Three Breaths (The Game of Life Novella Series Book 3) Page 4

  Rattle, rattle, rattle.

  A sound resembling that of a rusty old chain being shaken comes from below. It’s him. I twist awkwardly and dart across the room to cover floor space, and fast. My beaten body manages to stay upright until I drop to the cold concrete in front of the backpack. The only chance to discard the scissors is now.

  I rip open the zipper and dump the scissors inside making sure to scrunch the two pieces of material together in my trembling fist. Morgan. Calm down. Zip up the bag. I’m not sure if it’s due to my wet hands or the fright shooting through every part of my body, but sealing the bag proves difficult.

  Come on, Morgan. Get it together. You can do this.

  Clunk.

  Screech.

  I drop my head and shoulders and use my now damp hair as a shield. Please do up. I’m petrified. With my teeth gritted and my determination reaching fever pitch, I hear the zip sliding across its tracks until I listen to it no more.

  Thud!

  One, two footsteps, and then there’s silence.

  I jump when pressure applies to the tip of my shoulder.

  “What are you doing, Red?” The room fills with the smell of bubble gum, and my stomach instantly rumbles.

  He’s here, in the room with me. He enters below the floor, but how? The flooring is concrete. That’s impossible.

  “Morgan.” He pinches me.

  I jump. “Nothing,” I whimper.

  “Time to go. Get up.” His British accent is no more; he speaks as he did on the night he took me. My head is yanked back by my hair, and I yelp. “Look at me.”

  I do, only to be faced with the same green eyes I saw through the projection screen. What does this mean? Why aren’t his eyes blue? Where did the accent go? “I don’t understand.”

  “You’re not supposed to understand, Red. That’s the point.” His lips purse. “I thought you knew who I was?”

  “I … I …I … do. I know … know … who … I’m n … no …not,” I stutter.

  “Bullshit.” He laughs. “Are you ready to kill me now?” He pulls my hair harder.

  “Yes.” It’s barely audible.

  “Okay then. Shall we get started? After all, it’s your funeral.”

  I don’t want to play. I want to go home, and now I regret putting those darn scissors into the backpack and not keeping them in my hand where I could use them to plunge deep into his stupid neck.

  I’m on tiptoes that barely touch the ground. The wolf has lifted me by my arm into the air, like a weightless ragdoll. “Against the wall,” he commands.

  I want to kick, bite, scratch, punch, and break this man, but I can’t. I’m weak in body, and I’m not sure what the fuck my mind is doing. I go between feeling heroic and vulnerable, like a yo-yo.

  “I want your hands against the wall, legs spread.” He delivers his instructions with an eerie calm. “I’m going to let your arm go now.”

  He releases his grip immediately, and I fall into a heaped mess on the floor. I couldn’t even stay upright.

  “Red, I don’t have all day. Places to be, people to see, and all that shit. Don’t make me throw you up against it.”

  “I’m trying,” I cry out, walking my fingers across the concrete to the backpack still sitting where it fell from my grasp when he ripped me up off the ground. I can’t reach it.

  “One … two … three … four. If I get to ten, I’ll strangle you where you sit.”

  “I’m moving,” I yell arching my back and positioning myself on hands and knees.

  “Faster,” he snaps.

  Every time my kneecaps press against the ground, I yelp. Every time I reach out my hand to move forward once more, I cry. “Arrrrrrrgh. Why? Why?” It’s a forced and painful deliverance from my tongue.

  “You’re waving your arse in the air like a two-bit hooker, and ...” He stops speaking.

  Whack. My tailbone feels as though it’s been shoved through my spinal column, coming to rest like an unused slinky in the back of my neck. My breath catches in my throat, and my stomach convulses until I vomit, the bile landing in my hair splayed out in front of me.

  “And I just got you clean. What a waste of time.”

  “Just kill me.” I’m motionless as I moan.

  “Dramatics? Now, this is the Morgan I know.” I swear if I could see his face, his eyes would be rolling over, judging from his tone. “Get up, you bitch.” He yanks me from the ground. I scream as my body smashes hard into the blocks.

  “Take my life you fucker,” I groan as I’m held in place by his muscled hand at my back.

  “You have problems with orders, Red," he says, repositioning my limbs. My arms are now held high above my head, and my legs spread open, kicked apart by his boots. “There. Now you’re submitted like I need you to be.”

  I’m not sure how I manage to stay upright and in position, but I do. Every moan through parted lips spells out my agony and speaks of the horror I’m experiencing at the wolf's hands, which are now roaming my body ... frisking me. All he needs to say is, ‘You’re under arrest because you’ve been a really bad girl,’ for his actions to make sense. The only time I’ve ever been in this position was on my hen’s night with the stripper Linda hired for the event. I saw a glimpse of the stripper as he arrived, and heard the squeals of the horny women who surrounded him instantly like they were raving in a mosh pit. I had no idea he was coming towards me before my breasts pressed hard against the wall and I was held there, his hot breath on my neck. I smelt the distinct bubble gum flavouring escaping his lips.

  Bubble gum. Holy shit. He’s the wolf. Cullum Williams is the wolf.

  I picture him as he ground against me at my hen’s party and cheers filled the room. The cheers of my friends. He spoke. Every alarm rang loud, telling me to run. Goosebumps covered my entire body as I twisted myself out of his grip. My eyes found his. I gasped as the ghost from my past towered over me. I fled to the safety of the amenities.

  Cullum Williams was the same fit, muscular prick who also attended my high school with me when I was younger? The same man who once pinned me painfully against a wall in the girl’s bathroom at school and ran his hand up my thigh, continuing to trace his fingers under the hem of my skirt until he had me spilling tears. Cullum Williams from Williams Entertainment and Escort Services. I’ve never allowed myself to forget his name, or the feeling of his callused hands scratching at my skin, or the smell of his bubble gum breath coating my lips, or even the look of delight dancing in his large green eyes when fear shot through me like a cannon, lit and fired.

  Holy shit! It’s him.

  “I’m not sure what you’re up to, but I know you well enough to know you’re up to something.” His hot bubble gum breath rushes across my cheek.

  I know who the wolf is.

  “Get off me,” I scream bucking my head.

  “Sleep tight, Red.”

  I’m dazed and confused. My head bobs from side to side, smacking against something taut, yet not restrictive. Digging my fingers in to gauge what I’m up against doesn’t help, so I slap wildly in the hope I can at least figure out what’s happening. Why am I moving? I try to open my eyes, but they part only halfway. Everything is dark. I can’t see. Raising my hands to my face, I feel the strip of thick material where my eyes should be. What’s happening? Where am I? I drop my hands and realise they fall above my head and not down by my sides like they should. I’m upside down. I slap wildly once more.

  An eerie whistle dances around me as I continue my wild assault. “Help! Help me!” I whine.

  The sound of booming laughter halts the whistling. “Just in time, Red. Welcome back. You know what? I'm getting so accurate with the measurement of these drugs I keep giving you, I even impress myself.”

  I hear flesh being slapped before I feel the sting racing up my spine.

  “Oh fuck,” I gripe.

  “If your arse wasn’t already sore enough, that’ll get you there. Now, shut the fuck up, will you, and quit slapping my legs. Put
it this way—if you don’t hit me, I won’t hit you back.” His tone is dry.

  His legs?

  My pulse beats in my head like a drum’s solo performance, and it’s hitting so loud and fast it’s almost deafening. “Stop the noise,” I plead.

  Suddenly, there’s no more bobbing or bouncing. There’s only a constant pulse darting between my ears.

  “We’re here," he proclaims.

  Dizziness overcomes me to the point where I believe I’ve lost my bearings. I’ve no idea if I’m flipping, falling or being flung around in circles. All I know is I’m out of control.

  “How’s the blood flowing to that brain of yours?” I hear him sniff. “You’ve been upside down a while, I bet your spinning around now you’re the right way up.” He’s holding me in an embrace. His chest is pressed to mine. His bubble gum breath skims my lips. His hands are on my back.

  “Let me go.” Panic.

  “Sure.” He snickers when I fall flat on my arse. “Always so fucking stubborn, Morgan. Maybe you should have worked on this stubbornness of yours over the years.”

  “You don’t know me.” I cringe, trying to focus my vision on something that doesn’t look black.

  “Yeah, I do. Now, up you come.”

  My arms feel as if they’re ripping from their sockets. “Stop, you’re hurting me.” Silence. “Why? Why are you doing this to me?”

  “I told you, it’s because you deserve it. Think, Morgan. What could you have done to deserve such treatment?”

  “I don’t know.” It’s a frustrated cry. I don’t know what I ever did to Cullum to cause him to bully me as he did back at school, or now. Cullum did many unforgivable things to me, things I never spoke of to a single person, not even Linda, due to the embarrassment it caused.

  “You better hold on to this tightly.” Something runs up both my arms before I experience three hard pats against my chest. “If you lose the backpack, it’s because you didn’t hold on tight enough.”

  “What?” I yell as I feel my body shift in a half circle before I’m nudged from my lower back.

  I fall. I’m falling. I’m weightless as I kick my legs. I’m frightened as I wrap my arms around my chest.

  I scream out for my life.

  Reid

  Hours have passed, yet it’s still dark outside. I don’t think this night will ever end, just as much as I don’t believe this nightmare I’m living will conclude with the outcome I'm praying for—Morgan home safe and unhurt.

  West tries to discuss the phone tracing situation with me, but I’m not interested. Nothing he says will be able to explain the department’s incompetence. I bet I could locate a hacker who could do the job faster than these dipshits who call themselves ‘men of the law’. Maybe this is what I need to do—enlist a criminal to help me find a criminal … a psychopathic one at that. Where would I even start looking? Do I know anyone?

  My phone chimes in my hand, snapping me from my thoughts.

  John: Hey boy, how're things going over there? Is there any updated news on Morgan?

  I wish I could tell John what's happening. But I can’t. I don't know how to tell him that the wife-thieving bastard has rung again, and how after taking his call I’ve come to think Morgan's abductor has eyes on everything we’re doing inside this house. I need proof. I wish I could tell John that I was starting to put together my theory, a theory which leads me to believe someone working this case is behind Morgan’s abduction, somehow … even someone as high up as West. I can’t share any of this with John, because what if I’m wrong? I need proof. Could it be West, though? Or his partner Gleaton? Maybe they’re both in on this together. Where’s that prick Gleaton anyway? Why isn’t he here?

  I rub my face with my free hand, trying to make sense of my thoughts. Morgan is missing; this is a fact. But where is she? Who has her? Maybe I need a whiteboard where I can pin pictures of those I suspect on display to help wrap my mind around each possibility. I could perform a process of elimination like they do on those cop shows to find her captor. I bet West has a board, and I’ll put my equity, hell, my entire livelihood on the fact that my face is pinned as their number-one suspect.

  My phone chimes.

  Turning my eyes downward, I’m surprised to see a message from Linda. I was expecting it to be another from John.

  Linda: Reid, I have information. Are they tracking your incoming and outcoming calls? Your text messages?

  Information? What information?

  Me: What information?

  Linda: Can they see these messages or not? The cops?

  I stand slyly and look towards West, Maloney, and Dyson, who are busily working away on differing gadgets at the dining room table. I eye the staircase, deciding it’s best to call Linda, but from somewhere I can’t be heard by them. A simple twist on my heel has me creeping to the stairs.

  “Can I help you with something?” Prospect towers over me from the second step. His red hair is mussed, the corners of his eyes drawn downwards.

  “Ummm. Nope. Going to use the bathroom and freshen up.” Which direction had Prospect come from? He wasn’t on the stairs when I’d scanned them before.

  Prospect shimmies to the side and gestures with his hand for me to pass.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  That copper gives me the heebie jeebies. Where was Prospect when the call came in this morning? Where has he been since? Prospect’s like a nightwalker whose footsteps bear no sound. Whose presence is only known when he’s right in front of your nose and not before. I need answers, and I need to pin Prospect’s face on my suspect board.

  Pressing my chin against my collarbone, I try to sneak a peek behind me to see if Prospect’s still standing on the step, but I can’t see him. I can’t see much from this position at all.

  Keep walking. Forget about Prospect for now and call Linda.

  I don’t bump into Ronald or Kylee when I enter the hallway, which has me relieved. I pause by Aleeha’s closed door, hovering my hand over the top of her pink-painted name on to the wood, and think of Ronald and the same questions he asks of me every time he enters the room, as I’m about to enter. I’m worried about Ronald. Hell, I’m afraid for all of us. If Ronald doesn’t get even the smallest bit of reassuring news soon I fear he’ll turn into a bomb and explode shrapnel in every direction he faces. I’ve no comforting news to deliver to this man because I’ve no clue how to bring Morgan home. I’m useless. I’m sick of feeling so fucking useless.

  Leaning my forehead against the door, I think of Kylee and the weeping mess she appeared earlier. Her slumped posture and sunken eyes told me all her hope is failing. Her closed fist scrunching the material of her shirt over her chest screamed of the ache her heart was undergoing. Her rapid and falling tears were those you know could never fall hard enough to wash away a soul-crushing pain. Kylee’s tortured by the loss of her daughter, and she’s no help now. Not to me, not to anybody.

  “Hang in there. You need to hang in there,” I mouth so as not to be heard, but to remind myself that I too need to hang in there.

  I reach my destination, the master bedroom, and carefully tiptoe through the small gap the door creates before closing it quietly so as to minimise sound.

  My phone chimes.

  “Shit!” I whisper, fumbling the phone in my hand, desperate to mute the volume. Muted. I need privacy right now.

  Linda: Are they tracing your God damn phone, Reid?

  I press the phone image besides Linda’s name in the open message.

  Ring, ring.

  “Hi, you’ve reached Linda. I’m currently out of the office until further notice. Thank you.”

  She’s changed her outgoing message.

  My mobile phone vibrates.

  Linda: Don’t ring me. Just answer my question.

  Me: I’m not being tracked, no. What’s going on?

  Linda: Trust nobody.

  Me: What do you know? Where are you? Why did you leave the house so quickly?

  Linda: Invest
igating. I’ve been seeing someone. He’s a cop. He attended Morgan’s crime scene and volunteered himself for the searches they’ve been doing. I have intel.

  I’m shocked. Why has Linda kept this from me? Did she tell West or Gleaton about this cop? And by seeing, does she mean romantically, or are they friends?

  Me: Seeing? As in dating this cop?

  Linda: Yes. For a little while now. Morgan didn’t know either. I wanted to keep it on the down-low.

  Me: Were you seeing him when we, you know, on the business trip?”

  Linda: Yeah, I was. Kinda.

  Kinda. How do you kinda see someone? Either you are, or you aren't. Why didn’t she tell Morgan about him?

  Me: Is this cop there with you now?

  Linda: Yep.

  Me: Ask him about a tall, lanky red-headed cop, last name Prospect, first name Eric.

  I sit on the edge of the bed and wait for a reply. The screen flashes.

  Linda: Dodgy. His record isn’t clean. Eric Prospect has had multiple disciplinary actions in the past. Stay away from him.

  My mind is spinning.

  Me: What is this boyfriend saying about Morgan? What does he know?

  Linda: Reid, what they're telling us is not everything they know. They’re keeping things from us.

  Shit! I suspected as much.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  “Reid. Are you in there?”

  Shit! West.

  Me: West is knocking on the bedroom door. I have to go. Come to the house and bring your copper friend with you.