Who Will Hear Them Cry

By Phyllis Campbell

Kate Talbot, blinded by the psychopath who killed her husband and unborn child, retreats from the world into an existence played out on her computer screen where life ends and begins at will. Her former partner in their detective agency has no right to ask her to investigate a series of fatal accidents at a school for disabled children, she keeps telling him, as she finds herself becoming interested. As she uncovers the plot sinister layer after layer, she finds her world again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Phyllis Campbell
• Release date: Apr 7, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476023960

Phyllis Campbell

Phyllis Campbell has been writing professionally since the 60's, and won her first prize for her writing when she was eleven. She teaches piano and voice as well as tutors in Braille and computer skills. She writes two bi-monthly columns for Our Special, a Braille magazine for blind women. She is the organist at Faith Lutheran Church in historic down town Staunton, Virginia. Her hobbies are knitting, collecting recipes, reading and listening to music. She lives in Staunton, Virginia with her husband, Chuck.Her work has appeared in such publications as The Christian Herald, The Lutheran, The Lutheran woman, and similar inspirational publications. In addition she has written for the romance market for McFadden's Woman's Group. Her recorded material From My Kitchen has been used by the Virginia Department For the Vision Impaired, and she has written a true crime book under contract to the victim's family.Although she has sold two titles to the mainstream print market, one of which has been published in the UK and China as well as the US, she sees the bright future of the digital market. "Who Will Hear Them Cry" is her first digital title, it won't be the last. Look for more from this author in the near future, including other titles featuring Kate Talbot from "Who Will Hear Them Cry."

Book preview

Who Will Hear Them Cry

By Phyllis Campbell

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Copyright Phyllis Campbell, 2012

Smashwords Edition

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The cover credits are:

Cover photo courtesy of Alexei Gridenko & Dreamstime.com

Cover by Joleene Naylor

Ebook formatting by Ebook Launch

Chapter 1

A sound like a dozen church bells summoning worshipers from the next galaxy, pulled me from a summer world of color, and sun and growing things into the cold dark reality of the December morning.

During those first days in the hospital I'd dreaded that time the most, that strip between sleep and waking, between what was, and what is. Suddenly all was dark, and for that one confused moment in time I couldn't be sure what was real. Dream? nightmare? I knew I was blind, knew it with my head, but not with my heart. Try as I might, I couldn't grasp that dark cold thing that changed my life forever.

But on that cold December morning, over a year later, I knew, as the church bells became the continuous chime of the security alarm. I felt the silky warmth of the quilt, and heard the hiss of passing cars. For an instant I felt the lonely despair of that colorless world. Then I blinked away what would never be again, and tapped the intercom button, silencing the alarm.

I touched the hands of my Braille watch. It was 9:25, presumably AM since it had been past midnight when I'd gone to bed.

Yes? I said pulling the cover around my shoulders. It had turned cold.

Kate! The voice actually rattled the speaker. What does this thing mean by an unauthorized area? All I did was step on the back porch. I've stopped, I’ve stopped!

Brett?

I keyed in the command silencing the synthesized voice that warned anyone approaching a door or window that they were in an unauthorized zone, and told them to stop.

Well it sure as hell ain't Santa Claus. He'd have better sense than to be out on a morning like this. Come on, Kate, it's freezing out here.

Hang on, I said as I hefted my five-foot-three, 120 pound self out of bed. I hoped he didn't expect it to be much warmer in here because I'd turned the heat back the night before, and it takes my old house a long time to get warm, when there's been a sudden drop in the temperature.

A search failed to turn up my robe, and I slipped into the jeans and fisherman sweater I'd been wearing the night before. At least my slippers were where they were supposed to be, and I welcomed their fleecy warmth. The hardwood floor was like ice.

The smell of coffee came up to meet me as I started down the stairs. It was set to drip automatically at six o'clock, and by now it would probably taste the way tar smells on a hot day. I turned right at the foot of the stairs, and made my way along the familiar hall. It had changed very little since that day over two years ago when I had seen it for the last time with my physical eyes. The oak paneling we'd stripped of countless layers of paint, the braided rugs Sam's grandmother had given us for a wedding present, the walnut chest, beside the door to the seldom used living room, all spoke to me of other days. Only the closed door to the room we had called the parlor was different. It had always been open, a place of hospitality, of love and music.

As I entered the combination family room and kitchen that runs across the entire back of the house, I touched the remote switch for the stereo and the room was filled with the sound of Handel's Water Music.

Wind and rain in equal parts rushed through the back door as I opened it.

Where on earth were you? Brett asked, and I heard him shaking the rain from his hat.

Well as a matter of fact I wasn't up. It is Saturday you know.

Yeah I know, he said, and I heard him throw his coat across the rack on the cellar door, but some of us have to work, you know.

I knew what he meant. Even in a small town detective agency where most of the work is pretty routine Saturday is often like any other day. There was something in his tone, though. Not criticism, exactly, more like challenge.

Trying to put me on the defensive? I asked. And as usual jumped in and left myself wide open, right where he wanted me.

No, just making a statement that's all. We can't all live in a high tech world of our own choosing.

I could tell he was looking at the pile of CD's next to the computer, and then I remembered I'd left the computer on the night before with the game still in memory. I heard the familiar click as he turned on the monitor I never use.

The Oregon Trail, he said. Doesn't look like you're doing so well. Those Indians look like pretty good shots. As I remember, though, from our days on the firing range you were a pretty good shot, too. How's it going, Kate, in real life, I mean?

Great until just a few minutes ago. Want some coffee?

Thought you might not ask, he said, and I heard him sit at the bar. Sorry I woke you up, but I thought you'd be up. When did you get the watch dog?

What? Oh, the security system. It's part of a computerized system that does all kinds of good stuff, like turning on lights, dialing the phone—

All that hard stuff you can't do for yourself. Seriously, the security system is good. What would have happened if I hadn't stopped?

After three requests it would have activated an alarm that you could probably hear way over on your end of town. I think though that the voice would be enough to scare away the average small time crook. Still take your coffee black?

I placed the earthenware mug in front of him.

Right, and I heard him take a sip.

I need a favor, Kate. More than a favor actually. You're the only person I can think of who can do it.

Whatever it is, the answer's no.

I remembered I hadn't turned up the heat. For a minute I played with the thought of leaving it off. For a man who is six feet tall, and weighs over two hundred pounds Brett is one of the most cold natured people I've ever seen. Maybe I could freeze him out. But my own comfort won.

Okay, he said, I'm sorry about the crack about your computer games, and that command center is handy. I wouldn't mind having one myself. You know how I am. You should anyhow. We've known each other since grade school, and we were partners for over five years. You know when I need a favor, something that's really important, I get that way. I need you to say yes, and I couldn't help putting you on the defensive.

The answer is still no, I said, putting my cup down so hard some of the coffee splashed on my hand. You've been trying to lure me back to the agency for over a year. Brett, it won't work. I can't sit in that office answering the phone, handling correspondence, and complaints. I'd hate it, and pretty soon you'd hate me for hating it. I've told you before. Get another partner, because this one is through.

Please, will you just let me tell you about this case? Okay, time for confession. When you came home from the Rehab Center I did try to find things for you to do. Then one day I asked myself how I'd feel in your place, and I gave myself all the same answers you'd been giving me. This time it's different. I really meant it when I told you that you're the only one I can turn to.

What kind of case is it? I asked, refilling our cups. Somebody steal the weekly allowance of Braille paper over at the School for the Blind?

What do you know about a place out in the county called Maplewood? he asked ignoring my sarcasm. It's a combination home and school for the blind.

I could tell from his tone that something was bothering him.

The name is familiar, I said, but I can't think where I heard it.

They've been around for about ten years, and have about two-hundred kids in residence.

Are you sure? I mean where do they come from?

From everywhere, he said. A lot of them are from out of state. There are kids with other physical problems., and kids with emotional problems.. From what I can find out they'll take a kid no matter what, just as long as they're blind, too."

I don't understand, I said. So far as I know most states have their state schools for the blind, and most of them take blind kids with other disabilities. Besides, the trend today is toward mainstreaming disabled kids into the public schools with special classes where they're needed for Braille and such. Why would anybody want to send their kid to this what's it's name?

Maplewood. Why does anybody want to send their kid to private school? You know as well as I do, Kate, there's no telling why people do what they do. For some it might be prestige, for others the feeling they'll get more attention.

But how are they financed? I asked, finding I was becoming interested despite my determination to have nothing to do with it. That my dear Kate is one of the things I'd like to find out. Some parents pay, of course. They say they get private support from individuals and church groups, and because they offer room and board they get some federal and state funds for maintenance. Still I can't figure out how they maintain the place the way they do.

Okay, I said, but what's our interest?

I flinched at the our but if he noticed he didn't say anything.

"Seems they've been plagued by a series of what they call accidents. A fire completely destroyed one of the classroom buildings. One of the teachers was killed recently when she fell off an upstairs porch when the railing gave way, and loads of minor things.

Yesterday a woman came to the office. Her ten-year-old daughter was a pupil there. Monday, or late Sunday night she was drowned in a small stream that runs through the grounds.

But how? I asked. Children, and especially disabled children should certainly be supervised.

They are, but this happened in the middle of the night, he said, filling our cups in his turn.

The buildings are locked at night, but fire regulations say that doors have to be easily opened from the inside. She could have just walked out.

But surely they check on the children at night, I said.

When the mother raised that question they asked her if she stayed awake all night to check on her child, and I guess they have a point. They have live-in houseparents, and they check the children before they go to bed just as parents would at home. She was apparently asleep when the housemother checked at ten o'clock.

But wouldn't children with more than one handicap need attention at night? I asked.

They do have someone on duty all night with them, but except for her blindness this kid was normal in every way.

Okay, but what was she doing out of the building in the middle of the night? And don't they have an alarm system of some kind?

Oh, they do, he said, but unfortunately, they say, somebody forgot to turn it on that night. As to why she went outside, her mother says she wouldn't have done such a thing.

Only she must have, I said slowly. Look, Brett, this is sad, and in a way it's interesting, but what does it have to do with me?

Will you talk to the mother? I'd like to know how you see the situation. It's my feeling that they're criminally negligent, but she thinks it's something more. No matter what it is, though, they should be closed down. If you decide to help I'll get all the information about the other accidents for you.

Wait a minute, Brett! Just what do you think I can do?

Well—

Well what?

I was back on the defensive again, although I felt a pang of sadness. For a while there it had been like the old days before my world had crumbled in pain and guilt and darkness.

First just talk to her. Then if you feel there's a case, and I actually heard him gulp. Then I want you to go up there under cover.

You've got to be out of your tree. What am I supposed to do enroll as a very slow pupil?

There's an opening for a music teacher, he said. It's sort of a live-in job. You'd have a good chance to see just how the place is run.

Are you serious? Don't answer. You are. What on this wide earth makes you think they'd hire me?

Well you did teach music right after you finished college. I know there's something called Braille music. You could learn it, couldn't you?

I could learn it. Just like that. Do you have any idea what you're asking. Not only the Braille music bit, but the whole thing. You walk in here wanting me to go traipsing around the county making a fool of myself just because some society woman who's feeling guilty about sending her child away from home says something is going on. If she was so concerned why didn't she keep her at home. Well, I can tell you why. It was because she was ashamed of her, and didn't want to be bothered. I'm not going to do it. Let the police investigate if there's anything to investigate. I've had enough pain in the past two years to last most people for a life time. I'm not going to let myself in for more just to make that woman feel better.

Kate, Sweet Kate, he said laying his hand over mine, and using the old term of endearment he'd used for more years than I could remember. I know, but you can't hide from life. What happened to you, and to Sam, well I just don't have the words to tell you how I feel. You have to go on living, though, and living for you is doing.

What you're asking is impossible, I said, and pulled my hand away.

It isn't impossible, he said. It's possible, but you just won't.

I forced myself to walk to the freezer and take out a package of Danish. Another mistake.

And you're getting fat, he said banging his cup down on the counter over the dish washer. You're sitting here in your little electronic world, and you're getting fat. You're getting fat and lazy, and you don't even care.

So why don't you just get out, and find somebody else to do your dirty work?

I could feel tears prickling near the surface, but I knew they wouldn't fall. How many times during the past two years had I tried to cry. Tried to feel the healing wash of tears that would never fall.

Okay, I'm going, he said. Hey, look, Kate, I'm sorry, but you make me so mad! You've got so much life to live, so much to offer. I'll work something out.

Maybe you could do it yourself disguised as Santa Claus, I said struggling to find the old relationship, but knowing that I couldn't, at least not then.

See you, he said, and then he turned from the door. I should have known you wouldn't care about human life. You've even let your chives die.

And he was gone.

I stood there listening to the sound of his old VW as it wheezed its way down the hill. He had meant it. He really thought that I didn't care about human life.

Do you? a nasty little voice inside me asked.

Did I? I cared about Dickens, my orange striped cat, but he asked very little of me.

I walked slowly to the locked parlor door at the front of the house. I clutched the cold porcelain of the knob. Deep inside myself in the part that bleeds and hurts in the quiet lonely night I knew that in a way he was right. I couldn't care. I was afraid to care. I couldn't face the responsibility of caring, not again.

No, please, Lord not again, I whimpered.

I had to stay there alone, surrounded by my electronic gadgets. They would serve me, and ask nothing in return. Life lived on a computer screen could begin, and end, and begin again, creating a kind of eternity.

A scratching at the front door broke the emotional spell, and brought me back to earth.

Where were you all night? I asked as Dickens, dripping wet, brushed past me.

It had been on just such a rainy day as this when I had gone out to get my mail and kicked something soft and unmoving in front of my mailbox. Reaching down I felt a strangely unmoving cat.

Hey, buddy this is no place to take a nap.

But I had known he wasn't asleep. His shallow breathing told me that he was either very sick or very hurt.

Oh, Mrs. Talbot, don't touch it. It's a dead cat.

Normally I avoided her, Mrs. Simmons, who lived down the hill from me. That morning, though her shrill voice was welcome. After all she could see.

Not dead, but hurt or sick.

I put on what Sam had always called my teacher voice.