by Belle Brooks
West swivels on his heel, turning in the direction of a navy undercover car parked distantly from the many other emergency vehicles here. In a march reminiscent of a solider, he starts moving forwards and without hesitation, I follow close behind.
He opens the car door wide before using his free hand to indicate his request for my entry. I hesitate, placing my palm against the slippery roof before looking up towards a full moon, which finally appears from behind the drifting cloud cover the storm created. It’s oddly large and seems only a stone’s throw away from the Earth. How can something so beautiful exist in a sky after a terrible storm on the night my wife vanished.
“Morgan, I love you. I’m coming to find you—don’t worry,” I say, my voice barely audible, before ducking my head low and sliding in and across the back seat.
“Reid, your car will either be delivered to the station or back to your residence.”
There’s a long pause as I rotate my head in an action reminiscent of a shoulder check.
Maloney looks exhausted as he runs his fingers down the quarter glass behind my head. “In case you were wondering,” he adds with a heavy-hearted tone.
I don’t reply as I shift until I’m hypnotically staring out of the front windscreen. Gulping in a sharp breath, I’m unable to hold in my lungs, I release it with a choking cough.
Where is Morgan?
The hands of time are ticking faster than I can process a single thought, and as I try to keep up with my erratic brain function, I’m also smothered by a building urgency. I’m pleading for someone to fucking find my wife.
Morgan
One hour earlier
I can’t breathe … I can’t breathe … Why can’t I breathe?
Pitch black has my eyelids blinking with ferocity, willing my pupils to adjust. With each bat of my eyelashes, my head thuds with a heavy pain. It’s a sensation I’ve never experienced before and one I find myself instantly praying will cease.
“Ouuuucccch,” I moan, sheer desperation has my quivering hands frantically groping the small space surrounding me. “Where the hell am I?” Panic firmly sets in when my fingers run across what feels to be rough carpet. They scrape the surface beneath me repeatedly. I’m not sure why I hope for the sensation to change, but I do.
My body is curled into a constricted ball and my attempt to stretch my legs leads to an excruciating cramping sensation. There’s no room to move to alleviate the agony. A gut-wrenching thump has my heart beating to the pounding rhythm of my head, and every alarm my body possesses sirens in warning. I’m in trouble. Please stop thumping, head. I can’t think.
It’s a rattling sound which first alerts me to the running car engine, followed quickly by the throat-burning smell of freshly pumped fuel. The scent is so putrid I fear the small hairs in my nose have singed. Instantly nauseated.
I’m in a car. Is it moving? Morgan, you need to get out. You need to get out now.
I try to think back to the endless crime shows that would often give me nightmares. The shows I’d watched all those nights when I was home alone while Reid was away. Come on brain, work.
The splitting pain still piercing my skull makes it hard to think about anything. “Don’t give up,” I whisper, and then the answer comes. A lever? No, a cord. There is something you pull to open the boot from the inside. Desperate searching follows; there must be an escape.
“Where is it?” I breathe. I can’t find anything. I can’t find it.
The level of my panic soars, and so do my panted breaths. SCREAM, MORGAN. SCREAM!
I do. It’s loud, fierce, and projects without mercy as I try to roll from my side, flat onto my back. The space is too tight; it’s impossible.
Music begins blaring. It’s erratic with the beat of heavy metal, and my brain threatens to explode from its sudden violation. Clasping each hand over my ears to dull the sound doesn’t work. It’s torturous. I can’t help screaming louder and with more desperation, but the music only increases in volume, and the pain I’m experiencing continues to intensify. Nobody can hear you, Morgan. Tears rush in a stream down my cheeks. What the hell is happening to me?
Squeezing my eyes tightly closed doesn’t halt my tears. Instead, they continue to flow like rapids. Lifting one hand, I place it against the side of my head before fanning four fingers out into a matted mass of hair, locks once cleaned and styled professionally.
A thick sticky substance coats my skin––it’s warm, yet chalky. What is it? Lowering my still shaking hand in a long stroke of my face, I stop by my nostrils. What is that smell? The odour is metallic. Holy shit. I wince––Blood. Launching my hand back to its original position in the matted mess of hair without any hesitation, I cry out with a needy roar. Frantically, I work until my fingers move deep down and I finally touch my scalp. It’s watery and wet. My head is oozing fresh blood! A war has taken place against my body, one I’ve no memory of fighting in.
This single touch brings with it the sound of an engine revving, visions of my car veering from the road take over. “You have got to be kidding me,” I’d screeched on my mission to talk to the driver who’d forced me from the road. Did he take me? Have I been abducted?
“Anybody?” I scream. “Help, somebody! Help me!”
With this plea comes a sudden halt. My body jolts forward. My cheek slams hard into metal. “Fuck.”
Two loud thuds sound from above and my body jumps from the shock as my breath catches and then hangs in a state of limbo.
“Red, it’s in your best interest not to do anything stupid. Do you hear me?”
His voice. I’m sure it’s one I’ve heard before. Definitely male. Calm, yet deep, and––
“Red, did you hear me?”
Who’s Red?
There’s a short pause, and in the silence, I hear the familiar pitter-patter of rain tinging against the metal. Wherever I am, it’s raining. It was raining on the drive home––I remember now. Am I close to home?
“I would like to keep you alive for a bit longer. I’ve plenty in store for you, Red. It will be such a shame if our time together has to end abruptly.”
I lie still as his words bring a fear so intense I swear it stops blood pumping through my veins.
Come on, brain. Do I fight or do I stay frozen? I can’t find the answer—my mind is blank. No words leave my lips in response as I continue to lie, trembling violently. I can’t stay frozen because I’m not in control of my limbs—my fear is. So, do I fight?
Click.
“Oh my God, please don’t hurt me.” My throat constricts into a tight strangle as a thin slither of light appears. It’s enough light to cause my eyes to squint from the burn to my pupils.
“Red, I’m going to open up. Stay still. If you don’t, you will feel my wrath.” He chuckles deeply.
I know this laugh, but from where?
“Put your wrists together and hold them up. Do it now.” He speaks with controlled authority. The confidence in his tone suggests an old hand. Has he ordered such a thing before?
I cringe, but follow his instruction and do as I’m told. A long stripping sound follows—tape pulling away from the roll. I cringe once more. The fine hairs coating my wrists strain from the skin when the sticky substance is wrapped quickly around my wrists, holding them tightly in place.
“Please,” I whisper through a tensed throat. “Stop, please. You’re hurting me.” A whining cry presses past my lips as my body is reefed from the car by my hands. I slide when my knees plant on what feels like uneven ground, ground I assume is covered in slippery sharp rocks due to the agony greeting them. The cramps plaguing my legs intensify from my new position, and I scream as a result.
This can’t be happening. Not to me. It hurts so bad.
“Shut up, Red, or I’ll shut you up, you hear me, you cowardly bitch?”
“Who’s Red?” I mumble through latched teeth.
“Shut the fuck up.” He is calm when he says this. Eerily calm.
“I think you have the wr
ong person. I’m not Red; my name isn’t Red.” The urgency in my tone is palpable.
“I know.” He laughs. It’s a smooth and controlled sound.
Pushing my head downwards, he forces my torso to follow. My naked knees continue to pain. The sensation of skin being sliced has me sucking in air. I grit my teeth to stop myself crying out my agony. Instead, I hold it internally and opt for a strained sob. I’m tired, cold, and hurt. I want Reid––I want to go home.
“We are going to play a game,” his voice bellows. “A wonderful game with two players. You and me. If you play nice and follow the rules, you will get to go home. If you don’t, well …” He clicks his tongue. “Well, you’ll die, Red. It’s a pretty simple concept to understand.”
“I don’t want to die. Please let me go.”
“I should tell you, though, you’ll have to outsmart me, and a fucking bitch like you has no chance of ever …” He doesn’t finish speaking.
Why?
My lips tremble from fear as he breathes a slow, whistling breath. There’s a long delay before a loud chuckle comes out of nowhere. His smug tone combined with my shivering makes me feel ill. Oh shit. I think I’m going to be sick.
“Stop your noise.” His hand cups my mouth and presses down hard. I struggle to bring air through my nose in response.
It’s quiet, apart from the rain, and I listen intently wondering if these delays are because we’re not alone here and he’s searching to see if we are.
He releases my mouth slowly. “Now, how could you possibly outsmart me?” He taunts me. Continuing as if he hadn’t previously stopped speaking. “Let me tell you a little secret. I’m yet to have a silly woman beat me at my own game, so your chances are not looking good, not looking good at all.” His snarky bite causes bile to travel from my stomach to the back of my throat, burning it, before the roll I ate for lunch makes its exit from my mouth with tremendous force onto the rocks in front of me. Saliva drips in a long thread from my bottom lip, which results in hard laughter spewing from behind me.
“Dirty fucking bitch,” he snarks.
Rain falls with authority, running over my hunched body. So cold. I try unsuccessfully to control my tremors, but the more I try, the worse each shake becomes. My throat is begging for water, the taste of vomit still present. My knees beg for bandages to offer protection from the elements. My head follows, begging for an ice pack and paracetamol, and my fearful heart begs for Reid.
“Help,” I moan, my voice barely audible.
Morgan
Present
Slowly reopening the cover to the notebook, I swallow with a loud gulp. I know I need to continue reading, but it’s hard to imagine how much worse the scripted words will be. Drawing in deep breaths of air, I try to prepare myself for what’s about to come, but this delay achieves nothing. Holding the flashlight over the page, it bounces around with the vibrations of my filthy hand.
Why me? Why do I have to be part of his game? I’m a nobody. Who would want me to endure such torment? Better still, why is he calling me Red when he clearly knows my name? My mind is plagued with many questions, ones I want answers to, but I don’t have any. Come on, Morgan, you can figure this out. Think.
Still nothing.
Good job, Morgan.
“I know,” I whisper to my own thought, watching as my hands continue to tremble uncontrollably.
You’re talking to yourself, Morgan.
“No shit,” I blurt out, in anger. Get it together, will you.
I shake my head, in an attempt to silence my subconscious as anger replaces my previous gut-wrenching fear. This anger is telling me, right now, I’m captured by a lunatic who is not only sick, but twisted and sadistic. It also tells me I’m so entangled in his carefully woven web that there is little to no chance of ever leaving this game. I’m going to die here.
The strain around my eyes alerts me to my scowl as I try to visualise what this pig looks like. My vision is blank … there is no face. How come I didn’t see his face? His voice is definitely one I’ve heard. But where? When? I can’t help trying to identify a voice with such a distinctive monotone. “Who are you?” With widened eyes, I gasp so loudly, even I’m shocked by the sound.
George Anderson … It’s him. It must be him. Surely our company losing a huge sum of money for a client wouldn’t turn the man into a serial killer. And if it did wouldn’t he have killed others from the company and I’d have heard about it?
No. It can’t be him. Can it? George did write a threatening letter stating every person who’d laid finger to his account would pay. I was one of them. A small part of his losses, but still a part. Surely I’d know if twelve staff members had been killed? People talk in a small organisation. There’s no more than two hundred employees in our firm–– there had to have been information handed out if this had happened? The police would know, and I imagine there’d be one big board covered in faces of the people who had died at his hands.
Morgan, you’ve watched too many police shows. Stop this foolishness. My irrational and rational mind are fighting, and I’m not sure which one of them to listen to as I shake my head again to switch my subconscious thoughts into something more encouraging. It doesn’t work. Instead I’m left considering many plausible, yet utterly ridiculous, theories. I sigh at the realisation I’m now not only in a physical battle, but a mental one, with myself. I honestly don’t think I have the strength to play any games, even more so, one responsible for my life.
“I can’t do this,” I croak.
Yes, you can. At least he gave you something. He has given you instructions and a flashlight, which is going to be mighty handy. Read what he’s written so we can go home, will you? Now!
“Fine.”
I’ve no choice but to continue reading from where my tears caused me to previously stop.
Morgan, if you want to see your family again, you are going to have to follow the rules. Here is the list of the rules:
RUN, Morgan, and don’t STOP or I will gut you like a pig.
You see, there are no rules. I have full control of how this game will end. I’ll be watching you, and I’ll always be one step ahead. Well, unless you solve the puzzle. “I know who you are, Morgan Banks, the question is, who am I? Five games will set you free when you can tell me who I’d be.”
ARE YOU READY TO TAKE ON THE WOLF, LITTLE RED?
The remainder of my lunch violently makes its way through my taut lips. My body heaves with such force it feels as if one of my ribs pops out of place from the action. I gargle a scream through each upchuck that follows, my throat now wretchedly dry.
“I need water.” I beg.
The canister is clasped in my tight grip. Although I know not to sip from it, my need for a drink is strong. If it is poisoned liquid, will it provide a quick death? I’m not sure how long I debate with myself on the appropriate action to take in this situation, but my tongue becomes slick after a few wary sips. It’s not much, but enough to bring relief.
Placing the canister into the bag, I click the end of the red pen provided, telling myself I should write down something. With a shaking hand I write my name and, ‘I need help. I’ve been abducted. Alert authorities.’
Ripping out the page, I scrunch it into a loose ball and discard it on the ground. Leaving a trail of written clues might help me. This is something I can only hope.
“What?” I gasp, when the torch and my eyes swing back to the book.
The following page is not blank like I assumed it would be. Instead, it’s titled:
Insert your goodbyes here. I will ensure your family get them once you’re gone.
The wolf.
Bone-chilling shudders travel the length of my spine as every individual hair on my body stands at attention. Morgan, you are going to die here.
My head falls, then the ground fills my vision from the torch light that follows. Tears I was trying to control burst out from within. I cry with such force my shoulders shake. Mucus drips excessively from
my nose and a steady flow of salty warm tears cascade over my cheeks, which I’d no idea were so cold. Fate is hard to face when fear, pain, and despondency pour out from within.
Reid
The drive to the police station seems a lot longer than it probably is. My mind is inundated by a million thoughts about what my future could hold without Morgan in it, and every one of them seems dismal. I’d rather die than walk this Earth without her. But then, confliction sets in, because I have been focusing on my selfish wants over the needs of our children. I couldn’t do that to them. Frustration brews, causing my heart to beat with tremendous pressure against the wall keeping it safe. I shake my head, pressing my fingertips hard into my temples.
What are you thinking, Reid? You’ve given up on Morgan already? You’ve already stuck the tag over her big toe and closed the door on her life?
She’s not dead. She’s coming home.
As each thought penetrates my mind, my fingers press harder and my eyes squeeze tighter together.
“Mr Banks, follow me please,” West says, as we make our way through the front door of the local station. I’m escorted to a room situated behind another three doors.
West saunters with an air of confidence before me, and I can’t help thinking, he has already concluded, “Yep, the husband did it.” I bet he’s already working on tactics to secure the confession for my awful, yet unfounded, crime? I’m not stupid. The husband is always the primary suspect.
I’ve never been in trouble with the law, or needed to be in this part of a police station, for that matter. How can a single moment change the course of one’s life? It’s both a daunting and nerve wracking thought.
I didn’t kill my wife, I keep telling myself, followed by, I want my lawyer.
I’m directed to a very uncomfortable-looking chair. I attempt to pull the chair outwards only to find it’s bolted to the floor.