Free Voices (Whisper Trilogy Book 3) by Michael Bray Page A

father’s space, and unlike the rest of the house, was clean and pristine. Cold and clinical, even. Spotless concrete floor, a rack of gleaming spanners on one wall, a workbench neatly organized against the other. The car was, of course, gone, and would be until his father finished work at the bar, busting heads at the door if anyone got rowdy. Alex absently wondered if he would still store his pickup truck in the garage afterwards. Quickly following that thought was another which said it didn’t matter.
    He crossed the room to the workbench, moving aside the blue plastic drawers separated into compartments that contained all manner of nails and screws. What he wanted was at the back, hidden from sight.
    The cigar box looked alien somehow, its yellow illustrations ill-fitting with the clean efficiency of the rest of the garage. Alex knew what it contained was as cold and clinical as the rest of his father’s possessions. He flicked open the lid, revealing the handgun inside. Underneath it were photographs of his mother. He slid the first picture out. The colors were faded, but the image was still clear. It appeared that Alex’s father had taken it. In the photo, his mother sat on a beach, feet buried in the sand, sun hat perched on her head. She was smiling for the camera. Alex was astounded by how happy she looked. He couldn’t remember much about her, apart from the times at the end when his parents were barely on speaking terms. It made him sad, and as if it were waiting for the right moment of weakness, the thing in his head spoke, reminding him that he was doing the right thing. That it would be better all round if he were dead. For reasons he couldn’t explain, he folded the photograph and slipped it into his pocket, then turned his attention to the gun.
    It was a .38 that his father had purchased some ten years earlier and had never used. Alex wondered if he even remembered he owned it. He took it out of the box, surprised at the weight in his hand. It felt awkward, uncomfortable even, but incredibly real. The thing in his head guided him through, instructing him on how to load the weapon, how to ensure the safety was off. He followed its lead, doing as he was advised without thinking what the result would be, what it would mean when everything was ready. He disengaged the safety, and stood in the silence, weapon at his side, listening to the house. Apart from the hum of the striplight, there was absolute silence.
    Kill the cunt.

    It was a command, an instruction delivered to him that left no course for argument or negotiation. On legs that were out of his control, he walked silently back through the kitchen, and stopped at the head of the sofa where the dirty, snoring form of his stepmother slept. With absolute calm, he held out the weapon, touching cool steel to her temple, his finger poised over the trigger. It would be so easy, such a simple thing to do. Certainly, it would be better for his father.
    Just pull the trigger. Go out in a blaze of glory.

    Alex drew breath and pulled away. It wasn’t his idea at all, but the idea of the thing in his head; the tumorous mass which had festered and grown there since he’d first been exposed to it at the clearing in Oakwell forest.
    Yes .
    It was definitely time to do what he had to in order to ensure he remained in control. With an extraordinary effort, he retreated toward the garage, longing for the cool, clean order of it all, desperate to be away from this woman who had been trouble since day one. Back in the sterile space, he closed his eyes and counted back from twenty, each number banishing something from his mind. When he got to one, he felt better, more in control. He opened his eyes, horrified to find that he had wedged the gun into his mouth without realizing he was doing it. It was behind his front teeth, digging into his palate, angled toward his brain. The thing in his head was delighted, filling his mind with visions of brain matter splashing all