Voices (Whisper Trilogy Book 3) (10 page)

“You can’t just take him, not without my say so. I have rights. I need to give permission.”

Melody knew how she must sound. She could hear the shrill tone herself and could imagine how everything she said made the situation worse. Even so, she wasn’t about to go down without a fight.

“I’m afraid we can, Mrs. Samson. We have the power to do whatever is in the best interests of the child,” Styles said, straightening the folder on the table top.

“His best interests are to stay with me!”

“No disrespect, but we need to protect your son from the real world rather than these paranormal delusions.”

“I knew it,” she said, glaring at Styles. “You don’t believe any of it, do you? The things I told you, the things I told your therapists.”

“I don’t want to get drawn into this now, Mrs. Samson. The decision has been taken. I’m sorry it wasn’t what you wanted. I hope that once you’ve calmed down, you can find a way to work with us. Our end goal is the same. Would you like a drink? Some time to compose yourself perhaps?”

“No,” she mumbled, shaking her head. “I don’t see there’s much point, is there? I’m not going to get him back. You said so yourself.”

“Short term, Mrs. Samson. Keep attending the therapy sessions. Before you know it, things will be back to normal.”

She stood, feeling alien, distant from herself. She walked to the door, placed a pale hand on the handle, and then turned back toward Styles. “It won’t work like that though, will it, Mr. Styles?”

“Why’s that?” he replied, eyebrows raised.

“Because you just told me that the things I
know
to be absolutely true were lies. And I know they’re not. How can we ever find a way to fix this if you don’t believe what I’m telling you? How can I get my son back if you don’t believe me?”

“Mrs. Samson—”

“Forget it. I’ll show you. I’ll prove it to you if that’s what it takes.”

Although she wanted to unleash her rage, she knew it would do her no good. Instead, she opened the door and left the office. Only when she was safely in her car did she let it out. As she sobbed, holding nothing back, she realized that there was a good chance she would never see her son again.

PART TWO:

REAWAKENING

CHAPTER 12

THREE YEARS LATER

It was his sixth adoptive family. Now ten years old, Isaac Samson had become convinced that nobody wanted or loved him. Some of the families he’d been sent to had been fine with him at first, doing everything they could to make him feel as welcome as possible. However, the persistent night terrors proved to be a universal problem that many of them weren’t prepared to cope with. The other, more serious issue was that of his mother, who tracked him down at every new home demanding to see him. He had been with Grant and Tanya Gaunt for two months, and so far they seemed nice enough, and were even handling his nightmares better than most. Grant was a headmaster at a local school. Slim and blond, he was quiet and serious, with a firm belief in traditional entertainment. Reading, art and music were actively encouraged in the house, and as the days went by, Isaac had started to see a happy, funny man behind the serious exterior. Tanya was the polar opposite of her husband. Happy and outgoing, she loved children, and took Isaac in with unconditional love from the start. Some days, he could almost forget all that had happened. The upset, the trauma. Other days, a deep, all-consuming darkness overcame him. Today was one such day, and as he always did, he sat in his bedroom, unable to muster any enthusiasm or excitement for anything. His sole joy was reading, and it was something he had taken to vigorously, devouring a novel per week, sometimes two. Mostly he read young adult and fantasy, and was currently blasting through the third Harry Potter book. To him, those worlds between the pages seemed like magical locations which swept him away from the mundaneness of his own existence.

Downstairs, Grant and Tanya were putting away the groceries together. Married for eleven years, they had tried to have children of their own without success. Adoption had seemed like the most obvious choice, and one which was still on the cards. For now, however, with their own careers to manage, it proved to be a better option to volunteer for the temporary care program. Designed with short term care in mind, it gave the children a stable environment in which to live and develop.

Grant was putting the milk in the refrigerator when the knock at the door came. He walked through the kitchen and opened the door, and instantly recognized the woman standing there. The agency had warned them that she might arrive.

Melody Samson had aged badly. She had lost weight to the point of looking ill. Deep worry lines made her look older than she was, and her hair was greasy and graying. She tried to smile the way she used to but couldn’t quite manage it. It seemed she had forgotten how such a simple gesture was performed.

“Hello, I hope you don’t mind me arriving unannounced, my name is—”

“I know who you are,” Grant said, keeping one arm across the doorframe. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Please, I don’t mean any harm. I need to see my son. Is he here?”

“You can’t do this. You’ve been warned. We were told to call the police if you showed up.”

“Please, don’t do that,” she said, trying to look beyond Grant into the house. “Is he here? Can I just see him to make sure he’s alright?”

“He’s not here.”

“Please, I just want to see him.”

“Look, I appreciate your situation, but you can’t do this. You need to let him go,” Grant said, feeling more pity than anger toward the frail woman in front of him.

“I know it’s easy to say, but try to put yourself in my position. He’s all I have. I need to talk to him.”

“He’s fine. He has everything he needs.”

“Is he… sleeping?”

“He’s sleeping fine,” he said, then as an afterthought, “How long have you known he’s been with us?”

“A week. I’ve been trying to build up the courage to knock on the door. Please, you don’t need to call the police. I won’t cause any trouble.”

“You realize how difficult a position you’ve put me in? I’m supposed to call Mr. Styles if you show up here.”

“Please, I won’t cause any trouble. You seem like nice people. That’s sometimes the worst part, you know? Not knowing what kind of family he’s with,” Melody said. She was wringing her hands, moving her wedding ring around her finger. She saw Grant watching her and put her hands behind her back.

“I still can’t bring myself to take it off,” she said, just about managing a tired smile. “It’s all I have left.”

“Look, I appreciate you’ve been through a lot, and God knows it can’t be easy, but you have to go. I won’t call Styles if you go right now, but you can’t come back here. If you do, then you’ll leave me no choice but to make that call. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

Melody looked at him. Strong features, blond hair. Handsome apart from his slightly crooked nose. She got the feeling that these were good people, and avoiding another brush with the police was also something she was keen to do.

“No, I understand. I’m sorry for coming. I just…” She couldn’t finish, choking on the words.

“It’s okay,” Grant said. Calm, comforting, understanding. “Please, just go, okay? Before he hears you.”

She nodded, fighting not to cry.

“Good luck with getting on your feet. I really hope you do it,” he said, then closed the door.

Melody stood there for a few seconds, unsure of what to do or where to go, then with the threat of the police looming and a few of the neighbors taking an interest, she retreated back down the path and got into her car. She drove away, letting the tears come, and feeling as low as she ever had in her life.

CHAPTER 13

Petrov slammed his fist on the counter as the security guards approached. “I know Fisher is here. The more he refuses to see me the harder I’m going to fight.”

“We’ve told you before,” the guard by the receptionist said. “You’re not supposed to come here.”

“I know, so my captain keeps telling me. Doesn’t mean I’m going to stop though. Tell him I’m here,” Petrov said as security closed in on him.

This was a regular occurrence. Petrov would arrive and kick up a fuss, security would throw him out. For reasons he couldn’t quite explain, the Oakwell case was lingering in his mind, despite having been closed for almost three years. Part of it was because it represented the one blot on his record, the one unsolved case, although the reason it was unsolved was because he had been pulled from it almost immediately after finding the tunnels under Hope House. The only name he had was that of Fisher, who proved to be frustratingly elusive. Undeterred, he had begun a campaign designed to track the man down so that he could at least speak to him about what he’d found. Despite his best efforts, and employing some of his very best contacts in the police force, Fisher had remained invisible. An enigma. A ghost. Nobody seemed to know him, or if they did, had no idea how to reach him. Petrov had searched every database to which he had access, all without a single hit. Petrov was sure whoever this Fisher character was, he was high up the chain within the government.

“Look, Detective,” the security guard said, leaning on the counter in an effort to intimidate. “You are barred from entering this building. Make no mistake, we will be informing your superiors about this and suggesting they take the appropriate disciplinary action.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Petrov fired back. “You people seem to forget we’re all on the same side here. I need some information in regards to a case. It’s obstruction of justice.”

“Only it isn’t, is it. You already filed that motion without success,” The guard fired back, the arrogant smile suiting him.

“Just five minutes. That’s all I need and then I’ll stop coming here and bothering you.”

The guard shook his head. “Get him out of here.”

The security guards moved in, taking him by both arms and frog-marching him toward the exit. Another stayed at his back to ensure there were no problems. Petrov wondered if they would actually throw him to the ground like they did in the movies, but in the end, they opened the doors and let him out, giving him a gentle shove.

“Don’t come back here again. You’re already in a lot of trouble, pal.” Petrov wished he could have thought of a witty retort, something to make him look good, but nothing came, and he slinked away from the building, ignoring the stares of the passers-by who had witnessed him being ejected.

There was a bench in the plaza opposite the building. Petrov sat down and lit a cigarette, staring at the reflective glass façade and wondering if Fisher was in there somewhere watching him. On the off chance he was, Petrov gave the middle finger to the building then took a deep lungful of smoke.

“He’ll never see you, you know.”

Petrov watched the man approach. He had seen him earlier while he was on his way into the place he referred to as Fisher’s building. Part curiosity, part police training, Petrov took stock of the man as he sat beside him on the bench. He was tall and broad-shouldered, maybe late fifties or very early sixties, with white hair, meticulously parted, and keen blue eyes, framed by a well-tanned face. Petrov could tell he was a man who looked after himself, perhaps one of those people who had a winter holiday home in Florida or southern France. There was an air of authority about him, and even though he was dressed in a gray suit with a white shirt open at the neck, the man screamed military. He sat on the opposite side of the bench, staring straight ahead at the building.