Photographs shoot across the projection screen. Morgan’s filthy, covered in mud with blood dried on her skin. She stares at the screen as picture upon picture layer on top of each other. The panic and terror in her eyes, the way her chest rises and falls rapidly—it’s everything I’d hoped it would be. The pulse in her neck thumps, but she doesn’t turn her head away. Her eyes remain glued to the life she once had playing out before her.
The screen goes black. Morgan's legs buckle when she stands, causing her to launch out her arms. She stumbles forward until her body hangs off the edge of the table. Morgan wobbles, stretched up on her tiptoes, until she manages to push her heels down and finally balances. She rummages with desperation through the mess I left on the table for her, snarling, and it pleases me.
Whack.
A notebook and pen fall to the concrete flooring. Morgan’s big brown eyes grow wide. Her chin quivers. A moment of realisation fills her expression, one I’ll have the pleasure of watching over and over on repeat. “They’re blank, aren’t they, Red?" I snicker, and affect a feminine voice. “Oh, what does this mean? Why are all the pages absent of writing? Why did he do this?”
I laugh.
Slowly, her body lowers until she sits slumped on the concrete. Her head hangs low. She’s disappointed.
“Oh, poor Red.” I continue to laugh.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
On the video, the timer sounds, the one I hung to the wall in my Red Room. Even now, my heart gallops with glee.
Morgan gasps. Once again, panic stretches her eyes open excessively. This moment is one I’ll treasure long after I bury her in my graveyard.
Her head turns in a whip, and she stares, spotting the red numbers of the timer.
I lift my arms above my head and stretch, only to wince at the sting radiating through my shoulder where that dumb bitch stabbed me. How the fuck did she get those scissors? It had to have been after I stitched her leg wounds.
I kick off the blankets and rock until I’m in a seated position. I need that footage.
Ring, ring, ring.
Reaching out my arm, I grab my mobile phone from the pillow beside me.
“Yeah?” I say in answer.
“Is it done?”
“Yep.”
There’s silence.
“Are you happy?” he says.
“Very. Very fucking happy.”
“Good.”
“What are you doing with Morgan’s body?”
“I’ll have to see what condition she’s in, and then I’ll decide.”
“What?” His voice is hushed, but strained. “You’ve collected her, haven’t you?”
“Couldn’t get close enough, that fire took off like a wild bitch. The storm only just calmed down now. I went out again a few hours ago, but couldn’t see shit. I’ll go get her in the morning. Well, if there’s anything left of her, that is.” I can’t stop the grin that follows.
“The coppers are searching. I have no doubt they’re out your way.”
“I’m not worried.”
“Well, I am.” There's a nervous tone laced in his words.
“Calm down. I’ve got it sorted.”
“Once you find her body, get your shit out of the fucking cabin and burn it to the ground. I don’t want this coming back—”
“It won’t. Calm ya tits. What? Does she know?”
“No. She has no clue.”
“Reid?”
“No.”
“Nothing to worry about.”
“Burn the fucking cabin down or I will. It can’t come back to me.”
“But I’ve done so much work out here to get my game—”
“You got what you wanted. I supported you. Now it’s done. No more hunting. No more killing. Your revenge is complete. The game is over.”
I laugh. “Oh, this is just the beginning. I’ll head home for a little while. I’ll get out of Queensland, for your sake, but I’ll be back.”
“That wasn’t the deal.”
I scoff. “We don’t have a deal, and I suggest you get on board or I’ll take someone's life away from you.”
“Listen here—”
I hang up.
Screw him. Screw everybody. I have a pang of hunger that needs quenching. I’m not about to give up the chase, the hunt, for anyone.
Not even him.
Morgan
Crackle, pop.
Although the sound is distant, I’m aware that the fire still burns in spots.
I try to tip my chin forward in an attempt to lift my head from the ground. I must work out how close the flames are, but I can’t. I have nothing left in the tank.
Rain beats down heavily against my skin, and as I scrunch my eyes closed, I cry. Everything hurts. Breathing, moving, thinking … it all hurts so much. I want nothing more than to sleep.
The overwhelming burning sensation that ripped through my upper right thigh, has all but disappeared. There’s pain, but the intensity is gone. Maybe I didn’t get burnt after all.
I try to shift my hand from the top of my stomach to my leg, so I can touch and explore the area where the most agonising pain I’ve ever felt existed, but it, too, is as heavy as lead and won’t budge.
I can’t move.
So, I cry. All I can do is cry.
I shiver.
I take laboured breaths.
I cough.
I cry even more.
It’s a vicious cycle I fear will never end, not until I take my last breath.
I will die here, in these ruins, alone.
Detective West
The automatic doors part and, as Detective Gleaton steps in front of me, I take a final drag from my cigarette and flick it behind me as I enter the police station.
“Coffee?” Roland says, passing me the disposable cup. “It’s hot.” He warns before I have a chance to knock it back.
“Is everyone in place? Has Lynette been in contact?” I ask, reaching his side.
“Yes. And yes, Lynette has. The two SERT teams from Brisbane that were on the ground searching throughout the night have retrieved nothing, and have now resumed their instructed positions for our search. That storm has made seeing anything hard, Lynette said.”
“Warrant?”
“I’ve got the warrant.” Roland pats at his jeans pocket.
“Good. Let’s get this show on the road. We need to drive out there before daylight. Morgan must be located this morning.”
As I enter the project room, each officer’s eyes turn to me. The chatter I could hear from the hallway ceases.
Eric hands me an A4 photograph when I reach him. “Morning.” He stands at attention.
I don’t respond as I sidestep him, then pass, heading to the podium.
Holding the picture up by my ear, I swivel until my shoulders are squared to the many bodies of the officers filling the room. “This is our target. Winston Sampson, also known as Vactrim Blight. He’s using an alias for his employment. However, all his DMV records, deeds, and insurance are under his birth name of Winston Sampson.”
I stop speaking as Roland comes to stand beside me. “Departure in twenty-five minutes,” he whispers for my ears only.
I nod. “Winston’s brother, Falcon Sampson, deceased, is the motive for Morgan’s kidnapping. Our evidence is clear and precise. His death, nearly six years ago, relates to this abduction.”
“Winston is currently out of town hunting, as per his employer’s statement. We are yet to locate his whereabouts. What we do know is he’s due to resume his job this coming Thursday,” Roland says, reaching for a folder on the lectern beside him.
“Winston was once a part of the Melbourne mafia. We believe he no longer has any ties with the organisation and his alias is for protection from this underground crime syndicate. He’s also ex-military, so he’s considered dangerous.” I look to Roland as his lips part.