Voices (Whisper Trilogy Book 3)

VOICES

THE WHISPER TRILOGY: PART III

Michael Bray

Voices by Michael Bray

First published in 2015 by

Horrific Tales Publishing

http://www.horrifictales.co.uk

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Copyright © 2014 Michael Bray

http://www.michaelbrayauthor.com

The moral right of Michael Bray to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

VOICES

Michael Bray

“What would your good do if evil didn’t exist, and what would the earth look like if all the shadows disappeared?”

— Mikhail Bulgakov

“When I despair, I remember that all through history the way of truth and love have always won. There have been tyrants and murderers, and for a time, they can seem invincible, but in the end, they always fall. Think of it—always.”

— Mahatma Gandhi

PART ONE:

AFTERMATH

CHAPTER 1

The tan Mercedes jostled down the rutted dirt road leading to the Hope House hotel, driving through a steady drizzle which had been falling all morning. A thick mist hung in the air, held in place by the overhanging tree canopy which only added to the gloom. Detective Alex Petrov squinted through the windshield, wishing away the headache that had been present since he’d woken up. At thirty-seven years old, the Russian born Californian was already missing the warmth of the sun. Standing an imposing six feet three inches tall, with chiseled features, blond hair and piercing blue eyes, he was one of the best, or at least, that’s what he’d been told prior to being sent to work the Oakwell massacre case. He slowed as he reached the checkpoint, manned by an officer in a rain poncho who looked just as miserable as Petrov felt. Recognizing the detective, the officer waved him through, and he made his way into the hotel car park. Huge lighting rigs had been erected, pushing back the gloom of the day and casting the hotel in an ugly artificial spotlight. His partner, Warren, stood under the entrance awning, shuffling his feet as he smoked. Ten years older than Petrov and showing every one of the strains and stresses of an overworked detective, Warren Bush didn’t look at all happy. Short and balding with dark eyes and skin that was losing the battle against the aging process, he was an acquired taste, and wasn’t very well liked outside those he classed as his friends. Petrov brought the Mercedes to a stop, half wishing he had thought to bring a coat. He exited the car, expensive Italian shoes ruined by the mud as he strode toward the hotel.

“This better be good, Warren,” he said, joining his partner under the covered entrance.

“I wouldn’t have called you if it wasn’t. Trust me; I don’t like this place any more than you do.”

Petrov nodded. He felt it too. There was a unique atmosphere here. An ominous sense of foreboding which he suspected was fueled by the stories that surrounded it.

“Sooner we crack this, the sooner we can get the hell out of here. Believe me, I miss the sun.”

“Tell me about it. It’s rained pretty much every fucking day since we came here. I don’t know why they had to bring us in. This isn’t our business. Local law enforcement should be handling their own shit,” Warren grumbled.

“There
is
no local law enforcement. Closed down. This town is on its last legs. The military are moving in just as soon as we’re done,” Petrov said, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“The military? Why the hell would they get involved in this mess?”

“They have their feathers ruffled. Uncle Sam is worried about what happened here.”

“Some guy went apeshit. Seems pretty cut and dried to me.”

“You think I don’t know that? For all I know, one of the people involved could be on the terrorist watch list. Either way, we have no choice. They’ve already given us the hurry up.”

Warren sighed and pulled his jacket closer around his body. “This is a bullshit case, Alex. Who the fuck did we piss off to be sent out here?”

“Didn’t you hear? It’s a reward for our hard work. Apparently we’re the best.”

Warren snorted, then took a last drag on his cigarette and tossed it out into the rain. “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t expect to be out of here anytime soon. We found something new. You need to take a look at it.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Come on, I’ll show you.”

Warren led the way into the hotel. Lights blazed as the two detectives walked through the deserted foyer. For the last few weeks, the place had been a hive of activity as photographs were taken and evidence searched for and catalogued. Now, they were the only two left on site.

“The cleanup guys were up here last night finishing off before the military come in next week to close the place up. They found something we missed.”

Warren ducked under the yellow police tape and pulled open the steel door in the central core of the hotel. Within stood the broken remains of Hope House. Intended by Henry Marshall as some kind of morbid tribute, it had been encased by the hotel, left in its own self-contained concrete cell. Most of the structure had been destroyed in the fire, and only three of the outer walls and the staircase remained. Blackened wood littered the site, and a huge roof beam had half crushed the stairs. As had been the case outside, lighting rigs had been set up to illuminate the tableau. Petrov had only seen it once during the initial investigation of the murder scene, and liked it even less now.

“What’s with the lights?” Petrov asked, eying the spotlights set into the roof of the chamber.

“Powers out in here. Some kind of surge fried the electrics.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. One of the witnesses said there was a white flash just before Marshall was taken into custody. I’m guessing someone fucked up with the wiring.”

Petrov grunted and followed Warren through the remains, old glass and wood crunching underfoot as they picked their way through the debris. There was no real way of guessing the previous layout. All Petrov could recognize, apart from the staircase, were the stone fireplace in what used to be the living room and the doorframes which led to other equally fire-damaged locations.

“Through here,” Warren said, leading them into the kitchen. This room at least still bore a few recognizable features: pipes, a cracked porcelain sink and the frame of the rear door which would, at one point, have looked out over Oakwell forest but now had only a concrete wall of the house’s tomb beyond it.

“There’s nothing left here, Warren. We already searched the place,” Petrov said irritably.

“Hang on, just bear with me.”

Warren led Petrov over to one of the remaining walls and the hollow within. At one time it had been the kitchen pantry. Now, however, it was empty, its frame blackened with soot. Two of the three shelves inside were missing.

“Check it out,” Warren said, stepping aside.

Petrov looked, taking everything in, allowing his brain to process the information.

“How the hell did we miss this?”

“Just look at the fucking place,” Warren replied. “It looks like a damn bomb went off. Besides, the house wasn’t ever our focus. It was only by chance that our cleanup guys stumbled upon it. It looks like even the people who used to live here didn’t know about it. The room was full of junk from the previous tenants. If it wasn’t for our guys clearing it out and kicking up the old carpet when we were trying to fix the electrics, we would never have known about it. Lucky break I guess.”

Petrov nodded. On the ground inside the pantry was a wooden hatch with a circular brass ring pull.

“You’re sure the previous owners didn’t know about this?”

“No, this room was full of crap, most of it wasn’t even theirs. You know how it is, all the shit you never get around to unpacking. Most of it was from before.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Petrov mumbled, distracted by the hatch set into the floor. He crouched and pulled it open, dust and cold air drifting out toward him. Petrov leaned closer. Below the door was a chamber with a rickety looking ladder leading below.

“Give me a torch or something.”

“I don’t have one.”

“Well hand me your lighter then,” Petrov snapped as he got down on all fours. Warren handed him a purple Bic disposable, and Petrov ducked his head and arm into the hole before flicking the lighter on. Although it barely illuminated anything, he could see there was a corridor cut into the foundations beneath the house. At first, he thought it was some kind of basement, but soon realized that it curved away from the foundations of the building. Something else caught Petrov’s attention; a smell that in his line of work he was all too familiar with. It was the slightly sweet, putrid stench of death.

“Who else knows about this place?” Petrov asked, crawling back from the hatch.

“CSI are on their way. Apart from that, just you.”

“What about the army?”

“No.” Warren shook his head as he said it. “Like I said, I only called you.”

“Good,” Petrov said, walking toward the exit.

“Where the hell are you going?”

“To get a torch out of my car.”

“You ain’t going down there are you?” Warren said as he hurried after him.

“Damn right I am.”

“Come on, Alex, you don’t know what’s down there. Let’s just wait for crime scene to get here, okay?”

Petrov was already in the hotel foyer. He paused by the door, turning back to his partner as thunderous rain continued to fall. “I’m just going to take a look. Once crime scene get here, the military will get wind of it and we won’t ever find out what’s underneath the hotel.”