Night Whispers

By David E Greske

Stephen Quinn is a man with a unique ability. He is able to enter the minds of others. It is an ability that may kill him. A brilliant scientist, Quinn is recruited to work at GenTech, a secret government corporation experimenting in genetic research. Quinn believes his work is for the benefit of mankind; the government however has other plans for Quinn's breakthrough discovery. After a tragedy befalls the research center, Quinn is reeducated and relocates to Minneapolis, where he accepts a job as a special crime investigator for the police department. Teamed with Charlene—Charlie Todd—the pair must help track down a mysterious killer who appears to be draining the blood of his victims. To capture the murderer Quinn must enter the mind of the madman, but the horrors he finds there may kill him...and there is only one person who can save him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Whiskey Creek Press
• Release date: Nov 1, 2006
• ISBN: 9781593746506

Book preview

Prologue

He woke to the murmur of sing-song whispers in a white room so bright it seemed to burn his face. He was dressed in a white gown, as were the others floating around him. A warm radiance streamed through the transparent panels above him. Somewhere in the distance he heard doves coo.

He thought: I died and I’m in heaven.

An angel hovered around him, leaned over him. Her eyes grew wide with excitement.

He’s awake, the angel said. Someone get the general.

Now he understood. He wasn’t dead. He was in a hospital.

Realizing his location, he became aware of other sounds: the soft murmur of conversations, the constant whisper of hospital machinery, the steady pings of the heart monitor.

He swallowed and his throat burned like fire. A tube had been shoved down his gullet. Another tube grew out of his wrist and was attached to a crystalline bag hanging from a chrome stand.

Pinpoints of pain pricked at his face. He touched his right cheek and found it covered with gauze. Beneath the bandage he felt the sticky goo of infection as it leaked from the wound.

He tried to recall what happened, but all he remembered was a supercharged flash followed by chaos.

The door opened, letting in a blast of cold air, and a man walked rapidly into the room. He rushed to the patient’s bedside.

You’re awake, the newcomer said. He was dressed in dark clothing and wore a surgical mask over his mouth and nose. The rest of his face was silhouetted against the skylight. Can you hear me?

The patient nodded. He heard the man, but his voice sounded distant and hollow. It was the drug, he supposed, that was being pumped into him, distorting his hearing. Are you death? he asked the Shadowman.

No, the Shadowman chuckled. He found the question somewhat amusing. I’m here to help you. I’ll take care of you.

Okay, the patient rasped. He closed his eyes and fell back to sleep.

* * * *

Six months later...

He woke in an old warehouse. The place stank of harsh chemicals, but there was an underlying stench of rotting wood and decaying flesh. A bluish glow from the computer monitor in a corner supplied the only light in the dim room.

He was naked and strapped to a pine table. Next to him stood a strange contraption reminding him of the thing he saw in the woods behind grandpa’s house. He was only a boy, but he remembered his grandpa told him it was a ‘cooker’. He would be quite a bit older before he realized grandpa was a bootlegger.

A shunt, about eight inches long, protruded from the artery of his neck. He knew this because if he rolled his eyes to his right he saw the last inch of the metal tube. Attached to the end was a length of clear tubing that plugged into the top of the contraption. The liquid flowing through the tube was red.

That was when he realized what was happening. He tried to scream, but his throat was so raw he only produced a raspy squeak. It was loud enough to alert the man sitting in a wheelchair in front of the computer. He spun around, and the cold glow of the monitor shadowed the right side of his face.

Shadowman? But Shadowman wasn’t there. Yet, the man with the withered legs knew the dark figure was never far away.

The captive moaned again.

You’re awake, the man said, rolling the chair toward the table. That’s not good. Not good at all. Someone might hear you.

He reached under the table and pulled out a rag soaked in a pungent fluid. He placed the stinking cloth over the captive’s mouth and nose.

The captive struggled, but he was too weak; his captor was too strong and he succumbed to the forced sleep.

Later, in the wee hours of the morning, his body would be found crammed in a trash barrel behind the adult bookstore.

Chapter 1

New Orleans

The plantation house stood on a slight hill in the Garden District, silhouetted against a sky of midnight blue. Greek-style pillars that seemed to hold up the front of the house framed the porch and accented the heavy mahogany door. A warm, yellow light spilled gracefully from the octagonal window on the third floor. It spread across the front porch and crept across the lawn until it disappeared in the house’s long, menacing shadow that, like a demon’s hand, held the huge magnolia within its grasp. If the grand tree could speak, she’d tell tales of the cotton baron who lived here a century ago. She’d whisper stories of the wives and mistresses who had walked the halls. She’d mutter of the deals that were made behind closed doors. But she couldn’t talk; nature hadn’t made her that way. So she’d keep the secrets hidden in her bark, leaves, and blossoms.

Inside the house, in the lit room, Ethan Henry sat at his hardwood desk, a pipe clenched between his nicotine-stained teeth. He inhaled deeply and his ruddy lips pinched into a tiny half-smile. The embers in the pipe bowl screamed into a brilliant red. Smoke rose over his thick, graying moustache and circled around his long, tapered nose. He inhaled the hot, sweet aroma of the smoke as it kissed his nostrils.

Henry shifted in his chair. A poof of stale air escaped from the blue velvet cushion covering the seat. He wasn’t a large man, but the antique chair still squealed under his weight. He removed the pipe from his mouth and placed it in the ashtray on the table. Tendrils of grayish smoke rose from the dying embers in the pipe bowl.

Henry put his hands on the carved edge of the enormous table and felt the impressions of vines and grape clusters press into his palms as he pushed himself away from the slab. The chair legs squawked as they were pushed across the floor, sending shivers up his spine. He hated the sound. It reminded him too much of death.

Lifting himself from the chair, he walked around the table, his boot heels clicking precariously on the marble floor as he headed for the bar.

The bar, a heavy piece of dark mahogany furniture, stood between the octagon window and a grand red brick and white marble fireplace. The glass shelves boasted a variety of fine liquors—brandies from around the world, rums, bourbons—all in expensive, lead-crystal decanters. Underneath the shelves, a glass-faced cabinet housed matching crystal glasses and goblets.

With a trembling hand, Henry withdrew one of the glasses from the cabinet, dropped a couple of ice cubes into it, and added a splash of brandy. He raised the glass to his mouth and the ice cubes kissed his lips as he tilted the glass and drank. The liquor was bittersweet on his tongue and it warmed his throat with a familiar feeling as it tumbled to his stomach. After a second swallow, he felt the warm glow radiate through and penetrate his arthritic joints and spread to his plump cheeks.

He was never a teetotaler, but he didn’t consider himself a juice-head, either. After what they’d done on that pivotal night, the occasional drink became too ‘occasional’ and, like a thief, the liquor stole his life—one drink at a time.

Another swallow.

He moved to the window and noticed how the street twisting out in front of his house almost looked alive as the night shadows danced across it. He watched the ancient magnolia wave as the wind whispered through its crooked branches.

He took a third swallow and, staring out into the lonesome blackness of night, thought of him.

Henry had been against the idea from the very beginning, but his opinions didn’t mean shit to those in charge. Now he was out there and only God knew where. And even though Henry wasn’t God, he also had a very good idea where he might be.

The killings had Henry concerned. Not that he was oblivious to the fact that these kinds of things flourished in abundance in larger cities, festered quietly under the watchful eyes of the city council in smaller towns, but it was the nature of the killings that concerned him. He’d have to keep close tabs on these atrocities.

Henry was shaken out of his thoughts when the grandfather clock in the hall chimed four a.m. This night had slipped through his fingers like so many others these past few weeks. He tried to justify his sleeplessness by telling himself as he got older his body required less of it—but he knew the real reason for his insomnia was because his mind was filled with dark, uneasy, frightening thoughts of him.

Soon the light of day would peer, bleary-eyed, over the horizon and push the bleakness of night into the shadows.

Henry walked back to the table and considered reaching for the pipe and enjoying another smoke. Instead he poured himself more brandy and headed toward the staircase.

He padded through the darkened second-floor office, took a quick glance out of the window before closing the heavy drapes, and snapped on the lamp. Opening the center drawer, he lifted the false bottom and took out the leather-bound journal. About an inch thick, the journal’s pages rippled from the binding indicating the book was nearly used up.

He placed the journal in the yellow oval of light on the desktop, opened it, and reread the previous night’s entry. It read so much like the entry before it and the one before that. Tonight’s would be so similar, he wondered if it was really worth the effort to write it down—but he needed to document everything even if it meant repeating himself. To be taken seriously the facts had to be correct. Turning the page, he ran his palm along the inside of the spine, creating a crease that held the paper flat. Taking a pen from the tray, he put ink to paper.

I haven’t seen them tonight. At least not yet. They’re like chameleons, changing to blend in with their surroundings. But I know they’re out there. Watching, waiting for me to make a mistake...

His hand trembled as he wrote and he was never quite sure if it shook because of too much booze, or it was caused by the words he committed to paper each night.

When he was finished he replaced the journal in its secret place, leaned back, and finished the rest of his drink.

Outside, somewhere in a darkness that would soon step aside for morning, an owl hooted its mournful melody.

* * * *

Ethan Henry’s sleep was troubled by a dream. In it he stood at one end of a huge oak conference table. On either side of him sat three men, all wearing military dress. The general stood at the head of the table, and spoke:

We have all read your file, Henry, and we are all of the opinion that their evidence is inconclusive and does not warrant the termination of the Project.

General Jonathan Dickson was a man with a tight, pinched face and small, rat-like eyes. The perfect government official.

But you don’t understand, Henry pleaded. There are side-effects. Horrid side-effects.

Mr. Henry, the United States Government did not hire you, or your assistants, to point out potential problems. We hired you to refine the process. For the good of the country.

But—

But, although we have decided not to terminate the Project, we have decided to terminate your involvement. For the good of the country. So, effective immediately, you have twelve hours to clear out your office and vacate the facilities.

But—

Twelve hours, Mr. Henry.

The men stood from the table and headed toward the door.

You bastards! Henry screamed. The words echoed in his dreamscape. You can’t do this!

We already have, Mr. Henry.

The men turned around. They smiled and their smiles turned to skeletal grins. Then their faces exploded into flames.

* * * *

Mornings were always peaceful, but today’s was different. Instead of watching the morning sun push back the gloom of night, Henry sat in his study, a cup of coffee on the desk in front of him, and fought back the chill of last night’s dream. He toyed with the cleft in his chin and fondled with a corner of his moustache. It was getting long. Time to get it trimmed again.

Next to the coffee cup were a large manila envelope and a copy of the morning paper. Henry opened the envelope and took out a scrapbook. Now he opened the paper and thumbed through it until he found the section he needed. Hoping he wouldn’t find what he was looking for, yet knowing in the pit of his stomach he would, he saw the article on the first of page of the third section. He read it, sighed, and took the scissors and glue from the desk drawer.

The story was from the Associated Press and was like all the others. The Full Moon Killer had attacked again last night. This time the victim was found in a Dumpster near Chicago’s south side. This victim, like all the others, had been totally drained of blood and the police had no leads.

Henry cut around the article, leaving enough white space just above the headline to write: ‘Minneapolis’ with a black marker. He opened the scrapbook to the first available blank page. Twisting open the orange top of the glue bottle, Henry applied a glob of the milky fluid to the back of the article, positioned it on the page, and pressed it into place. He wiped the glue that had oozed around the edges with the ball of his index finger, waited a few minutes for the glue to set, then closed the scrapbook. He put the book back in the envelope and stowed it, along with the glue and scissors back in the drawer.

Henry stood, pulled his robe closed, grabbed his coffee and walked out the back door to enjoy the rest of the morning.

He had to stop the killings. He had to put an end to this madness. He had to hunt down and destroy this monster. But to do so, he first had to find Stephen Quinn

Chapter 2

The fading daylight glistened off the glass and steel skyscrapers with magnificent brilliance. From her office window, Janet Sawyer had a perfect view of the city skyline. Office towers and residence buildings reached like fingers into the approaching night—great sparkling monoliths against a multicolored canvas. Thirty-two floors below she saw small, toy-like cars race down the freeway, switching on their headlights as the red-orange orb gradually disappeared behind the horizon.

Somewhere a vacuum cleaner whirled into life, breaking the silence of the nearly-deserted building. The noise interrupted Janet’s concentration and she glanced at the clock hanging above her door.

Seven-thirty.

She hadn’t planned to stay this late, but she was determined to finish the Mann and Associates project before she and her husband left for their weekend in the country. Now it appeared they’d be leaving a little later than they’d anticipated. No matter. Traffic would be lighter and she’d be able cruise right along.

Janet pushed herself away from the desk, walked to the window, and peered out. The sun was just about gone, the brilliant colors of the painted sunset fading into a silky purple.

A smile punctuated her soft, delicate face and with a single graceful movement of her hand, she snapped the blinds closed, shutting out the last bit of light struggling to enter the room. She turned, strolled back to her desk, and plucked her small leather purse from the back of the chair. Tossing it over her shoulder, she gave her auburn hair a toss with a flick of her hand. She pushed her chair under the desk, took a final look around, and walked out the office door, shutting off the lights as she did so.

Janet walked down the hall, and Harv called out to her.

Evenin’, Ms Sawyer. Late night tonight.

Believe me, Harv, it isn’t by choice.

Harv had been the janitor for almost thirty-five years and was less than six months away from retirement. During his employment, he’d seen young people like Janet start out in the company as file clerks and through determination—and, he figured, a little bit of ass-kissing—rise through the ranks of the company. Harv had seen individuals crack and break down under pressure. In ’65 he found a young executive in the men’s room with both his wrists slashed. God, the blood! It was everywhere and it had been his job to clean it all up. A year before that, a male employee was caught engaging in sodomy with the chief of marketing. Apparently, the boy was trying to rise to the top in a somewhat unconventional way. Both the boy and the marketing exec lost their jobs and by the time the scandal was over, the marketing exec also lost his wife.

Can I walk ya to your car, Ms Sawyer? he asked, removing his greasy hat and running his fingers through his thin, white hair. Can I walk ya to ya car? There’re hoodlums out there and I’d hate for you to get hurt.

That’s very sweet of you to offer, but I don’t think it’s necessary. I’ll be just fine.

Okay. You take care of yourself and have a nice weekend.

I will. Thank you. Janet smiled.

Janet reached the elevator door and pushed the ‘Down’