Voices (Whisper Trilogy Book 3) (6 page)

“Come on, Fisher, you know what I’ve had to deal with up here. You visited for half an hour. I’ve been here for a couple of weeks. I’m just having trouble leaving a mission half-done. It’s not in my blood.”

Fisher nodded, then took off his glasses, folded them over and slipped them into his jacket pocket. “I think under the circumstances, this one is best forgotten. You did your best, General. Nobody can ask any more of you.”

“It’s my men I’m worried about. The ones I’ve already lost.”

“How so?”

“Do you know what it was like to tell their loved ones? Good men who didn’t deserve to die that way. Men with lives… families. Telling a family member that their nearest and dearest died valiantly in battle is easy. How do I explain what they did to themselves up there?”

“We both knew how difficult this would be to keep a lid on, General. There will always be questions, there will always be curiosity. Sometimes the best thing to do is nothing at all. Let it fade from people’s memories.”

“That still doesn’t answer my question about what’s under the house. Those tunnels go deep. We need to explore them.”

“And you can rest assured they will be. Just not yet.”

“When?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because I’m curious. I want to know why I was sent up here to investigate then barred from entering the one location that might give us some answers. Pardon my French, Fisher, but this whole situation fucking stinks.”

“Look, I won’t insult your intelligence, General. I did that when I got here and regretted it instantly. You know how this works. There’s a chain of command. We all have our orders. You follow yours, I follow mine and so on up the ladder. Your involvement is done here. You did a fantastic job but we can handle it now.”

“I can’t say I’ll be sad to leave the place, no matter how curious I am,” Kimmel sighed, staring out over the sorry-looking town.

“I’m glad we have an understanding. Go ahead and pack your belongings. You’re free to go.”

Kimmel looked down Main Street, beyond the crowds and the busses to the sloping green landscape of trees beyond. Like Fisher, he could feel the clearing up there, somehow watching him, somehow aware. He shuddered, and walked off down the street, anxious to leave the town of Oakwell behind for good.

CHAPTER 7

The office was cold, clinical almost. The man behind the desk stared at Melody with sharp eyes, his expression neutral. Aged somewhere in his fifties, he was dressed in a pristine charcoal suit, his graying hair swept into a side parting. She could smell his aftershave, strong and expensive, and was increasingly aware of how bad she must look. Her hair was frizzy and wild, eyes darkly rimmed from lack of sleep. She folded her hands on her lap and waited for the man to speak.

“Mrs. Samson, as you know, child services are concerned only with Isaac’s welfare. We have no intention of causing undue disruption.”

“When can I see my son? It’s been two weeks since you took him.”

“Please, try to understand, we want what’s best. For both of you.”

“I know that, Mr. Styles. But I’m fine now. It just all got on top of me. Since my husband died…”

She lowered her eyes and picked at her thumbnail.

“We appreciate the difficult circumstances. We also appreciate the strain you must be under. I understand you rejected all offers of help from the authorities?”

“I don’t need their help. I’m just tired. Isaac… he’s having these nightmares. I’m just… it all got a little bit too much for me.”

Styles nodded and referred to the file on the table. “Yes, we read the report. Night terrors. Probably post traumatic due to the recent events in Oakwell. Our concern is making sure the correct support network is in place.”

“It sounds like you’re saying I’m a bad mother.”

Styles smiled. Patient and calm. “Mrs. Samson, how much do you know about PTSD?”

She looked back at him blankly.

“Don’t worry, I’ll explain it all. PTSD stands for post-traumatic stress disorder. It manifests itself in people who have suffered a particularly violent or traumatizing experience. After reading your file, I think both you and your son may be suffering from this condition, which has caused the situation to escalate to this point.”

“Are you saying I’m incapable of looking after my own child?” she snapped.

“Not at all, Mrs. Samson. I’m simply trying to give you an explanation of why this situation has developed.”

She cleared her throat and folded her hands in her lap. “Go on.”

“Sufferers of PTSD usually relive their traumatic experiences. Sometimes in the form of flashbacks or vivid and terrifying nightmares, more so when faced with daily reminders of the event in question.”

“There are no reminders, Dr Styles. I moved away, started afresh. I don’t know what else could be affecting him.”

“There
is
one other common denominator, Mrs. Samson.”

“What?”

“You,” Styles said, giving her that smile again, the one which was mostly confidence mingled with just enough empathy not to be smug.

“What do you mean?”

“You were there, Mrs. Samson. When Isaac experienced the trauma of your husband’s death, he saw you too.
You
are his connection.”

“Are you saying I’m causing this?”

“No, or at least, not intentionally. However, I do believe that your continued presence in his life right now is having a detrimental effect on his wellbeing.”

“I love him. I love him more than anything,” she said, dabbing the corners of her eyes with a crumpled-up tissue.

“Your love for your son isn’t in question here, Mrs. Samson. I’m sure you’ll agree his wellbeing is our priority. The fact is that in the weeks since he was taken into care, he has shown a remarkable improvement. I think that warrants further discussions.”

“Are you suggesting I just give him up? He needs me.”

“Not at all. What I’m saying is that nobody expects you to have to do this by yourself. There is support available. Your sister has told us that she is there to help if you need her.”

“You spoke to my sister? You have no right to do that.”

“Please, calm down, Mrs. Samson. Try to work with us here.”

“How dare you go to her? This has nothing to do with my sister. Nothing to do with you. I want my son now.”

Styles leaned forward, his face a carefully engineered mask of sympathy and authority. “Mrs. Samson, I’m not sure you understand the seriousness of the situation. My job is to do whatever is best for the child.”

“
I’m
what’s best for the child. He’s
my
son. He’s all I have left.”

“I appreciate how you feel, Mrs. Samson, and believe me, I understand. Try not to see us as the enemy here. We’re trying to help you.”

She slammed her hands on the desk, causing Styles to twitch. “Then give me my son!”

She shrank back, knowing how she must sound. Knowing how she must look. Styles adjusted his tie and steepled his hands across the file.

“Frankly, Mrs. Samson, we have concerns, not just for Isaac, but for you too. Both of you have been through a very trying experience. I’m sure you’ll be the first to admit that you’re feeling the strain of the situation and you should have sought help. What we need to do is determine what’s best for you as well as Isaac. That’s the key here.”

“Look,” she said, voice trembling. “I know I should have accepted help. I see that now. If you want me to talk to your counselors, or your therapists, then I will. Just give me back my boy. He’s all I have.”

Styles said nothing, just continued observing her, then turned his attention to her file. “I think one-on-one counseling sessions would be in your best interests, Mrs. Samson. I would also like to refer you to a doctor with regards to prescribing you some medication to help you during such a difficult time. It seems clear to me that, despite your best efforts, you are still struggling to cope with the tragic loss of your husband. I think both you and your son are suffering from severe PTSD, and despite it seeming otherwise, you are both negatively affecting the wellbeing of the other and hindering both of your recoveries. It’s for this reason that I have decided to place Isaac into short-term care until you’re in a better position to provide the care and stability he needs.”

“No, you can’t do that!” Melody said, gripping the edge of the table. “He needs me. We need each other. You can’t take him away from me.”

“What your son needs is stability, Mrs. Samson. He needs to be able to flourish in these important years. He needs a stable environment where he can receive treatment and get well. Surely you want that for him as much as we do?”

“Please, I’ll do whatever it takes. Just don’t take him away from me.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Samson,” Styles said, closing the file. “This is for the best.”

“What about second chances? Don’t you people see that I need him? I need to protect him?”

“Like I said, if you accept the help we are offering and show improvements within a reasonable timescale, this should only be a short to midterm solution.”

“I need him with me. What if those things come back for him?” she shrieked, immediately regretting saying anything. Styles sat there and took it. She imagined he was used to it by now. Bearing bad news, taking the backlash from aggrieved parents who were about to lose a child to the system. She cleared her throat and looked him in the eye, hoping to appeal to his humanity. “Please don’t take my son. He’s all I have.”

“I’m sorry,” he replied, holding her gaze. “There’s nothing else I can do. The decision has been taken.”

“What do I do now? What am I supposed to do now on my own?” She was sobbing again, her voice a shrill, hysterical shriek.

“Accept the help we’re offering you. We will review your case again in due course.”

“I can’t do that. I need my boy!”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Samson. I truly am.”

“Can I at least see him, explain to him. Say goodbye?”

Styles shook his head. “I’m afraid not. It wouldn’t be fair to confuse him when he has already made such good progress. I think the best thing we can do is let him settle into a pattern of normality.”

“Please, I just want to hold him. I need to explain.”

“I’m sorry,” Styles said firmly. “This is for the best. As I said, we will review the case again in due course. In the meantime, attend the counseling. Take the help we’re offering.”

“Why are you doing this? Why are you taking him away from me?”

“It’s not our intention to cause upset. We want what’s best for the child’s welfare.”

Melody nodded, and stared down at her hands. They were trembling. The entire situation had taken on a surreal quality. It was almost as if it were happening to someone else and she was only vaguely aware of it. Still in a daze, she left the office, distantly aware that she was alone in the world.

CHAPTER 8

Petrov strode toward the building, its glass and steel façade glittering in the sunlight. Eyes hidden behind his sunglasses, he mapped out the locations of the security guards and hoped none would recognize him. He walked with confidence past the two men by the door, neither of which gave him a second glance as he entered the spacious marble-floored reception area. The American flags hanging from the walls fluttered as Petrov strode to the main desk, the sharp tap of his shoes echoing around the cavernous space. He stopped at the counter and took off his glasses.

“Can I help you?” the receptionist asked, glancing at him from her computer.

“I’m Detective Alex Petrov. I need to see James Fisher.”

“Do you have an appointment?” the woman shot back.

“No. I’m a police officer. I need to speak to him now please.”

“One moment please,” she said, turning back to her computer, her fingers clicking at the keyboard in a blur of movement.

Petrov remained impassive, knowing what was to come.

“I’m sorry,” the receptionist said. “We don’t have a James Fisher in the building.”

“I know he works here. I’ve been trying to track him down for weeks now.”

“I’m sorry,” she flashed him a thin smile, “I can’t help you any further.”