by Michael Bray
“What’s in the back of the van?” Karl asked, adjusting the grip on his gun.
“Nothing.”
“Step out of the vehicle please.”
Karl could see in the driver’s eyes that the man wanted to run, and probably would have if he’d had the guts. He was afraid of something; that much was obvious. Reluctantly, he complied, climbing out of the vehicle. He was much shorter than Karl had expected, only standing shoulder high to the officer. Without being asked, he turned and put his hands on the hood.
“Alright, I see you know the drill,” Karl said as he patted him down. The driver half turned toward Karl, speaking quietly, the words changing the game as far as Karl Sloane was concerned.
“He’s in the back,” the driver whispered.
Karl saw then that it wasn’t agitation, but fear causing the driver to act so strangely. Acting on instinct, Karl cuffed the driver and sat him on the ground. He motioned to his fellow officers across the front of the vehicle, beckoning them over, sharing the information. Now caution was out of the window. With both driver and passenger cuffed and on the ground being watched by the dog-handler, the other three officers drew their weapons and converged on the rear doors of the van. Karl swapped his gun hand, wiping sweat from his palms on his trouser leg before reverting to a more familiar weapon stance. The officers took up firing positions as their colleague placed a hand on the door. The three men looked at each other, knowing the gravity of the situation, knowing the danger they faced. The one holding the door mouthed the countdown from three to one then yanked it open, Karl and his fellow officer pointing their weapons at the man crouched in the back, bellowing instructions. However, it wasn’t the snarling blood-covered Henry Marshall they saw, but a skinny runt of a teen who shared the same genetic pool as his siblings. He lay on the floor of the van, hands behind head, terrified at the aggression in the officer’s voices, wondering why an outstanding arrest warrant for the robbery he had committed a month earlier would require roadblocks. He, like his brothers, had no idea that the officers were looking for a much bigger and more dangerous fish, one which was sadly almost a mile up the road and away from their net.
IV
Three miles away, Leanne Patterson pulled her dented and dirty red Ford off the road and put her head on the steering wheel. The temptation to tell the police at the roadblock what had happened to them had been great, but the knowledge of what would happen if she did was greater. The instant she’d been waved through, the tears had come, and now her face was streaked with make-up. Trembling, she did all she could to compose herself, as the ordeal wasn’t over yet by a long shot. The road was quiet, a tree-lined stretch of highway with little to no traffic. She got out of the car, eying the trees, wanting to run but knowing it was impossible. She was a restraintless prisoner. She approached the rear of the car and opened the trunk, stepping back as terror once again overwhelmed her. Henry Marshall held the knife to the eight year old boy’s throat. He glared at the woman as he struggled to his knees, one bloody hand still gripping the boy’s shoulder. Like his mother, he too was red-eyed from crying. The two locked eyes, and Leanne heard herself telling the boy it would be all right, that, just like the man had promised, they would be set free just as soon as they had helped him.
She had only stopped because she saw the car by the side of the road, hood open, hazard lights flashing, driver slumped across the wheel. Her intention was to check on him, to see if she could help. The area where the car had been was isolated, overgrown with a low hanging scrub of trees by the hard shoulder, and she didn’t like to think of whoever it was stranded out here having no access to a phone. In hindsight, she should have driven away, and yet, she couldn’t do it. She’d got out of the car, curious but in no way afraid, at least not until she’d approached the driver’s side door and saw the blood. Saw the mess of his mangled flesh. She never saw Henry come out of the woods; he’d waited until her back was turned before dragging her into the trees, away from anyone who might help her.
She didn’t care for herself. All she could think about was her son who was sleeping in the back of her car.
He had pinned her to a tree, hand around her throat, eyes blazing. She had told him she would give him money, even give him the car if that was what he wanted, just as long as he left her alone. The man stared at her, and she saw nothing in his eyes. No pity, no compassion. No emotion. She could just as easily be looking into the eyes of a shark.
He held a penknife to her throat and told her what he wanted. He needed her to get him safely through the roadblocks and away from the police checks.
She responded by telling him again that he could take the car as long as he let her and her son go. Something changed in his eyes at the mention of her son, a light of recognition that told her she had made a huge mistake.
His next instruction had been simple. Get him past the police blockades and he would let them both go. If she told anyone or was stopped and the car searched, her son would be killed. She’d watched as he climbed into the trunk, taking her terrified son with him and telling her to remember his instructions. Now she’d complied, she could only hope that he would do as he promised.
Henry struggled out of the car, filthy, bloody and wild, a chorus of demonic voices in his head, guiding him.
“In there,” he grunted, motioning toward the scrub of trees at the roadside.
Leanne shook her head. She didn’t want to go in there with him. She didn’t want to be far away from any potential help which may come along, which she suspected was the exact reason he wanted the privacy. She’d heard on the radio who he was and what he had done. With no choice but to comply, she closed the trunk of the vehicle and walked toward the tree line, Henry and her son following.
“Please, I did everything you asked, just let us go,” she begged as they left the road.
Henry said nothing. He pushed the knife closer to her son’s throat and gave her a thin smile that said more than words ever could. Leanne did as he instructed, and he followed her into the woods. The voices chattered in his head, instructing him, guiding him away from the shreds of doubt in the little humanity that remained within him. Any semblance of the man he used to be before he became a slave to them was almost completely gone. There was no compassion left. No morals. Just an overwhelming desire to serve his new masters. The three walked deeper into the woods, two in hope of freedom, one lost to the voices of the dead.
Two hours later, as day turned to dusk, Henry Marshall returned alone. New blood covered old on his clothes, and fresh dirt coated his hands. He had tasted them, the woman’s flesh bitter with fear, the boy’s sweet with innocence. He felt better, stronger, and knew it would be something he would experience again. He scrambled down the small bank, checked the road was clear and climbed into the Ford. He adjusted the seat for his frame and shifted the mirrors so he could see, his dead eyes showing no remorse for the atrocities he’d just committed. The car started smoothly, the engine idling. Henry could hear them within its sweet notes, the voices of his guides, telling him where he must go, telling him what he had to do. He selected a gear. Parking brake off. Accelerator depressed, clutch lifted. The car pulled away. Henry Marshall had been given a mission, one which he would complete at all costs.
CHAPTER 21
Isaac sat at the table, arms folded, head down. He was refusing to play ball, making a point to his foster parents by using the childish logic that if he didn’t eat, then he would get his own way. The disagreement had started, as most of these things do, over nothing. Isaac had been instructed to take out the garbage before sitting down to eat, one of the jobs he’d been given when he first moved to the house. Today, however, he wasn’t in the mood to comply. He had suffered a particularly harrowing dream the night before, one which, as always, was compellingly real enough to make him wet the bed. It was something that he was embarrassed by, and although Grant and Tanya never chastised him for it, he had gone on the defensive anyway, stubbornly doing all he could to defy th
em. Tanya had reacted with patience and understanding, trying to put a positive spin on things. Grant saw it as a slap in the face of his authority.
“Come on, honey, eat up. You said you like spaghetti,” Tanya said, fixed grin in place as she glanced at her husband sitting opposite. Stubborn to the last, Grant wasn’t about to let it drop. He set his fork down and sipped his drink.
“Look, Isaac, if you want to stay here, you have to contribute to the family. I don’t think a few household chores are unreasonable, do you?”
“Grant, Honey, let it go,” Tanya said, keeping a close eye on Isaac who was doing all he could to convey his anger. Arms folded, head down.
“No, I think we need to address this,” Grant fired back. “There are certain rules that need to be adhered to. That’s how society works. With this and the bed wetting, I don’t know,” he sighed and picked up his fork, twisting spaghetti onto it. “I just think we need to address it as a family.”
Isaac muttered something under his breath.
“What was that?” Grant asked.
“Leave it, honey, let’s just have a nice meal together, okay?” Tanya said, hoping her smile would win her husband over.
“No, I’m sorry, but I want to hear whatever was said. My father always taught me the value of discipline and respect.”
Isaac slammed his hands on the table. “You’re not my father!” he screamed. “And this isn’t my house. Just leave me alone,” he ran upstairs, leaving Grant and Tanya shocked at the table. They waited until his bedroom door slammed closed, then sat silent for a moment. Grant tossed his fork back on his plate and rubbed his temples.
“Jesus, I didn’t mean to go off on him like that. It’s been a rough day. I guess I just brought it home with me.”
“Don’t worry, I’m sure it will be alright,” Tanya replied, the smile now replaced by a furrowed brow as she set her own fork down. Like her husband, she no longer had an appetite.
“Should I go talk to him?” Grant said with a sigh.
“Maybe let him calm down first.”
“Good idea”
“Come on, you can help me with the dishes,” Tanya said, trying to lighten the mood.
She stood and kissed him on the head.
“Hell, why not, I don’t feel like eating now anyway,” he replied, stacking his plate on top of hers and following her to the kitchen. “What should I do with Isaac’s?”
“Leave it for now. He might want to eat it later.”
“Got it.”
He went to scrape the plates into the bin and remembered it was full to bursting. He locked eyes with his wife and the two shared a smile.
“Don’t say a word, okay?” he said, setting the two plates on the side. “I’ll just take it out myself and have a word with Isaac about it later.”
She smiled, a real one this time. She turned toward the sink and started to fill it with water, arranging the pans and dirty cutlery on the side. Grant pulled the sack out of the bin and set it between his feet, scraping the food into it. He handed the plates to Tanya and tied the sack.
“How about a little drink tonight?” he said, picking up the garbage and walking to the back door.
“Maybe, as long as you give me a foot rub.”
“Deal.”
He opened the door and stepped outside, almost walking into the filthy, bloody man who was waiting there. A flicker of recognition flashed in Grant’s eyes seconds before Henry Marshall slashed his throat. Dropping the sack on the ground, he staggered back into the house, blood spewing from his neck, spraying the door, spattering onto the hardwood floor. Henry stepped forward for every backwards step Grant took, crossing the threshold of the property. He shoved Grant with one hand, sending him sprawling to the floor where he gargled and bled. With the other, he slammed the door closed behind him. Tanya started to scream.
Henry closed the distance to her without breaking stride, his every movement delivered with purpose. Tanya’s natural reaction was to scramble away, but there was nowhere to go. She bumped against the work surface, pans and glasses clattering to the floor. Without any hesitation, Henry grabbed her by the hair and plunged her face-first into the sink. She thrashed her arms and kicked her legs as the scolding water burned her skin, dimly realizing what was happening. As hot as it was, the water didn’t bother Henry. He stared at his black ghostly reflection in the window above the sink; eyes dead, calm despite the pain he felt distantly up to his forearm. He pushed her face deeper, mashing her nose into the stainless steel bottom. Water spewed out onto the floor as Tanya scratched and clawed for anything she could lay her hands on, but her oxygen-starved brain was already starting to fade, and her desperate clawing only resulted in more dirty dishes being sent tumbling to the floor. Henry waited and listened to his masters as they soothed him through the process, telling him she was close to the end.
She stopped flailing.
One twitch.
A reflexive jerk of the foot.
Silence.
Still he held her there, waiting until they told him it was fine to stop. His own pain from the scolding water was irrelevant. He lived to serve them now. The boiler groaned, and in the sound he heard the approval he sought. He let go of her hair and removed his pink, blistering arm. They allowed him to feel the pain now, the voices in his head telling him he should savor it, should let it consume him. He gritted his teeth, looking at the swollen skin, the dull throb of his ravaged flesh lighting his pain receptors and sending the agony around his body.
Released from Henry’s grip, Tanya’s body slid to the floor, eyes open, mouth agape. Like his arm, her face was red and blistered. He stared at her body as water continued to spill out over the rim of the sink. Without thinking, Henry reached over and shut off the tap, plunging the house into silence. Now all that remained was what he had come here for. There was a knife on the floor, knocked from the work surface by Tanya’s flailing arms, and he picked it up, wincing at the pain of flexing his scalded hand around it. He switched, moving the knife to his undamaged left hand. Satisfied, he set off through the dining room to begin his search for Isaac Samson.
II
Isaac lay under his bed, feet pressed against the wall, eyes wide. His field of vision was narrow, but enough. He could see the bottom of his dresser, the bottom portion of his bedroom door which he had closed. He’d seen the man coming toward the house from his bedroom window and knew it was the man from his nightmares. Grant and Tanya had always told him it was just a dream, and that it couldn’t hurt him. Now he saw the man was real, and knew he had come for him. He heard the footsteps, slow and deliberate, as they ascended the steps. With no means of escape, Isaac pushed himself further into the corner and prayed he wouldn’t be found.
III
The night had cast the house into a shadow-heavy tomb. Amid the silence, Henry Marshall moved with deliberate leisure, knowing the boy was upstairs without any route by which he could escape. As a child himself, Henry had always feared the dark, but now he saw it as his ally. Those who dwelled deep in his consciousness waited for him to complete the task they had set him. He knew how vital it was, how important the boy was to them, and by proxy, to him. The message had been clear. The child had to die.
Henry reached the top of the stairs, pausing to assess the layout. Four doors; one open, three closed. He could imagine the boy cowering, hiding somewhere, probably in a closet or under a bed. It would be easy. He would butcher the child in such a way that he would be unidentifiable. Only then would his task be done and he could join his masters in death.
He opened the first door immediately to his left. A bathroom: Small, pristine, white tiled. Nowhere a boy could hide. Henry walked further down the hall, making no effort to keep quiet, knowing that every creaking floorboard, every sound of opening doors would increase the boy’s terror, and as he had come to discover, scared flesh was the sweetest tasting. He opened the second door, this one an office or study of some kind. A desk filled with clutter around the computer, book
shelves filled with books on science and history, geography and politics. Henry stepped inside, looking for anywhere a young boy could be hiding. He looked behind the door, under the desk, between the two filing cabinets. The room was empty. Striding back out, he paused again. The other two doors were a little further down the hall. The idea of building up the fear in the child was too much. Henry started to whistle, a happy jingle. He started to walk, deliberately, slowly. He dragged the tip of the knife blade across the wall, hoping the sound would filter through to wherever the boy was hiding. He came to the final two doors, each on opposite sides of the corridor. One was plain white, the other adorned with a poster of a sports car. It was plain to see which one was Isaacs’s room. Henry turned toward it, slowly depressed the handle and opened the door. Like the rest of the house, night had almost taken it. Shadows were long and black. Outside, just a sliver of golden orange daylight remained. Henry stepped into the room, taking it in. It was a child’s room; that much was obvious, however there was no personality to it. The room was little more than a blank canvas to which Isaac had just started to add his own touch.
“I know you’re in here,” Henry said, watching for any sign of movement. “Just come out. I won’t hurt you.”
Henry looked around the room. There were only two places the boy could be: the closet, or under the bed. Henry reached out and flicked on the light, dismissing both shadows and hiding places alike. He turned toward the closet then stopped, looking toward the bed. He moved toward it and sat down, elbows resting on knees.
“I know you’re under there,” he said. “They can sense you. You can never hide from them.”
He waited for a reply, enjoying the game, trying to imagine the fear the boy must be feeling.
“You know you have to die, don’t you? You were meant to die before. If you come out, I’ll make it quick. I’ll make sure it doesn’t hurt.”
