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

by Hileman, John Michael

  25Main? Was that a street address? He called up Google Maps and typed Massachusetts 25 Main; a list appeared. Yeah, this is helpful, he thought, every town in Mass has a 25 Main Street! He started scrolling, until one caught his eye: 25 Main Street, Milton, MA. That was the town where the murder took place. He zoomed in to the street view and pivoted the camera. It looked like a residential neighborhood, but there was a sign on a corner house that said Helping Hands Food Kitchen.

  “Did you find something?” said Karen, over his shoulder. His heart surged with adrenaline, but he didn’t let on. She leaned in. “What’s going on at the food kitchen?”

  “I don’t know,” he grumbled. “I think I’m supposed to go there.”

  “You think we’ll find some clue about the murder?”

  “I don’t know. I got a message that said, ‘Care package 25 main.’ That’s all I know.”

  Her lips pressed. “Well—let’s go check it out.”

  “Check what out?” said Brad from the doorway.

  She twirled around. “We have a lead on the Blake case.”

  “Really? What do you have?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  “Marriage has made you feisty, little Karen.”

  “You know what they say, keep your friends close, and your enemies—well, you marry them.”

  He expressed mock surprise. “Is that what they say?”

  She smiled.

  “Well, if you hold your enemies close,” he said, “I’ll see if I can be the worst enemy you’ve ever had.”

  David scowled. “Really? This doesn’t make you sick? Am I the only one?”

  They laughed.

  Karen nudged him. “Come on, let’s go see if we can dig something up. My enemy has a plane to catch.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Jon looked back through the pine and oak trunks of the cemetery woods. The tombstones and network of tarred paths were no longer in sight, and there was no sign of pursuit. It was quiet, except for the chirping of birds and the occasional sound of a car passing by just beyond the black, iron fence and eight-foot hedge beyond. The hedge provided reasonable cover and gave the wooded area an air of seclusion.

  Jon sat down on a thick tree root, set his iPad against the tree, and looked down at the dirty, metal box. What riches might it hold? He couldn’t help but allow a smirk to bend his lips. If this box contained a chunk of cash, he would happily relive the last several hours. The only downside was running from the police—but with a wad of cash, he might be able to do it effectively. He had always intended on leaving anyway. What difference did it make if people were dead or in jail? What difference did it make if his father had pinned the blame on him? It didn’t matter what these people thought of him; this entire state could be wiped out by a plague for all he cared. He never intended to come back. There was nothing here for him. All he’d ever cared about left when his mother couldn’t stand to be around his dad anymore.

  He gripped the lid and paused. The apprehension of having his hopes dashed upon the rocks caused him to hold onto the moment, as one might do before scratching off a lottery ticket. On this side of opening the box, all of his dreams could come true. On the other side, could be crushing disappointment. After all, who would bury money in a cemetery? And if they did, who would bury any amount of significance? The box could be like the police scanner box he opened two Christmases ago. For the briefest of moments, he thought someone had given him a police scanner, but instead the box contained a pair of knitted winter gloves.

  In this moment, he chose to allow himself to believe the voices had led him to salvation; he chose to believe the box contained his ticket out of this nightmare. Despite the danger, he allowed hope to creep in.

  Here goes nothing.

  He pulled the lid up, and saw a single envelope. He fought the urge to throw the box at the tree, ripped the envelope out, and slammed the cover shut. The envelope was heavy in his hand and upon its face were the words: “I’m sorry,” in faded ink. It felt like an apology from the voices—an apology that was sorely rejected. He opened the letter and slid its contents onto the top of the box. There was a stained letter and a key with the number 2362 on it. He put the key in his pocket and unfolded the letter.

  Dear Donnie,

  I never meant for this to happen. I never meant for no one to get hurt, especially Tommy. He was supposed to be alone at that bank, Donnie. That was the deal. You know that.

  Well I wanted to say sorry, but I didn’t dare to go nowhere near that prison you was in. I know I should have been the one to take the fall. And I have had to live with that my whole life.

  It wasn’t so hot for me you know. I never spent none of that money. I was too scared. But I’m old now, and I ain’t got much time left. There’s no one to leave it to. No woman could ever stand a week with me. So I put it all back in that bank, in the same place we got it. I think in some way I’m hoping it will feel like it never happened, so I can go to heaven, but I doubt it. What’s done is done. Now alls I have to look forward to is coming face to face with you, and nothing scares me more than that. So here’s the key. I’m just hoping you forgive me.

  Charlie

  There was money! All the money he needed! He pulled the key from his pocket and looked at it. All he had to do was get into the Norfolk County Bank and get it from the safe deposit box! The thought immediately dowsed his enthusiasm. How would he ever get into a bank when his face was on every television in the state?! The money would be easier to get from Fort Knox. Unless—unless someone did it for him—someone like Bruce or Jared.

  “Hey!” shouted a voice through the trees.

  The groundskeeper and two other men were walking toward him. He crammed the letter and the key into his pocket and stood. The three men were a good twenty yards away, but there was nowhere to run, and no way to get over that spiked, iron fence.

  He stood, frozen, watching the men approach through the trees, afraid to make any move that would cause them to break into a jog or a run which would decrease his time to come up with a plan of escape. He considered running along the fence and dodging through the trees, but he was no match for three grown men. He could place the box at the bottom of the fence and try to spring over the top, but even with the box, there was little chance he would clear it without taking considerable damage. But, he thought, if I put the box on the spikes, maybe I can slide over. He grabbed his iPad and slid it through to the other side, then grabbed the box and jammed it on top of the spikes and stepped back.

  “Hey,” shouted the man. “Stop!”

  He ran forward, braced his foot on the horizontal holding bar that held the fence poles in place, and launched himself up onto the box. It felt almost as painful as he imaged the spikes would feel. The edge of the box cut into his abdomen as he wiggled forward. His legs eventually rose into the air, and his body crashed down on the other side.

  The men had bridged the distance and were within a few feet of the fence. Jon scrambled onto shaky legs. He couldn’t allow them to get the box; they might see the plaque for Norfolk Country Savings and Loan, then he’d never get into that bank.

  He lunged upward, gripped the box with both hands and pushed with all his might. It lifted off the spikes and he came down hard. A hand shot through the rungs of the fence and snatched him by the shirt. No words were exchanged. The man had a look of determination on his face, and a strong grip. Jon panicked and brought the metal box down onto the man’s forearm. The man screamed in agony and lost his grip.

  “I’m sorry,” yelled Jon, over the man’s lamenting groans.

  “That box is cemetery property!” said the groundskeeper. “If you take it, you’re breaking the law.”

  Jon scurried backward with the dirt-covered box and said the only thing that came into his head. “My box!” It was neither articulate nor intelligent, but it conveyed the most important point. It was his, and he had no intention of letting them have it.

  “If it’s your box then w
e don’t have a problem,” said the groundskeeper, panting.

  Jon’s eyes brushed over his iPad which was laying within arm’s reach of the fence. He lunged forward and slammed the box hard against the fence. A horrendous clank caused all three men to shift backward. Quickly he squatted down and picked up the iPad without taking his eyes off the men. He rose slowly. “You can have my box when you take it from my cold, dead hands. That’s what you do anyway, right?”

  The groundskeeper pulled his phone out. “You won’t get three blocks with that box in your hand. You sure you want to do this?”

  Jon began pacing like a caged lion. Was it true? Would the police get him before he could find a place to hide the box? Even if he did find a safe hiding place, they would have a description of him. No matter how this played out, if the police were called, he was in trouble. They would come looking for a vandal, and find an accused murderer instead. “What if I give it back. Will you let me go?” he said, not looking at them.

  The man pulled his phone away from his cheek. “We might be able to work something out. Just give us the box and tell us where you got it from so we can return it to its resting place.”

  A convincing lie began to piece together in his mind. “There’s nothing in it, anyway.” He opened the box and showed them. “I just took it to show my mom. She said my cousin buried my baseball cards under his brother’s gravestone, but they’re not here.”

  “Which stone?”

  He continued on, imagining how he should act and playing it out. “Those cards were worth a lot of money. I had old, old ones in those decks. I was gonna sell ‘em.”

  The man with the damaged arm said, “You should have come talked with us. We have policies. You can’t just come in and dig things up.”

  “There wasn’t much digging,” he said, it was right under the stone.

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s against the law. Give us back the box.”

  He looked down at it with its eagle marking and copper plaque. How would he ever get them to believe his cousin had a safe deposit box? And what were the chances they wouldn’t just call the cops as soon as he handed it to them, anyway? His options were dwindling into one inevitable decision. He felt like he was on a cliff staring at the cold water far below. There was no turning back.

  There was a neighborhood on the other side of the road behind him. He remembered seeing it on the map. There had to be a nook he could hide the box in. Without the box there was a chance he could avoid the police.

  He turned off that part of the brain that said, This is crazy, dug his feet into the ground, and took off through the hedge—with screaming pleas trailing behind him like a jet stream.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  David Chance led the way up the rotting, wooden stairs of the food kitchen and opened the creaky door. “Hello?” he called.

  The main room was clean with simple furnishings. There were several brown, fold out tables surrounded by basic kitchen chairs, a few food carts, a coffee station—and a half a dozen people who all looked in David’s direction. Only one looked like a street person, the rest could easily be lower, middle class eating at McDonalds, by the look of them.

  A plump man called out from behind the counter, “Come on in.”

  David and Karen stepped in and Karen closed the squeaky door behind them. They made their way to the counter.

  “The line starts over there,” the man said, pointing to a stack of plates and plastic containers of utensils.

  “We’re not here to eat, but thank you,” said David, wondering how he would introduce the topic of him seeing messages, and that a message had sent him here to see about a care package he didn’t need.

  The man’s round, bearded face turned up when he saw Karen. “Oh! I recognize you. You’re with the news. Are you here to do a piece on us?”

  Karen smiled and looked at David. “No. I’m sorry, we’re not here to do a story. David is here to ask you some questions, and I’m here to watch.”

  David smiled back. Way to throw me to the wolves, he thought.

  “Okay. Well, we’ll do what we can.”

  David turned to him. “Do you have something called a care package?”

  “Yeah. Sure do. Mostly we make them up for the holidays, but we usually have some on hand.”

  “Do you have any right now?”

  “I think we have a few left.”

  “Could we see one?” asked David.

  “Ah, sure.” The man wiped his hands on his apron. “Things are slow at the moment, so I’ll go take a look.” He disappeared behind the wall.

  Karen leaned in. “Maybe there’s more to the message. You should try looking around in here.”

  He turned and surveyed the room. The operators of the soup kitchen were not big on decor; the focus was clearly on functionality. Most of the walls were barren, except for an occasional information card. There was a sign that listed kitchen hours, another that said, “Place dirty dishes here.” And there was a schedule for a Bible teaching. He bounced his eyes off a couple of words, but nothing clicked. “I don’t see anything,” he said.

  “Do you think this place is connected to the case somehow?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know,” he whispered back.

  The man appeared from the back room and placed a cardboard box on the counter. “Here we go.” He smiled. “We had one left.”

  “What’s in it?” David asked.

  “Well, during the holidays it can have a whole turkey, mashed potato mix, canned cranberry, that sort of thing. But this one is more of a generic pack. It’s got ravioli, beans, beets, some bread, juice boxes and waters, stuff like that.”

  Karen leaned in and spoke in a low voice. “Are you getting anything?”

  “I’m hoping I will soon,” he said, placing his hands on the sides of the box and looking at the man. “May I look?”

  He gave them an odd look. “Sure.”

  The food was packed tightly inside a plain cardboard box with the words Care Package in black marker on the side. He scanned the items inside the box—until it became uncomfortable for everyone.

  Karen took a step back. “Ah... Maybe we should look somewhere else.”

  “What are you looking for?” asked the man.

  She gave David expectant eyes, once again happy to throw him under the bus.

  He pushed the box away. “We’re sorry to have wasted your time, sir.”

  The friendly man’s brows lifted. “You’re not wasting my time. Take it with you, if you like.”

  “No, that’s okay.”

  But before David could turn away, his eyes landed on a sign on the counter. It said: “Deposit dishes in tub. Put food in trash. Place returnables in box.” His eyes bounced from Put to in, and up to a sign on the wall that said: “Help us keep a safe environment,” where he grabbed the word safe. There was nothing else close enough to jump to, so he dropped back to the sign on the counter and bounced his eyes off of deposit and box.

  Put in safe deposit box, he repeated in his mind. Put what in a safe deposit box? The food?

  Karen had a pleased look on her face, obviously picking up on his behavior. It was too bad the look would soon be replaced with disappointment.

  David put a hand on the box. “Um, yeah, I guess I will take it. How much is it?”

  The man looked confused. “We don’t sell them,” he said, “we give them to people in need.”

  Karen jumped in. “David’s been beating around the bush. The truth is, things haven’t been so good for him lately. He’s just an intern at our television station.” She shook her head apologetically. “It’s lousy pay.”

  Seriously, Karen?! This was how she wanted to play it? He squirmed as she spoke her half-truth.

  “Money is tight for his family and he’s been stressing about whether or not to get another job. We’d like to keep him around, but he needs a little something to get through. Could we arrange for him to get a few boxes? I would be happy to do a piece on the food kitc
hen.”

  The man’s eyes shifted to David. “Is this true?”

  David choked on the words. “I really need this care package.”

  “You have a funny way of beating around the bush.”

  Karen put a hand on David’s shoulder. “He’s a proud man.”

  “You don’t have to feel bad about this. Look, it happens to the best of us.” As he talked, he stuffed napkins, paper plates, plasticware and even a small, steel can opener into the box. “We’re happy to help. If you need more boxes, stop by any time, or bring your family down and have a meal with us.”

  David clutched the box. “Thanks.”

  Fake compassion beamed from Karen’s eyes. “It happens to the best of us, David.” She pressed her lips and patted him on the arm. But it was the slight cocking of her head that bugged him the most. “Don’t worry,” she crooned. “We’ll get through this together.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  After running for what felt like forever, Jon found himself between a warped, wooden fence and someone’s garage, hoping desperately that they didn’t have a dog. Around him lay cinder blocks, a broken window in a frame, a rusted lawnmower, and a variety of wood, from particle board to two-by-fours. The owner of the house looked to be a pack rat, or a slob. Jon couldn’t decide which. But if he left the safe deposit box laying out in plain sight in the middle of the yard, the authorities would be hard-pressed to find it. He chose to hide it, for extra precaution. He tucked it behind some sheets of wood and slid a cinderblock up against it.

  There had been no sirens. Jon’s best guess was that vandalism held a lower priority than murder, which was working to his advantage. All he had to do was stay low and wait for them to write up their report, do a cursory drive through the neighborhood, and be on their way to more important endeavors—like hunting down assassins bold enough to kill someone in broad daylight.