Page 25 of In Her Bed
Her voice possessed a quality that Derrick’s had lacked—a certain harmonic that vibrated against something deep within his consciousness.When she hit certain notes, he could almost hear it: fragments of the message he sought, peeking through the static of ordinary existence.
The highway stretched before him, an arrow pointing toward his next experiment.
He remembered the first time he’d heard Derrick’s voice crackling through his ham radio set.It had been a cold night in early spring, the kind where frost forms intricate patterns on windowpanes.He’d been scanning frequencies, searching for interesting chatter, when the distinctive call sign had caught his attention.
The voice had a resonance that triggered something in his brain—a pattern recognition that felt like destiny.He’d listened for hours as Derrick rambled about government conspiracies and the dangers of modern electronics.
What had followed was weeks of methodical tracking.Ham radio enthusiasts were cautious about revealing their identities, but Derrick had made mistakes.References to local landmarks.Complaints about specific stores.Mention of a recent purchase at an estate sale.
Pieces of a puzzle, assembled with patience.
The estate sale had been the final clue—Howard Mitchell’s collection, advertised in forums frequented by technology enthusiasts and collectors.He’d arrived early, watching from his car as a bearded man matching the voice pattern he’d memorized shuffled through the entrance.
Marcus Derrick.No longer just a disembodied voice on the airwaves.
Sandra Reeves’ voice shifted to a lower register in the recording playing through his speakers, pulling him back to the present.The coincidence still amazed him—seeing her there at the same estate sale, caressing an antique phonograph with reverent familiarity.
He’d recognized her immediately from album covers, though time had softened her features and added dignified streaks of silver to her once-dark hair.But it wasn’t her appearance that had captured his attention.
It was her voice.
She’d been discussing the phonograph with the seller, explaining how she planned to use it in her recording studio.The cadence of her speech, the way certain syllables resonated—it had struck him with the force of revelation.
In that moment, as sunlight streamed through dusty windows and glinted off brass fittings, he’d known she would be next.
The highway curved, and he followed it carefully.Night had fully descended now, the darkness broken only by his headlights and the occasional glow of passing vehicles.
His anticipation grew with each mile.Sandra Reeves would be different.Her body—positioned correctly, prepared with the right conductive patterns—would capture the wavelength he sought.She would be the antenna that Derrick had failed to become.
Tonight, he would begin the process.Observation first.Learning her routines, her vulnerabilities.The preparation was as important as the act itself.
But even as he planned his approach to Sandra, a part of his mind was already considering contingencies.If she, too, failed to resonate with the signal, he wouldn’t despair.He had others on his list, carefully compiled based on vocal qualities that might serve his purpose.
The sound engineer whose voice had a perfect pitch that caused wine glasses to vibrate slightly when he spoke.The radio DJ whose late-night program had a loyal following drawn to his sonorous tones.The choir director whose ability to hit certain frequencies seemed almost supernatural.Each marked as potential vessels.Potential antennas for the message he was certain was being broadcast continuously, just beyond normal perception.
But what if all of them failed?He could think of only one person who could help him—the woman who was once known as the “Midnight Voice,” the enlightened soul from whom he had learned that there was a cosmic voice out there that needed to be heard and understood.She heard what he couldn’t hear in the chaos of the airwaves, and she knew the meaning of the message.But all those years ago, when he’d asked her to tell him what it was, she’d deemed him unworthy, and he’d accepted her assessment with shame.
He’d lived with his shame for years until he couldn’t bear it anymore, and decided he would become one of the worthy ones, even if it cost other people’s lives.To this end, he’d reestablished his connection with the Midnight Voice—but he’d only spoken to her on the phone, and deceptively at that, calling himself “Zephyr” and keeping his true identity from her, which caused him further shame.If he were to reveal himself to her, would she offer him the help she had denied him all those years ago?
No, he thought with a sigh, she wouldn’t.She’d turn away from him again.And that would be a crushing blow from which he could never recover.
Headlights from oncoming traffic briefly illuminated his face in rhythmic pulses.The light revealed eyes focused on some point beyond the visible horizon, lips moving slightly in silent calculation.
In his mind, what he was doing wasn’t murder.It was research.Investigation.The casualties were regrettable but necessary steps toward a truth greater than individual lives.
He turned off the main highway onto a less-traveled road.Sandra’s recording studio, Melody Forge, was located on the outskirts of Pinecrest, nestled between aging warehouses that provided both privacy and the acoustics she prized.
According to his research, she often worked late into the night.Alone.
The perfect conditions for his first observation session.
His car slowed as he approached the area, headlights dimming to avoid announcing his presence.He would park several blocks away and proceed on foot, just as he had done with Derrick.
The anticipation coursing through him wasn’t the base excitement of a common predator.It was the measured enthusiasm of a scientist on the verge of breakthrough, a scholar about to translate a previously indecipherable text.
Sandra Reeves might be the key—the perfect conduit for the signal that haunted the edges of his perception.And if not her, then the next subject, or the one after that.
He would continue until he found the right frequency, the right vessel.The message would be received, the signal clarified.But if Sandra wasn’t the one, or the one after that, he was going to resort to measures that he didn’t wish to pursue.He would have to go after the Midnight Voice herself.
