FREEFALL (A Megalith Thriller Book 1)

by D R Sanford

  “Hi Lola, I bet you’ve been lonely here all day.”

  Cullen bent over to pet the cat, but sparking pain forced him, hunched over, into the living room. He crashed onto the couch, propped his feet on the coffee table. Cullen leaned his head back against the cushions and listened to the burbling coffee maker. Lola jumped to his lap and kneaded his belly. Giving in, Cullen raised a hand and stroked her arched back.

  “Just five minutes, fuzzball. We have more work to get done here tonight.”

  ***

  Panicked cries shattered Cullen’s sun-filled dreamscape. Waking with a start, he heard it once again and bolted to his feet. Cullen steadied his blood-deprived legs after nearly falling on his face and stumbled toward the kitchen. He discovered Nora huddled on the floor, back against the kitchen cabinets, fumbling with something in her hands.

  Cullen braced against the door jamb while shaking out the electric needles flowing in his veins.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Get down!”

  She looked up and frantically waved Cullen to the floor.

  Crouching before her, he reached for Nora's shaking hands. She was pressing the wireless phone's talk button over and over. Wild eyes full of fear looked up at Cullen, and she burst out in a rapid-fire whisper.

  “Someone followed me home. I knew it. I even drove around the block once. The car stayed with me, all the way around. I came back down the block as fast as I could, but it didn't work.”

  On the edge of hyperventilating, Nora placed her hands beneath her and shot a glance at the kitchen window. Cullen had never seen her like this.

  Frightened.

  Hunted.

  He knelt down, holding her close, rocking back and forth, whispering assurances.

  “It’s okay now, you’re home. No one is coming to hurt you. Are you calling the police?”

  She spun around, lips quivering, tears swelling, holding the phone in an open hand.

  “It’s not okay. When I ran to the back door someone was walking up the driveway. And the phone isn't working.”

  Cullen’s stomach clenched. He plucked the phone from her hand and held it to his ear while crawling through darkness toward the mud room. Only the on/off beep of the Talk button replied. Breaking the threshold of the back room, Cullen froze.

  A pair of eyes, framed in a black mask, stared through the pane of glass in the back door. The door knob rattled. Nora stifled a scream behind him. The phone clattered to the floor as Cullen rushed back to Nora, dragging her to a standing position.

  She was crushing his right hand in her grip and held onto the counter top with the other. Cullen cradled her jaw in his other hand. Speaking quickly and firmly, he kept Nora's eyes tuned to his own.

  “Go upstairs. Run. Right up to the attic and drop the latch. Throw down anything you can to block the door.”

  “Where are you going? Come with me.”

  “The gun is in the basement. Once I have that, no one is going to make it upstairs. Trust me. Go. Now!”

  Nora's head shook. She clawed at Cullen's shirt as he tried futilely to grip her wrists. Now was not the time to argue. A heart-pounding thump from the back door halted their struggle.

  One more look into her eyes. A kiss on her tear-stained lips.

  “I love you.”

  She nodded.

  “Go!”

  Nora back-pedaled into the dining room. Cullen rushed through the kitchen, daring a glance at the back door as he passed by the mud room, and barreled down the basement steps.

  Veering left at the bottom of the stairs, he ran headlong into pitch blackness, straight for the root cellar. Cullen unlatched the door and threw it open as he reached overhead for the light-bulb string. Harsh light momentarily blinded him. Hands sweeping the shelves, he finally found the black plastic pistol case on the bottom shelf.

  Years ago, Nora had demanded the hunting pistol be locked away in the basement. Back then it was a simple request he'd agreed to. Now Cullen would give anything to have the handgun loaded and tucked away in his bedroom nightstand.

  He flipped the case latches, tossed it open, and shook a handful of .357 shells from an ammo box. Unbuttoning the leather holster, Cullen squeezed the Ruger Blackhawk's rubber grips and let the holster fall on his way back up the steps.

  The pounding continued above. Splintering wood told him there wasn't much time left. Lighting was better on the return trip. Cullen opened the revolver's guard and fed cartridges into the cylinder as quickly as he could. Several clattered to the floor before he loaded it and closed the guard.

  Taking a deep breath, Cullen stepped into the mud room again, gun raised. Silence held the moment in a quivering grip as Cullen sighted on the intruder nine feet away. Both knew he could not miss at that range. Any damage inflicted would be deadly.

  Cullen's breath escaped in a ragged hiss. Barely recognizable through a maze of cracked glass, the intruder's head cocked, a hawk regarding its prey. Cullen squared his stance and reached his thumb for the hammer.

  A gloved fist burst the glass, fingers searching for the deadbolt lock. Cullen's heart raced, a jackhammer beating in his chest, adrenaline and panic triggering primal instincts to flee.

  He cursed himself for not pulling the trigger but held the judgment at bay with the excuse that Nora needed protection. His smooth sock skimmed over hardwood floors.

  Slipping in the dining room, he careened off a chair.

  Headed for the staircase.

  Wait. Something was not right.

  One hand on the banister, one foot on the steps, Cullen looked over his shoulder to find the front door ajar.

  Did Nora run out the front door? No, she wouldn't leave the safety of the house. That meant—.

  Movement inside the open coat closet drew Cullen's attention. Before he could raise the Ruger in defense, he felt as though a bat had slammed into his chest.

  Searing pain blinded him.

  Uncontrollable muscle spasms racked his body.

  Cullen crashed against the railing, the front door, fell to the floor. One-hundred thousand volts of electricity crackled in every cell of his body.

  The back of his head and heels thrummed against the floor.

  Just as quickly, the agony released him. Electrical impulses faded in Cullen's trembling extremities. Vision gradually came back into focus.

  A black-clad figure loomed over Cullen, straddling him, boots pinning his forearms. No features were discernible beneath his attacker's mask. Strange goggles prevented a glimpse of his eyes.

  The smell of singed flesh and cigarettes hung in the air. Unable to raise a hand against the intruders, Cullen felt a scream of rage escape his lips, rising to a crescendo when he glimpsed two men dragging Nora down the stairs.

  She kicked back at their shins. Nora thrashed in their arms, bit the air around her head.

  Nothing halted their descent.

  “Noraaaaaaaaaa.”

  She cried Cullen's name in return.

  Cried for help.

  Screamed for the entire neighborhood to hear.

  A fourth man entered from the dining room, the one who kept them at the back door. He pulled a handful of cloth from a pant pocket and stuffed it between Nora's teeth, silencing her screams.

  Cullen squirmed and kicked on the floor as she was carried over his prone body, their eyes searching for each other amid a wash of tears.

  Something roiled inside Cullen, a dark beast howling in his blood, straining at the leash.

  Cullen redirected his gaze to the faceless enemy six feet above and bared his teeth. Forearms and shoulder muscles drove against the body mass restraining him.

  The dark form shifted. Opaque goggles bore down on Cullen. Waves of fetid cigarette scented breath washed over him. A taser, its wires still connected to his chest via dart-like electrodes, swung into view, held in a black gloved hand.

  Low, menacing laughter was the last sound Cullen heard before the taser was pressed directly to his neck. Lightni
ng coursed in an arc from neck to sternum. Absolute, merciful darkness followed quickly on its heels.

  —Chapter 3—

  THE REGRET

  Cullen woke to flashes of red and hurried voices.

  “—pressure on his head. Let me get around so I can wrap it up.”

  “Careful, don’t step in the blood there.”

  “Got it. Hold his head up for a second.”

  “What are those stuck to his shirt?”

  “Um, let me see. Shit, those are taser probes. Hold on while I yank them out. He has marks on his neck too. Man, it looks like someone stapled him.”

  “What the hell happened here?”

  “Probably domestic and he got the worst of it. Where are the officers?”

  “I think one went upstairs, the other is walking around the house.”

  Red and white strobes oscillated in the night. Four silhouettes shimmered and knit into focus, becoming two emergency responders, a woman and a man. Kneeling around his head, one held Cullen’s neck and the base of his skull while the other tightened a bandage to his scalp.

  “His eyes are opening.”

  The other leaned closer, her hands firmly holding Cullen’s neck. “Sir, can you hear me? Please remain still. We’re taking care of some bleeding here and need to make sure you don’t have any spine injuries.”

  The events of the evening slowly knit together in Cullen’s memory.

  Waking to Nora’s frantic cries.

  A man at the door.

  Electricity crackling in his brain and the subsequent crash to the floor.

  Nora, carried away, kicking and screaming through the front door.

  “Nora.”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  Cullen spoke again, manipulating a tongue and lips that felt loaded with lead.

  “Nora, where is she?”

  “I think he’s saying a name.”

  “Is someone else in the house, sir? Sir?”

  “They took her,” Cullen croaked.

  He tried to sit up, but his vision swirled, the floor spinning on all sides.

  The woman gently pressed his chest, forcing him back down.

  Cullen reached out and used the person’s arm to lever himself onto his stomach. The left side of his face settled into a viscous fluid. Copper tasting blood seeped between his lips. Overcome by the merry-go-round sickness again. A swelling headache and nausea threatened to keep him on the floor as he planted his hands and pushed up to his knees.

  “You can’t be moving around, sir!”

  The paramedics tried restraining Cullen, but he shrugged them off. All concentration focused on the steps two feet beyond the door. That’s the direction they had taken Nora.

  “Where the hell is the patrol officer?”

  “Sir, please settle down. We need to stabilize you.”

  One foot in front of the other, and he would find her.

  First he had to get off his knees. Both paramedics snared the hands Cullen stretched toward the door jamb.

  Cullen twisted his right wrist and pulled his elbow in toward his stomach. The woman’s hold released. He pulled the other hand in. Meeting resistance, he swung the right elbow in a wild backward arc and connected with the man’s ear.

  “Son of a—”

  “We need some help!”

  Leaving one paramedic cautious and the other clutching his stinging ear, Cullen lurched to his feet.

  The ambulance was on the curb. A police cruiser blocked the driveway. Blue and red strobes flashed in the night.

  Cullen wobbled down the concrete steps but fell to his knees again as he reached the walkway.

  A patrol officer ran down the driveway toward the front yard. Upon seeing a battered man—blood soaked and sporting a singed white t-shirt—he rushed to help Cullen stand.

  The officer looked over Cullen’s shoulder to find an EMT waving him off, the other bent over in pain.

  Barely able to stand, Cullen was no match for the officer and was driven to the cold ground. The man wrenched both hands together in the small of his back and fastened his wrists with a zip-tie.

  ***

  People with head injuries generally recall the following events as a blur, with time from one moment spilling over into another.

  More gaps than details.

  Cullen, on the other hand, remembered every moment with excruciating clarity.

  Hands secured behind his back and a knee pinning him down, Cullen surrendered to the despair welling inside. He heard the other officer clear the house and review the situation with the paramedics.

  Radios crackled.

  Walking down the front steps, the officer reported to dispatch. He squatted before Cullen and shined a light in his face.

  “Sir, are you ready to calm down now?”

  Cullen examined the eyelets of the officer's shoes and murmured Nora's name in reply.

  Rounding the police cruiser, several pairs of neighborhood snow boots emerged. A familiar voice addressed them.

  “Excuse me. Officers, I'm Audrey Whittenberg from next door. I called 911. That's Cullen Houltersund. He lives here with his wife, Nora.”

  “We can't find her on the premises, ma'am. Did you see anything that happened here tonight? Did she drive away?”

  Silence.

  “Ma'am?”

  “She was…”

  Audrey hesitated.

  Cullen filled in the blank.

  “Taken.”

  The officers eased Cullen to a sitting position and propped up his back. Waved the paramedics to the yard.

  The woman worried over his bandages while the man muttered under his breath and fetched the gurney. His curses grew louder as he pushed the wheeled cart through inches of snow and slush.

  “Mr. Houltersund? You can trust me. Please let us take care of you,” the woman said.

  Haloed by the front houselights, she resembled Nora for a moment. His pulse settled a bit, and Cullen's head nodded weakly. A name tag coalesced in the dim illumination.

  “Mary Margaret.”

  “That's my name sir. I'm so sorry about what happened here tonight. I just want to help you. Can we get you up onto a gurney?”

  His shoulders slumped. Cullen’s chin dropped to his chest, and his eyes burned with tears.

  Voices and lights. None of them Nora's.

  ***

  Cullen remembered the short ride to the hospital, Mary Margaret telling him how lucky he was to have good neighbors as she clipped the taser wires and peeled off his t-shirt with a pair of sheers.

  When they pulled into the ambulance bay she held his hand and assured him the police would find Nora by the time he left the E/R.

  A nurse and police officer wheeled the gurney into an examination room. The officer kept a wary eye on Cullen as the nurse fussed over him. She unwound his bandages and immediately called for another nurse. A rag doll in their hands, Cullen's vision turned from the overhead lighting to the pillow beneath his head.

  An electric shaver buzzed behind his ears.

  Each of the fifteen stitches imprinted to his memory, the needle piercing the flesh on the back of his skull, knitting together an injury he could recover from.

  Nurses and doctors attempted small talk with no success. Trapped in a memory he fought to change, they failed to reach Cullen.

  In his altered vision, the revolver's hammer fell four times. Nora cried in his arms. The police arrived and ushered them to the safety of a neighbor's house. Nora fell asleep in his lap while he stroked her hair. The local news featured a story on the area man who thwarted a kidnapping ring.

  It unraveled every time Cullen failed to fill in the next piece. Nevertheless, he started over and prayed that time would reverse itself, giving him another chance, giving him Nora.

  A needle pierced his arm. An undertow of peaceful darkness and absolute silence pulled him into its welcoming embrace.

  ***

  Cullen stirred and woke to the soft glow of hospital room lighting
. Blinking away the crust that sealed his eyelids, he centered on a figure at his bedside. Erin, his mother, brushed his brow with one hand and gripped his palm in the other.

  Reality flooded in. Dry and scratchy eyes welled over again. His chin trembled.

  “Mom.”

  “Oh, honey.”

  Erin's lips crunched together, and her brow furrowed when she saw the pain in her son's eyes, the anguish in his voice. Bending low, she held him. Cheek to cheek. Whispering in his ear.

  “I'm sorry, so sorry. I'm here. I'm here now. Nothing can hurt you here.”

  “She's gone.” He choked on a sob, struggling to keep it down.

  “Not yet, honey. Have faith. Nora is coming back to you. We'll get her back.”

  Erin raised her head and held his jaw between sure hands. Held in her gaze, he found an ounce of peace.

  The woman who raised him, sheltered him, taught Cullen to be a man without the aid of a father was grounding him once again.

  A Dr. Wilson performed his rounds in the afternoon following Nora's abduction and released Cullen with instructions for post-concussion care.

  Battling an outrageous headache and a general numbness of spirit, Cullen allowed his mother to wheel him to the curb where her car waited.

  The ride home only depressed him further. What were people doing shoveling their driveways and walking their dogs? Didn't they know his world had just imploded?

  —Chapter 4—

  THE FIRING SQUAD

  Cars lined the curbs in front of 2034 Maple Street. Cullen recognized some of them and sank into his seat, dreading the idea of entering his house again.

  As his mother pulled up the driveway, Cullen regarded the shell of what used to be his two story colonial home.

  A friend once gave Cullen and Nora house hunting advice. He claimed that they would know the search was over when they found themselves in a home rather than a mere house. And he was right. Cullen and Nora spent five terrific years there.