Three Breaths

by Belle Brooks

  Linda: Delete these messages.

  I throw the phone onto the bed and race into the bathroom, pull my T-shirt over my head, and discard it to the floor. A dab of toothpaste coats the bristles on my toothbrush before I shove it in my mouth and seal my lips around it. “Shit!” I mumble, turning the tap on to a dribble, using the water to splash my face. “Coming.” It’s a muffled call. I breathe a long drawn-out breath through my nose. Get it together, Reid.

  Attempting my best casual stroll to appear more relaxed, I reach the door and open it a crack. It widens just enough for me to see West and for him to hopefully see the water droplets still sliding down my face, the toothbrush poking out the corner of my mouth, and the fact I’m currently shirtless.

  West furrows his brows. “Are you going to be long?”

  “No. Just freshening up.” I suck back the toothpaste about to dribble from my lip down my chin.

  “Okay.” The way he looks at me tells me he doesn’t believe my little charade. “I’ll wait here for you.”

  I shrug. “If you must.”

  Am I paranoid? Or can I smell a rat? A rat who’s inside my house.

  A rat who's responsible for the disappearance of my wife.

  Morgan

  Frigid water sucks me under and folds me in. My entry causes a shock that steals my breath and sends my limbs lame. Everything around me is as black as a raven’s feather, and I’m not sure if it’s just because the blindfold remains in place or if I’ve sunken so deep, no light can pass through. I must find the surface and then a shoreline.

  Swim, Morgan.

  I do. With courage.

  There’s a strong pulling sensation that sucks me down and as it does the blindfold slips from my head. My eyes are wide as I fight the harsh suction. It's so rigorous that my limbs struggle to propel me through the water, but I refuse to give up because I can’t drown. I can’t die like this. My muscles burn, and no matter how hard I try to push past the pain, I can’t. I’m battling a whirlpool much stronger than any rip I’ve ever been dragged into before, and the more I fight, the more air I lose. I stop fighting and relax my limbs in the same way I would if I found danger in the surf.

  Conserve.

  Hope.

  Pray.

  Swim.

  It’s all I can do.

  I’m suddenly weightless as if many hands press me upwards, guiding me to safety. I whip my head below the water, searching for the source of the aid being afforded me, but nobody is with me, and then I’m laid on my back, floating. One harsh suck of air has my lungs inflated, and I don’t splutter or cough, which is odd for how close to airless I’d become. Instead, I roll onto my stomach and swim like my life is depending on me doing so. My life is depending on it. I’ve no idea which way to steer myself; I’ve no idea where I am, and when I rotate my arms over and over, until it feels like I complete the motion for the millionth time, I find myself raking my fingertips into an earthy surface.

  “Oh, lord.” I’m trembling when I manage to tow myself from the water. I puff excessively in between each cry I make due to overwhelming despair. I’m weeping like a lost child, fearful and in danger.

  Where am I? Why is it pitch black?

  Running my hands over my eyes has my eyelashes folding with the movement. I stare into complete darkness that causes me to shudder. I’m wet, still shivering, and completely scared out of my wits.

  Seated on what feels to be a mound of sorts, I tilt my chin upwards and search for light, a familiar object, or a landmark that might aid me in gauging my current position. There’s nothing until a half crescent moon pops up out of nowhere. This moon offers a guide. I can’t shift my eyes away, not for a second, because what if I lose sight of it? What if it disappears in the same fashion I did … without warning and entirely unaware? The risk of its loss is far too significant, so I sit fixated on the crescent shape hovering above me.

  A loud ear-splitting scream explodes from my mouth as something slithers over my arm and across my waist. I already know it’s a snake without having to search for it. Instinctively, I grab the scaly critter from my body with desperation and peg it away from me.

  “Shit! Ewww! Yuck!” I leap upwards, squealing.

  By far, this is the worst start to one of the wolf’s game so far. I slump to the ground, heaped in fatigue. No more tears build, even though I wish I could howl inconsolably to release the stress pent up inside of me. The adrenaline that is now pulsing throughout my body brings with it the wakeup call I need. I can’t continue to sit here. I need to move.

  I crawl as far as I can either way, but the darkness the night brings makes seeing which way to go impossible, that is until the moon almost transforms into a rising sun, and daylight is only a whisker away.

  I must find a way out.

  Grey. The colour grey is what I’m met with when I turn in a circle on my bottom. Every direction I look has boulders circling me. There’s so many of them they create a vertical cobblestone structure. There’s not a tree shooting from the ground in sight, only branches poking out from between the boulders stacked tall. The backpack that was in the wolf’s prison with me, however, lays on the ground within arm’s reach. I grunt as I outstretch my arm and pull it to my stomach.

  As I shift my attention to further along the ground, I tremble when I see many circular white pipes, exposed in parts throughout rich brown dirt, that leads into a pool of calm murky water … murky water which starts where the soil ends on every side. I flick my eyes across from where I’m sitting, only to gasp at the sight of a huge metal box, taller than I’d stand, wider than I am, with more pipes coming out of it. I don’t understand what I’m seeing, but something tells me this is a place the wolf has created as part of his game.

  The only way out of here is up. There’s not enough room to walk around the water’s edge because some parts of the dirt disappear where the rock face enters the ground and the water starts. And I’m not re-entering that pool just to explore the other side.

  Round, thick sarsens become my latest challenge, and although it takes every bit of energy I have, I manage to work up the courage to begin the climb needed to get out of the wolf’s trap.

  The first time I reach my arms up and grip onto a surface that I think can hold my weight, I fall. The rock is not a rock at all; it’s putty in my hands as it crumbles into dust.

  Come on, Morgan. Find a path out of here.

  I step back and search the structure towering in front of me. Left, right, centre. Left, right, centre. It’s like searching through a series of mazes. Each path I choose ends in a place where I could fall to my death, but I keep searching.

  I continue my mental process of elimination. Not that path. Or that one. My eyes widen. My shoulders pull back the moment I locate a possible route. It’s as clear as day, mapped in my mind when I again reach my arms upwards and take hold of a small smooth surface the boulder creates. Groaning through my gritted teeth, I pull my leg up behind my arm, my trek underway. I can do this.

  Each yank of my body becomes more difficult than the last. My muscles burn. My legs shake, and my balance falters. I throw my hand out, gripping the top of a jagged rock and lose my footing. Warm liquid rushes down my inner arm, and I don’t have to look to know it’s my blood ... the sting from my sweat entering the open wound is knowledge enough.

  Fuck!

  Darting my eyes to the ground and then upwards, I realise I’ve not much farther to go, so I push myself until a final forced growl explodes from my mouth and I launch my body forwards and slide the length of my torso over the edge, scrimmaging with the backpack as it falls off one shoulder and swings around my neck.

  “I did it,” I puff, falling onto my back, cuddling the backpack tight to my chest. A flood of emotion rockets through me: happiness, relief, fear, sadness … they all mix into one overwhelming mass, and I’m not sure if I want to scream out my relief, cry until there are no more tears left to cry, or curl up into the foetal position and sleep …

&nb
sp; The need for rest is something I struggle with as my eyelids grow heavy, and my eyes itch with irritation. I’d give my right arm to sleep right now, even just for ten minutes, but I wouldn’t give my life to sleep, and if I lie here and do so it will be the end of my life. The wolf has proven time and time again that he is the hunter because that’s what wolves do—they hunt. And I’m his bait because that’s what lambs are for—they exist as prey. Get up, Morgan, I warn myself.

  I do. I find my feet and search the environment around me.

  Dry, dense bushland stretches on forever. My heart thrums in my chest. No more bushland. I can’t do anymore fucking bushland. Shifting my eyes from left to right, I picture the wolf standing in there somewhere, waiting for me. His evil, hungered glare and his commanding stance already overpower me. His heart, cold enough to extinguish my soul and erase my existence at a moment of his choosing.

  I need to keep focused and stay strong, even if I’m famished and fatigued.

  Rustle, rustle.

  The sound of a branch moving, even though there’s no breeze about to cause a shift, has me slowly peeling back the zip on the bag hanging at my front. I’ve no idea what’s inside the backpack apart from the scissors I slipped in there. What if he searched the bag when I was no longer conscious? What if they aren’t in there anymore? Please let them be in here.

  I frantically move my hand as I try to keep the remainder of my body still. Oh my God, where are the scissors?

  The Wolf

  When I get the chance to return to where I discarded Morgan, she’ll either be floating face down in the water, bloated, with no life filling the vessel that once homed her devious soul. Or she’ll have escaped and will be nowhere I can see. I’m hoping for the latter. I’m enjoying this game far too much for it to end here.

  Entering the hidden compartment beside my cabin in the woods, I’m confident my cadaver, and victim number twelve, will have thawed. It doesn’t take a forensic scientist to learn how long the process will take or what temperature to store a body at. Or even how to succeed in defrosting and preserving a fresher corpse. Any imbecile can research this shit on the Internet. Any dumbarse can put it into practice.

  I’ve been keeping Katy on ice for three days, and thawing her slowly for two. She has another purpose for me, more than my kill, more than my revenge. She’s a prop in an experiment I want to unleash. An extra cast member in my grand finale. Punishment will be gained against those who’ve robbed me, and Katy is the perfect diversion in my Game of Life with Morgan.

  A smooth-cut tree stump rests by Katy’s blackened feet. I lower my body until I relax on the log, and slide my eyes up and down her naked spread legs. She’s more beautiful in death than she ever was in life. I admire every gash tainted to her flesh and the blotches of black covering her skin from where her blood pooled at her death. My artistry is outstanding. I’m in awe.

  Breaking my kill sequencing brought initial anxiety. After all, I had perfected a polished murder, which fulfilled all my desires. I like to watch bodies deteriorate. They never follow the same path because so many factors come into play. Environment, weather, injuries sustained before and during death, and also the attacks from wildlife in the area at the time. But now, I realise I didn’t have a reason to worry about my after-death rituals. Red number twelve may not be decomposing in the bush, supplying the smells of rotting flesh I crave, and acting as compost to my vast graveyard … but she’s whole. As intact as the day I saved her from herself and crossed her name from my list of bitches. And I like it.

  I’ve never envisioned this situation in dream or imagination. And this has me asking a question of myself. Do I freeze Morgan? Do I want to admire her in the same light I am Katy right now? Days after her flame’s burned out? Days after I’ve gotten my release?

  I think I’d like to view Morgan this way.

  What feels like hours only equates to a total of forty-five minutes. That’s how long I spend looking at Katy laid out on the wooden floor of the hidden compartment alongside the cabin. I’d like to stay with her longer, so I can bask in my achievements, but a long drive awaits me, and an unfinished game must still be completed.

  The alarm on my watch sounds, alerting me to the fact that I have a life to lead outside of my game and my need to kill. I must maintain a balancing act. Keep all my balls in the air and make appearances.

  How fast time flies when you’re having fun.

  Red will have to wait until I get back. One quick public display is all it will take to keep my cover intact and allow me to hunt again. Who knows, I might find my next victim. That would be rewarding.

  When a killer walks among society, do you think you could pick him out of the crowd?

  Reid

  Three hours. That’s how long it is until I’ll be sitting in front of cameras and completing a press conference from my loungeroom, pleading to those responsible for the disappearance of Morgan to let her come home. A lump forms in the back of my throat, causing me to swallow excessively in an attempt to dislodge it. A press conference isn’t going to work, so what’s the point of this?

  Running my finger around the rim of the empty glass has my mind bogged down. How? Why? Where? When? I go over every memory I have from the moment Morgan left me that morning until now. How the fuck did this happen? Why is this happening to us? Where is she? When will I hold her again? Will I get to hold her again?

  “Reid, honey. How are you doing?” Her hand rests on my shoulder, her tone low and nurturing.

  “Kylee.” I shift in my seat until her eyes find mine.

  “I’m sorry.” Her hand brushes my hair. “I know I’ve not been here for you … I … well, I’ve … It’s a shock, you know?”

  I bob my head.

  “I’m here now. We’re going to get through this; I promise we will.” Kylee’s eyes gleam with tears. Her chin quivers, but she smiles. A mother’s false smile. I’ve seen Morgan do this when concern is plaguing her, yet reassurance is necessary for the children.

  “There’s nothing to worry about. Mumma’s here. I promise you everything will be okay.”

  Morgan’s voice. I miss the sound of her voice.

  “Morgan,” I call out. Her words are as clear as if she were standing beside me.

  Kylee wraps her arms around my head and pulls me against her shirt. “I know. Shhh. I know.”

  I don’t allow myself to shed a tear even though I want to rid myself of bucket loads. I don’t grant my panic a chance to consume me because it’s a pointless act. I’ve been there and done those things already. Last night, Maloney walked me through it; he got me to breathe again when it felt impossible to do so. Stay in control, Reid.

  I squeeze my eyelids together tightly and pray for relief. I pray I won’t play horrible images in my head like a nightmare on repeat.

  “Reid, it’s going to be okay. It will all be okay. I promise.” Kylee repeats this over and over. Her grip is tight. Her words echoing through her chest. Her heartbeat races in between them.

  “Are you ready?” Ronald’s deep voice has Kylee pulling away. She runs her hand over the top of my head once more and then brushes my cheek with her fingertips.

  “We’re family, Reid. Nobody gets left behind. We will find her.” And there’s that smile again. That fake-as-fuck smile. The one which shows she doesn’t believe this to be true; she just wills it to be.

  “I know,” I mouth these words because sound doesn’t press them out.

  “We’re going to see our grandbabies. Detective West said we can now, and John and Shirley are waiting. The kids are awake.”

  Shit! John. I forgot to message him.

  “I didn’t reply to John’s—”

  “It’s okay. We’ve filled him in. He understands,” Ronald says this calmly.

  What happened upstairs in Aleeha's bedroom to make them so focused and in control of the situation? Did they just need time to digest and process their shock?

  “Hug them for me. Tell the kids I …” My thr
oat strains, causing me to clear it. “Tell Brax and Aleeha—”

  “We will.” Kylee’s eyes are soft, yet circled by black rings. Her hair is brushed, and her clothes are changed. She’s exhausted. Broken. Hurting. But living. One minute at a time. One hour at a time. One day at a time.

  It’s how we will do this.

  It’s how we will bring Morgan home.

  “You're doing all you can, Reid. Don’t doubt yourself. Don’t think of the what ifs. Instead, turn to the right now, okay? Picture Morgan walking through the front door and she will.”

  I nod.

  “We’ll be back soon.”

  “Okay.” It’s all I manage to reply.

  Detective Dyson has a glint of pity in her eyes as she bobs her head just once in my direction. She has a computer bag slung from her shoulder and a set of car keys hanging from her finger. Lynette doesn’t say a word, nor does she glance back after she steps through the threshold of our home. Will I see her again? Or is her involvement now complete?

  Gleaton is wearing jeans and a collared navy shirt when he arrives in a rush, entering the moment Dyson exits. “Reid.” He nods as he lays a folder on the kitchen counter I’m standing not far from.

  I offer a half-hearted wave in response.

  “One hour. I’ll be back in one hour. Constable Stratt is en route to the house; don’t let him leave before I get back.” West marches past Gleaton, leaving only those words behind in his haste. Prospect is hot on West’s heels.

  I don’t have a chance to speak or ask questions before West is a flash of denim now gone. Why do I feel like I’m standing still, but the world is blurring and spinning around me?

  “What’s going on?” I need answers.

  Silence. Complete silence. Not even the hand on the clock recording the seconds can be heard.

  “We’re doing our job. We’re going to find your wife.” Gleaton stands close to me when he finally answers. The smell of burning woodfire fills my nose. His cologne is strong. His expression is relaxed. His eyes are bright; he’s bushy-tailed. Did he sleep?