Three Breaths

by Belle Brooks

  “You’re mad about the position you’re in. We understand why you are, but this won’t help.” Maloney, the voice of reason. “Let us do our job.”

  “A trained monkey could do it better. I’m going to find my daughter, and you’ll have to kill me to stop me.”

  Cuffs swing from Maloney’s finger in a brief second. “Do you want to wear these?”

  Ronald shakes his head as he stumbles to the couch and flops down with what I can only imagine is helplessness, the same feeling constantly plaguing me.

  The clock in the kitchen reads 1:30 a.m., and as I watch the second hand circling the clock face, I listen to the call I took earlier playing through the laptop Dyson was tapping away on not long before Detective West finally showed his face. West has been sitting glued to this piece of equipment as if he’s studying the way it starts since he arrived twenty minutes after the call was taken. Six times so far, West has played the call through, and as soon as it finishes he starts it again. Most times he pauses, rewinds, and then replays it to the end. Not this time. A small segment seems to have caught his attention; I gather this because he fast forwards and then rewinds it only after this snippet plays. Why is he doing this?

  “Drink?” Ronald says in passing.

  “I’m good.” I shift in my seat until I meet his sad eyes.

  “Kylee still hasn’t stopped crying since she came down and went back upstairs before. I don’t know what to tell her.”

  “Tell her Morgan will be okay.” I pause, trying to convince myself this is the truth. “We have to believe she will be. We can’t give up on her.”

  “She’s a fighter,” Ronald says as he walks away from me. There’s a long pause before I hear running water. “So, this person took the money?” he shouts from the kitchen.

  It’s what I’ve told Ronald multiple times, yet he keeps asking.

  “Yep. It’s what the psychopath said.” I hear my annoyance.

  “He’s been in this house.”

  “Yep. It seems so.”

  “Shit! Who are we dealing with here?” Ronald's annoyance is now apparent.

  “A fucking psychopath who when I find him will get his—”

  “Ssssh,” West says.

  Turning my attention to his scowling face, I drop my shoulders and mouth, “Sorry.”

  “I’m going to take this glass of water up to Kylee, and I’ll come back down once I get her settled.” Ronald’s hand brushes my shoulder in passing.

  “Okay,” I whisper, trying not to piss West off any further.

  “I need quiet.” West grunts.

  “Understood.” Ronald disappears up the stairs.

  West plays the call through from the beginning once more. He suddenly jerks his head upright, and the clip stops. “Did you hear that?” West looks to Maloney and then Dyson who sit either side of him.

  “What?” Maloney's eyes widen.

  West presses at some buttons, and then he replays this segment again. “I even have a collection of your photos and home movies too.” The clip stops.

  “There,” West says with satisfaction to his tone. “He’s not British. He’s Australian. The accent is a disguise. Listen.” He replays it again and stops after the word photos. “He did well with the accent, but to me, it’s an Australian pronunciation of this line, with an emphasis on photos … now listen to the word movies.” He plays the next part. “See.”

  “Holy shit.” Maloney's chin drops.

  “It’s not a device he’s using this time; it’s him.”

  “I didn’t hear it until you just pointed it out,” Dyson confirms.

  “We need to forward this to our vocal technicians in Brisbane to run through it, but I’m sure this is an attempt at disguising himself.” West is more than confident. His chest is puffed out, his posture sturdy and towering.

  “Excellent, Astin.” Dyson smiles.

  “Leroy used to do acting before he joined the force. I know he’s supposed to be heading off for holidays today, but from memory, I believe he said he’s not leaving until later this afternoon … if you wanted to get him to come listen.” Maloney pauses. “We both know the techies in Brisbane are snowed under as always. They won’t get to this job straight away.” Maloney shifts from foot to foot. “He could help us in the meantime. You know, be sure.”

  “Leroy?” West hitches one eyebrow, causing the lines around his eyes to crinkle.

  “Yeah. Constable Stratt.”

  “Good call. Max, get him on the phone, and get him here,” West says.

  “Okay,” Maloney stands from the table. He takes long strides towards Morgan’s sitting room before he turns down the hallway and is no longer in my sight.

  “Why does this even matter?” I say, confused.

  “Pardon?” West’s grey eyes connect with mine.

  “I kept him on the line. You know where he is now. The trace.” My shoulders sit by my ears. I’m so tense.

  “We don’t have a trace yet. Reid, this is a rural town; we don’t have this type of technology here. Brisbane needs to set the trace, and we’re waiting for it to be put in place. All the red tape to be cut. It can take up to seventy-two hours. However, we can now record the evidence of these calls should we need them in court.”

  I slam my fist hard into the table. “We don’t have seventy-two hours. You heard the freak; you heard what he has, what he said. He's insane. Morgan will be dead by then.”

  “Reid, the techies have the recording device linked to your phone; we’re getting there. These processes take more time when you live in smaller towns like this.”

  “This is bullshit.” The chair I was sitting in crashes to the floor after I launch myself from it. “No! Now! You need to get it done now.”

  West stares blankly at me. There’s no emotion in his eyes. “You have to trust me.”

  “I don’t trust anyone. Someone has been in my house, in my office, and that someone kidnapped my wife. He’s playing fucking games with us. He’s right, you know. Coppers are nothing but puppets on strings.”

  Morgan

  It takes three attempts to find my feet, but with the aid of a wall, I manage to stand. Swinging my head gingerly from side to side, I scan the room for any way out. I can’t see one. Left, right, up, and down—I continue to search for clues, for anything to help me find freedom. There has to be a way out of here. If he can get in, I can get out.

  I hobble around the small prison space. I scrape my hands manically along the walls, pressing against each of the silver blocks as I come to them. My hope is that one is not as it appears, and it will lead to a secret door, and my escape. So far, each one is just as it seems—a solid concrete block.

  When I come to stand at the silver blocks behind the clawfoot tub, where my head once laid on what appears to be a wooden chock, I contemplate the possibility of drinking some of the water even though leaves float on top. The colouration is an autumn brown. Plenty of dirt and blood contaminate its purity. My thirst is ravenous, so intense that my need now outweighs the disgust. It’s a hesitant approach, but as I come around to the side and bend down, taking the edge of the tub into my grip for support, I’m already relishing the thought of quenching my thirst. Bent over the side, I run the fingers on my right hand through the ice-cold liquid. I need to drink. Cupping my palm, I lower my mouth.

  “Do not drink the water, Red.” His voice booms.

  I jolt, startled.

  “Sit.” His tone is confident and controlled.

  I do. My naked arse rests against the wet and cold concrete. I tuck my legs to the side and cover my exposed breasts with my hands, keeping my eyes turned downwards to my knees.

  “You managed to get out. I shouldn’t be surprised; you’ve always been stubborn.”

  I don’t know this British accent, but I do know him from what he’s shared. How? How do I know him?

  “Did you see the garbage bag I left for you, Red?”

  I bob my head, not daring to look up at the projection screen. I don
’t want to see the man behind the screen.

  “Go and get it.”

  I lean forward and take my weight through my hands and knees, grimacing from the pain, panting through my teeth to avoid the screams that want to explode from between my lips. Anger burns in me like hot bitumen under naked feet in the middle of summer, and I toss my chin back. I growl when I see him covered by the black mask. I gasp when I look into his dull green eyes. I sob when I notice the thick scar that now invades his upper lip.

  He laughs. It’s a menacing laugh. “What’s wrong, Red? Were you expecting somebody else?” His glare chills me, like a cold fog wrapping itself around my body, seeping through my skin until it latches onto my heart. “I can’t exactly make this easy for you now, can I?”

  His eyes aren’t blue anymore; they’re green. Why are they green?

  I drop my head. The wolf is playing games. He likes to play games. Am I being faced with a man who likes to play dress-up? Or am I up against more than one wolf? I refuse to believe there is more than one of him torturing me. I refuse to accept that he has an accomplice. Why would two people be so cruel, so malice, and want payback? How could I have pissed off more than one person?

  The hairs on the back of my neck have risen. My skin’s covered in goosebumps, and my heart is pumping excessively in my chest, the way it does when he’s near. The wolf has to be a loner. He’s working alone, isn’t he?

  “You are going to pay for what you’ve done.” It’s what he’s said. I lift my head and glare into his dull green eyes. I search them, wondering if this shade is real or an illusion. Is this part of his next trick?

  I won’t let him fool me again. Yesterday, the wolf had me name Reid as my kidnapper. I believe he wanted to see if I could or would name Reid to be such a monster, and he succeeded, because I did. Another trap, and I fell for it like a mouse chasing baited cheese. He set me up to answer the way I did. The photograph in the cave. The colour blue of his eyes. The perfect shape of his lips. The wolf is wearing many disguises, but which one holds his true identity? I need to figure this out, fast.

  “Who am I, Red?”

  “An arsehole.” It’s a rumbled deliverance from my chest.

  “Who am I, Red?”

  “A monster.” I’m mad.

  He heckles. “Who am I, Red?”

  “A sheep.”

  “Who am I, Red?”

  This time, I pause. I allow all the anger inside me to build until I know I’m expressing every ounce of hate I have for my captor in my eyes. “A dead man.”

  I don’t even blink.

  His lips curl upwards, and then he laughs. “Are you ready to play again?”

  “I was born ready.” Strength is the key to winning. I need to show him my power, and not the vulnerability that leaks from me.

  “Well, get the bag and get dressed, because today will be your last.”

  “Or your last. I can play games too.” I’m enraged.

  “Now this is a side of you, I’ve seen before. I didn’t think you had it in you anymore.”

  “Ha.” I stare him down without a single clue as to who it is that has me. “And now I know who you are. Would you like to ask me your question again?”

  He seems shocked by my disclaimer because his smug smile disappears as his eyes grow wide, so wide I can no longer see his long lashes below his mask.

  “Well. Ask me again?”

  “You have no idea who I am.”

  I force a smile.

  “Get dressed,” he barks, then the projection screen goes blank.

  Crawling in the direction of where his image was, I wonder if he’s worried there's a possibility I’ve uncovered his identity as I claimed, or if he called my bluff with ease. I’ve no idea who the wolf is, but I needed to try something to rattle him. I need time to figure out the wolf, or possibly wolves’, identities, even though a small voice in the back of my head keeps whispering, ‘Who cares who he is? He’s going to kill you regardless of whether you’re right or wrong. Just find a way to escape him.’ Can I escape him?

  Taking the garbage bag, I drag it along the ground until I reach the corner of the room. I twist slowly, pressing my back against the foundation and close my eyes. One shallow breath is all I manage to take as I proceed to lift the bag.

  Ting.

  What was that noise? My eyes shoot open.

  “Holy shit!” I say under my breath, turning my eyes down. I instantly drop the garbage bag. The wolf fucked up; he must have. I have a weapon, and I’ll not hesitate to use it.

  The wolf

  I pace between the bed and the television, set up not far from its end. Morgan has no fucking clue who I am. Bitch is trying to rile me up, and I won’t let her get under my skin. On occasion, I’ve allowed her to do that … fucking whore. Lines of red lipstick, lipstick owned by Daisy Malone, mark my wall with names. I stalk this list of bitches before placing both my hands on either side. Anger brews inside me. I swing back my leg and let out a primal howl.

  Bang!

  One powerful kick sees the plaster torn apart, and my foot buried deep in a hole I’ve created in the fibro.

  “Shit,” I snarl as I twist at my ankle and rip my foot backwards. I huff when I bend down to retrieve my shoe left behind.

  Thirteen useless slags and Morgan is the one I hate the most. She’s the devil disguised in angel’s clothing. She’s the last piece of fruit left to mould in a discarded fruit bowl. Morgan Banks is a storm hell-bent on destroying every single life which comes into her path. I want her dead.

  Sitting down on my bed, I keep my eyes planted on my list as I undo the laces of my boot so that I can slip it back on.

  Daisy Malone

  Cheryl Riddell

  Donna Martin

  Sarah Pilcher

  Christina Monroe

  Elizabeth Shanks

  Lillian Catcher

  Alethia Warren

  Stacey Seymore-Beth

  Octavia Legend

  Anastasia Daughtry

  Katy Hodges

  Morgan Banks

  My trophies. Morgan is the only one I’ve not finished with yet. Each kill calculated and performed to perfection. Each kill used as practice for this moment, the one I’ve been waiting for for the last five years. I’ve never felt as alive as I do when I watch the life drain out of a woman’s eyes. It’s all in the eyes. The way they open wide due to a shock they’ve never experienced before. The way they plead. The tears that stain the tender skin surrounding their lashes. Eyes search for help and beg for mercy, but then a glimmer of fight widens the iris’ before surrender catches up, shrinking them … death is finally accepted.

  This sequence never leaves me. This final moment washes over my body and brings with it immortality. I’m left feeling strong, so dominant I could lift mountains, create tidal waves, and produce catastrophic storms upon mere mortals. I become a god.

  The thirst that grows to the point of unbearable as my game plays out is automatically quenched once these bitches no longer breathe. And after my heartbeat slows, and I catch my breath, I sit quietly in nature, slicing away the fingertips of these women who have brought me pain. I relax to the point I feel weightless … It’s a meditative calm. A woman’s touch is all she really owns in her life, and it’s the last thing I need to take before I can prepare to hunt all over again.

  But even though there are no names left on my list, I know it’s not over. I won’t be able to stop after I take Morgan’s life, like I promised myself I would, because I’m forever hungered for immortality, and I’m forever in need of the hunt.

  Morgan no longer appears as the broken doll she did the last time I locked her in this room. She’s still battered, grazed, gashed, cut, and bruised, but now she’s cleaned from the elements that hitchhiked on her extremities, and from the dry blood that was staining her skin.

  The colour red has always been such a good match against Morgan’s pale complexion. It's one she’s often worn throughout the years. I watch as she lim
ps around the room in the short underwear and tight white fitted tank top I exchanged her clothing with, and as I do, I exhale my satisfaction. Every single one of my players, bar my first, has worn this uniform to their death. They need to know they’re my property, and this is the reason ‘Property of The Wolf’ is on the breast of each top, written in the colour red.

  My game plan is flawless.

  The backpack I put together for Morgan is now out of the garbage bag and laying in the middle of the floor. I’m puzzled by this because every other player who has stood where Morgan is now has clutched this bag as if their life depended on it. Not Morgan though.

  What is she doing?

  Her arse becomes my view as she bends over at the tub. I switch the camera directly to the opposite side of the room to find Morgan slurping from her cupped hand. Her thirst must be extreme to drink such filth. She’s the first one of my Reds to do so.

  The watch wrapped around my wrist begins to alarm at the pre-set time of 2:45 a.m. It’s time for Morgan's next test. Only three players have made it past nightfall on this day, and I hope Morgan can make it a fourth, but I’m not holding out hope; not after inspecting her this morning. She’s quite damaged.

  She will fall. She will scream. She will have to navigate the dark.

  Payback can be such a bitch.

  Morgan

  The water tastes metallic and earthy as I slurp from my cupped hands—a necessary distraction. I know the wolf is watching me and I need to find somewhere to hide the pair of long-handled surgical scissors I’m trying hard not to stab my lip with as I protect them in my palms against my lips. Where do I put them? How do I get them out of here without him seeing?

  The outfit left for me to clothe myself with leaves little room for hiding my find, and trying to get them into the plastic bag, or the backpack will be difficult if his eyes are focused on my actions. He’s always watching me. That’s what he said. My mind is fuzzy, my heart pumps painfully, and as I stay hunched over the clawfoot tub, I begin to shake.