smartphone, seat the card, and swipe. It took two swipes before the phone vibrated to let her know she had been successful.

  In a fluid motion she put one corner of the card in the notch between her pointer and middle finger, withdrew her hand from her purse, palm up, so the card would not be visible to the guard's eyes, and brought it up to join the other in squeezing the man's biceps. The badge stuck out conspicuously on the backside of his arm now, but she had turned him slightly so no one would see.

  She slid her left hand down to his wrist and pulled his arm up and out, while her other hand sneaked back to the other side of his body and rested on his hip. Once again, the security card was exposed, but the man's arm dangled at his side, obscuring it from anyone's view.

  "You have such long arms. I bet you don't miss anything." She wobbled her head and looked up at him. His expression had changed slightly, exposing a hint of suspicion.

  She brought his arm down and flipped open his suit jacket, sliding up from his waist. "Do you carry a gun?"

  This elicited a response, as she knew it would. All of his attention was on her left hand now—and not on her right—which came up and pinned his security card back on his pocket.

  He pulled back slightly as she let her right hand slide down his chest.

  His lips fluttered with words. "You know, you speak pretty clear for someone who’s had one too many."

  She’d hoped that would go unnoticed. It had not passed her inspection, while making the plan, that drunk people had a slur to their words. But she’d never had trainin
g on how to mimic that type of speech impediment. It was all she could do to speak without sounding deaf. "I'm not drunk," she said defensively.

  He checked for his gun, badge, and possibly his keys. She wasn't sure about the last. His eyes flicked up. "What are you up to?" He was onto her. But that was expected. The gun line was meant to put him on the defensive. His response was textbook.

  "What do you mean?" She attempted to look aghast. "Do you think I’m trying to pick you up? You think I’m a prostitute?!"

  He continued to check himself over, but stopped quickly to shoot her a disgusted look. "N- no!" he stammered. "It's just...You know what I mean!"

  The prostitute question was her detaching line. The job was done. The goal of a grifter is to always keep the target off balance and to control the conversation. The security agent wanted to interrogate her because she had raised his suspicions, but the prostitute line would make him back down. The last thing he wanted to do was mistakenly call a guest of the casino a call girl. She flipped her curly blond locks out of her face and stumbled away. "Pig!" she said, over her shoulder.

  This was the moment she feared most. With eye-to-lip contact broken, she had no idea what he was saying to her, if anything at all. He could be watching her silently as she wobbled away, or he could be demanding that she return and explain herself. Her heart pounded harder with each step, expecting at any second that his hand would grip her arm and spin her around. Or, worse, he could be calling in the rest of the team to circle around her. She headed toward the double doors that led to the in-house restaurant but didn’t make it there. A hand tapped her on the shoulder—instead of taking her by the arm—though it was no less jarring to her nervous system. She drew her purse in defensively and turned.

  The security agent was still behind her, but it was not he who had tapped her. He wasn't even looking at her. Instead, here stood a short man in a Bermuda shirt, tan dress shorts and sandals.

  "Yes?" she said, confused.

  The man's lips moved slowly. "Did you think you could hide from me in this house of sin?"

  Her eyes darted left and right. "Ah- sorry. You must have the wrong person."