Tick Tock (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #2)

by J. Robert Kennedy

  “I don’t see anything,” said Vinny.

  “Neither do I,” said Trace. “But I can tell you one thing, if I was her, I’d be using both hands to cover my ta-tas, not just one.”

  Aynslee and the other women in the room nodded. She looked again and had to agree. The girl was clearly trying to maintain her modesty, but with only one hand.

  What’s behind your back?

  Frank stood in the room, blinking at the brightness. He had woken in complete darkness only moments before, finding the door he had just opened by feeling the walls around him. As his eyes focused, he realized he was standing in a room much like what he had seen in the video footage. He turned his head to look where the camera should be if this were the same room. He didn’t see anything, but the design of the ceiling left a dark, six inch gap all around the room, the camera most likely recessed inside.

  "Frank?”

  Frank spun toward the voice. “Sarah!” He rushed to the other end of the room where she lay, relief washing over him, the sight of her alive and well lifting a weight off his shoulders he didn’t realize he had been carrying. As he neared her he suddenly became aware of what should have been obvious. She’s naked! The primal part of him demanded he stare, to take in her naked, vulnerable form, but the civilized man quickly won out and he averted his eyes. He unbuttoned his shirt and took it off. He turned back to her, and holding the shirt up so he could only see her head, moved closer and then dropped to his knees, gently draping the shirt over her shoulders, covering most of her naked flesh. She moved her hand covering her breasts and placed it over the shirt, holding it in place.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, apparently so embarrassed she couldn’t make eye contact.

  “Are you okay,” he asked, gently, wanting to reach out and hold her, to comfort her, but not sure if he should. He barely knew her. They had spent perhaps only hours together, and what they had done, he couldn’t remember. I wonder if she remembers.

  She nodded, then shook her head. “No, no I’m not. But I could be worse.”

  “Well, it’s over now. Let’s get out of here before they come back.” He reached out and offered her his hand. She looked at it then at him.

  “We can’t leave.”

  Frank’s eyes narrowed. “Why not?”

  “You don’t know where you are, do you?”

  “Well, no, but I’m sure we can figure a way out of here, then get to a phone and call for help.”

  She smiled weakly at him, as if she pitied him. “There’s no leaving here.”

  Frank wasn’t sure what to say.

  “You mean there’s no way out?” He pointed at the open door at the other end of the room. “Have you figured out where that leads?”

  She shook her head. “No. All I know is its some type of portal. Only he can let anyone pass.”

  “Who’s ‘he’?”

  Her eyes filled with tears and poured down her face. “The Devil,” she whispered, as if afraid someone might hear.

  Frank chuckled. “The Devil? What are you talking about?”

  Sarah reached out and grabbed Frank’s arm, his shirt slipping down her chest, she apparently not noticing. “You’re dead, Frank. Just like me. We’re in Hell.”

  Frank tried to comfort her with a smile. “No, we’re not dead. We were drugged and kidnapped. You’re being held here, where I don’t know because I was just abducted again myself, but we’re alive.”

  She shook her head, a deep sadness spreading across her face. “He will explain it all to you soon, but I must convince you of the truth first.”

  Frank couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It was all so ridiculous. She sounded as if she were brainwashed. How can she think she’s dead and in Hell? He finally took a moment to observe his surroundings. The room was filled with a dull, pulsating, orange glow. He could hear faint screams and pleads from hordes of people on the other side of the walls. And it was hot. He wiped his forehead, then looked down at his glistening chest. Very hot. The room was featureless with no amenities, and he found himself suddenly fighting the urge to urinate.

  He looked back at Sarah. If I were held in a hot, featureless room, lit by what appeared to be fire, surrounded by screaming people, and told I was in Hell, maybe I’d believe it too. He had to convince her she was alive. He stepped toward the door. “Look, I’ll prove it to you. I’ll go get help, and bring them back.”

  “No!” she screamed, jumping up, his shirt now at her feet, her body fully exposed, both arms held out in front, one with its hand held up, pleading for him to stop, the other pointing straight at him, gripping a gun. “If you go through the portal, you will be damned for eternity,” she cried. “You’ll be torn limb from limb, over and over, suffering for eternity in agony!”

  Frank didn’t hear a word she said. He just stared at the weapon, frozen in terror, the memories of his shooting fresh in his mind. And the fact he wasn’t wearing a vest painfully at the forefront.

  Sarah’s eyes filled with tears. Here he was. The man she barely knew, but had grown to love over the past few days. A romanticized creation of her own mind, of an evening she couldn’t remember, and a lifetime they would never know. Her life was over, and so was his. But what type of afterlife he would lead, she now knew was up to her. And she was determined he wouldn’t face the eternity described to her.

  “You need to accept where you are before you can be saved.”

  Frank just stared at the gun, saying nothing.

  “We died that night, at the coffee shop. Do you remember? Do you remember that night?”

  Frank slowly shook his head, then his eyes finally moved from the gun to her. “No. No, I don’t remember.”

  “And neither do I. It’s because we died. Something happened. Somehow we were killed. I must have died right away, because I’ve been here longer than you. You must have somehow survived a few days longer. Maybe we were hit by a car or something, I don’t know.”

  Frank shook his head. “No, we weren’t. I’ve been trying to find you. Me, Shakespeare, Trace, Vinny. All of us have been looking for you.” He took a step toward her, reaching out his hand. “Give me the gun, Sarah, and we can leave.”

  Her heart broke. There was no way he was going to accept his fate, accept what had happened to him. And she knew Jackie was right. This was the only way to convince him. If she shot him, and he didn’t die, then he would know he was already dead. It was simple to say, but to actually do it, to squeeze the trigger, to inflict so much pain and fear on the man she loved. Could she do it?

  Torn limb from limb, for eternity.

  She squeezed the trigger.

  The shot was deafening, the confined chamber making it painfully loud. Frank staggered back, his eyes wide in shock. He fell through the door, landing beyond the portal. She rushed over and pulled him back inside, just in case. He lay there, gasping, a hole in his shoulder oozing blood onto his bare chest and the floor he now lay prone on.

  “Why?”

  “Why?” she cried. “Because I had to convince you! Because you needed to know you were dead!”

  “How does shooting me prove anything?” he asked, his voice weakening.

  She knelt beside him, her hand on his chest. “Because the dead can’t die.”

  “But we’re not dead. What can I do to prove it to you?”

  Her chest tightened and she felt sick to her stomach. I’ve failed. She knew he would never accept it, not even his own death would convince him. But there was another way. One final way she could convince him. And it wouldn’t involve hurting him anymore. She stood and looked down at him, her breaking heart painful in her chest.

  “There’s only one other way I can think to convince you.”

  She raised the gun to her head and squeezed on the trigger.

  “Sarah, no!”

  “Jesus Christ, she’s going to shoot him!”

  Shakespeare wasn’t sure who said it, he was already racing out of the room the moment the gun made an appearance. He
rushed down the hallway toward the interrogation room and tore open the door, just as he heard someone from the squad room yell, “She shot him!” He slammed the door behind him and leaned on the table, knuckles pressed against the wood. Tate looked up, startled. His lawyer opened his mouth to speak when Shakespeare pointed a finger directly at him, glaring. “Don’t you say an effin’ word.” He turned to Tate.

  “You’ve got one chance to tell me where Frank and Sarah are, otherwise I’ll make sure your life is a living hell once you’re on the inside.”

  “You have no right to threaten my client like this.”

  “Shut the fuck up!” roared Shakespeare. “Two lives are at stake here. We’re watching live footage right now of them, and Sarah has just shot Frank. Judging from what we heard come out of the mouths of St. Jean and Alders, she’s most likely been brainwashed just like them!” Shakespeare rounded the table and grabbed Tate, spinning his chair to face him. “If he dies, I’ll see that you’re charged with the murder of a cop. You’ll do life at a minimum.”

  Shakespeare stared directly into Tate’s eyes. But the eyes that stared back were cold, emotionless. And certainly not scared. He doesn’t care! Shakespeare stood straight, one hand supporting the small of his back as his spine protested. He’s a psychopath! He turned his attention to Tate’s lawyer. “Tell your client if he doesn’t want to die a quick death in prison, he better make sure we find our people before any of them die.”

  The door to the interrogation room burst open and Shakespeare spun around, his face flush with anger at the intrusion.

  “There you are!” yelled an apparently equally irate Mrs. Tate. “What the hell have you gotten yourself into?”

  “Get the hell out of here!” yelled Shakespeare.

  She glared at him. “Didn’t you learn your lesson last time? Unless you want another tongue lashing, this time from the Chief, you’ll stay out of my way!” She turned her attention to her husband, Shakespeare apparently dealt with. “What the hell is going on?”

  “Your husband is involved in the kidnapping of two of our people, and he knows where they are. We need to know their location immediately. One of them has already been shot.”

  Mrs. Tate looked at Shakespeare, then at her husband.

  “Is this true?”

  Tate said nothing, staring at the floor. She grabbed him by the hair and bent his head back, leaning over so her face was only inches away from his. “I said, is this true?”

  His dead eyes stared back at her, but he nodded.

  “Tell them what they need to know, now!” she screamed. “I won’t have you ruining things with your little games.”

  Again, he said nothing, his cold eyes revealing no emotion. She let go of his hair, tossing his head backward. She raised her hand and swung it hard, smacking his cheek, the crack ringing through the room.

  “Tell them!”

  Tate’s eyes continued to stare back, emotionless, but then they slowly turned to Shakespeare. “Get me my phone and take me to where you’re watching the footage.”

  “Why?”

  Tate’s wife spun around. “Just do it!”

  Shakespeare stared at her, then grabbed the back of Tate’s shirt, hauling him to his feet. He opened the door and shoved him through, dragging him toward the squad room. “Get me his phone!” he yelled as he entered the room, everyone crowded around the display. He looked at the screen and saw Sarah raising the gun to her head. “Jesus Christ, get me Tate’s phone, now!”

  Trace looked back and her jaw dropped. She rushed to her desk and dumped out the contents of a manila envelope and grabbed the phone, tossing it over to Shakespeare who caught it then handed it to Tate. Tate dialed a number and spoke.

  Sarah slowly squeezed the trigger, staring down at Frank, her tear filled eyes blurring his image. She sobbed as she realized she was about to add another sin to the long list that had already condemned her to this infernal place. Suicide. “I’m sorry, God,” she whispered, and she made the final decision to squeeze.

  “Stop!”

  The roar of his voice startled her, and she almost fired the weapon. Her heart pounded against her ribcage at the shock of hearing his voice, especially now. She looked about the room. “Give me another chance!” she pleaded. “I can still convince him!”

  The voice, deep and bestial, rumbled through the room. “Put down the weapon, your task is complete.”

  Complete? But I didn’t succeed!

  “But what happens to Frank?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You mean he won’t be tortured.”

  “No. Now put down the weapon.”

  She burst into tears as relief swept over her. She dropped the gun at her feet, and collapsed to the ground, crawling over to Frank’s side and laying her head on his chest, her naked body lying on his. “You’ll be okay now,” she whispered.

  The voice roared again, this time slightly different. “Frank, Sarah, this is Detective Shakespeare. We have your location and EMT is on the way.”

  What? That doesn’t make any sense. She looked at Frank. “I don’t understand.”

  He smiled at her. “It means we’re going to be okay. Just rest for now.”

  She lowered her head again, and draped her arm across his chest, their sweat and body heat mixing together, feeling wonderful on her flesh, losing herself in the moment, not sure who was coming or how.

  Shakespeare poked his head through the door and smiled. “Hey, room in here for two more?”

  Frank looked up from his hospital bed and smiled, waving him and Trace in. Vinny was already there, along with a beaming Sarah who sat next to Frank, holding his hand. It had been three days since their rescue and she seemed none the worse for wear, and from all accounts, seemed more embarrassed about the entire detective squad seeing her naked than being convinced she was dead. Since she worked for the NYPD, she would be getting mandatory therapy for some time, but judging by the way she and Frank exchanged glances, Shakespeare had a feeling the ‘tender loving care’ would be more effective than the ‘professional care’.

  The officers arriving at the scene had initially arrested Sarah for shooting Frank, but both Shakespeare and Vinny had met with the DA and showed him the footage, and she was immediately released with no charges pending. Frank had been cleared as well, though he apparently had a stern lecture scheduled with the LT as soon as he was back on duty.

  Shakespeare approached the bed and shook the kid’s hand then leaned over and gave Sarah a kiss on the top of her head. He reached over and pulled Frank’s bed sheet down, revealing his bare chest.

  “What, no vest?”

  Frank laughed then winced. Vinny roared. “Frank, they oughta keep you locked up. You’re a bullet magnet!”

  Trace gave him a pat on the forehead and hugged Sarah. “I’m just glad you two are still alive.”

  “You and me both,” said Sarah. “So I hear Tate confessed?”

  “Sort of,” said Shakespeare, looking for a chair. Finding none, he was about to perch himself on the side of Frank’s bed when Vinny jumped up.

  “Take mine, old man, you’re liable to kill the kid if your ass’ aim is off.”

  Shakespeare chuckled and took the seat. “Here’s what we know. He’s been doing this for almost ten years. We found tons of video footage, audio recordings, notes and whatnot, all documenting what he was doing. It appears once a year he would choose a victim, kidnap them, then convince them they were in hell. He would torment them for days, weeks or months, some of them even years like St. Jean and Alders. The specialists who are looking into it seem to think he thought of himself as an amateur psychiatrist. He actually kept detailed notes, seemed to preplan everything to the last detail.”

  “The guy was basically psycho,” proclaimed Vinny.

  Shakespeare nodded. “No doubt about that. Through the files that you”—he nodded at Frank—“were able to hack, we found several addresses, all warehouses, all owned by various offshoots of his real estate empire,
that contained the same setup of three shipping containers. One had the room that you guys were in, one had a room where he seemed to hold the other “players” as he called them, after he was done with them, and then the third was a control room, where he could sit and take notes, watch the tapes and interact over the speaker system with his victims.”

  “But where did he find the time?” asked Sarah. “Isn’t this guy like uber rich?”

  “Like I said, most of these originally seemed to be done over days, sometimes a few weeks. It wasn’t until the last few years where he began holding people long term. The originals all appeared to be manipulated into suicides.

  Sarah’s head dropped. “Like me.”

  Shakespeare nodded. “Yes, exactly like you.” He leaned forward in his chair. “Sarah, there’s no shame in what happened. You were manipulated by a psychopath who was an expert in human behavior. He fed you everything you needed to hear to manipulate you into thinking you were dead. I don’t think anybody in this room could honestly say they wouldn’t have thought the same.”

  Sarah smiled gratefully at Shakespeare. “You know, the thing that had me convinced, is that I was never really hungry, and never had to go to the bathroom. I figured the only explanation was that I was dead. Otherwise I should be starving, I should have to use the bathroom.”

  “That was one of the more genius things about his plan. It appears about every twelve hours he would flood the room with gas, then—”

  Trace held her hand up. “Shakes, I don’t think Sarah will want to hear about this.”

  Shakespeare stopped and nodded. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

  “No!” exclaimed Sarah, whose head then dropped. “Sorry.” She looked back at Shakespeare and Trace. “I need to know everything. If I’m going to come to terms with this, I need to know everything.”