Don’t You Dare: (Morgan Young 3)

by Nicholls, Adam

  The film jerked like it was playing on an old VHS, and nighttime soon rolled around. By then it was too dark to see the woman inside, but the dome light eventually came on before blinking out again. She’d obviously exited the vehicle, but where had she gone?

  A few minutes later, Mason had pulled up in his Mustang. The rest was history.

  “This is driving me nuts,” Gary said.

  “You’re telling me.”

  “You think the woman had something to do with it?”

  “Seems likely.”

  “So a woman killed Mason Black?”

  Morgan craned his neck to stare up at him. “Who says he’s dead?”

  “It seems like she took his car. Maybe she had to kill him.”

  That was one possible explanation, but it didn’t seem likely to Morgan. Why would she look into someone’s past, impersonate an old friend, and have him drive all the way to Washington just to steal his car? No, there had to be more going on here.

  An idea occurred to him.

  “Hey, roll the tape forward, will you?”

  “How far?” the guard asked.

  “Just keep going.”

  They watched in silence, all three of them staring like hawks. Morgan gnawed on his thumbnail, hoping to see what he needed. Eventually he got his wish, and the woman returned from outside the parking lot. She unlocked her car, climbed in, and drove it out of there.

  “Bingo,” he said.

  “She took the car.” Gary sounded excitable.

  “I don’t doubt it.” Morgan continued to watch, anticipation of some greater explanation keeping his body tense. It felt like his brain was about to catch fire, and if he didn’t start getting some answers, then he wouldn’t know what to do.

  “I’ll run the plates. Want me to send someone to check her out?”

  “Not just yet. I still have questions.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well,” Morgan said, “what the hell happened to Mason?”

  Gary stood and stretched, his deep breathing audible in the small confines of the room. He let it out in a long, ragged exhale that sounded like a shiver. “Obviously something has happened to him, but what exactly?” He shook his head. “Because I don’t have a clue.”

  Chapter Seven

  On the journey home, Gary spent the whole time on the phone to his contacts in the MPD. Now that they had a license plate to connect Mason’s disappearance to, he was pulling out all the stops to identify the owner of the car. There was also the matter of handing a certain amount of information to Captain Bray. Gary wasn’t officially on the Mason Black case, but when you requested details on the inside, more questions tended to come back at you.

  Morgan didn’t mind the lack of attention. In fact, he needed the headspace to process everything he’d just witnessed. Dead or alive, Mason Black was out there somewhere, and it was his job—along with the Metropolitan Police Department, of course—to find out where. A thorough search of the area surrounding the parking lot had turned up nothing, and as Gary had pointed out, it would’ve taken a lot of effort for the woman in the footage to move a body as big as Mason’s. Only two possibilities remained: either he was in the car when she drove it out of there, or she had some help.

  Both theories were equally terrifying.

  When they arrived outside Gary’s house, Gary hung up and rubbed his eyes, dropping the cell phone onto his lap. He groaned as he continued to rub, blowing out a long, frustrated breath. “All right, do you want the good news or the bad news.”

  “What do you recommend?”

  “That order.”

  Morgan splayed out his hands in an I-don’t-care gesture. In this business, even good news turned out to be bad, so what difference did it make which order he’d hear them in? “Go for it, and don’t hold back. I’m too tired for dramatization.”

  “Ask and you shall receive.” Gary cleared his throat. “The good news is that we tracked the car. It belongs to a lady named Sarah Patterson. We’re just working on the current address, since she hasn’t been updating it.”

  “Okay. What’s the bad news?”

  “The car was reported stolen a few weeks ago.”

  “Great.” Morgan squeezed the wheel, his knuckles turning white as the engine sent a soft vibration through the seat. It was typical that his only lead turned out to be useless, and he’d expected as much. The only thing he hadn’t anticipated was finding a clue in the first place. Now that he sat here, his only hope torn away from him in the blink of an eye, all he could think of was what he would tell Mason’s family. There was nothing left to go on.

  Gary made a humming noise like he was thinking, stuffing the phone back into his pocket. He paused for a moment, gazing out of the window and up at the house where his wife passed by and waved. He waved back. “I guess the best thing we can do for now is hold out for something to fall into our laps. I’m sorry it’s turned out this way.”

  There was no way Morgan could accept that. It was one thing to let down a client, but there was some kind of emotional attachment in this for him. Something about the sad desperation in Amy Black’s voice—coupled with the fact her father had also been a private investigator—made him sympathize beyond a professional level. It was his duty to find the guy, no matter what condition he was in, and report it back to the people who’d hired him.

  It gave him a new wind.

  “I want you to do something for me,” he said, killing the engine. “There seems to be a back-and-forth with you and me. For years we’ve been exchanging favors no matter the risk, but I think it’s my turn again. So… I’m calling it in.”

  “Uh-oh.” Gary gave an exaggerated gulp.

  “I want some information on Mason Black.”

  “But you already have information. You gave me the file, remember?”

  “This time I want more: his credit history, police file, phone records. Everything you can pull up. If I’m going to find anything that’ll help, it’s bound to be in there. Tell me, in your honest opinion, are you able to get all that?”

  Gary wheezed a fake laugh and grabbed his knees. “A bit much, don’t you think?”

  “I need it.”

  “I don’t suppose I can bribe my way out of this endeavor?”

  “Not really.”

  “Hmm.” Gary went silent for a while, rubbing his eyes once more before finally looking up. “Sure, I’ll help you out. There’s a limit to what I can do, and the police have probably already gone over it, but I’ll send you an email when I’ve got everything.”

  Morgan smiled, his head fuzzy with fatigue. “Thank you.”

  “Just do me a favor in return, will you?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Get some sleep.”

  As much as he wanted to, Morgan didn’t imagine he’d get his forty winks. Once in a blue moon, when a case like this came to him, all he could think about was the client, the victim, and the danger. They all swirled around his mind as if in a storm, clouding his judgment and filling his head with nothing but a bleak, murky gray with no horizon.

  “I’ll make no promises.”

  Chapter Eight

  The Taker finished preparing the food and placed it inside the bag—this time it had reinforced handles and could support the weight more easily, which meant it wouldn’t tear like the McDonald’s bag nearly had. She’d also prepared some for herself, and she planned to dine with him.

  Finishing up, she wiped clean the surface and grabbed the bags, then headed into the garage. She locked the door from the inside, dropped to her knees, and twisted the wheel. Each turn gave a squeak, the pitch getting higher each time she twisted. In turn, each increase of that pitch elevated her excitement to new heights until she lifted open the hatch and watched the lights blink on again.

  When she saw Mason, her heart dropped.

  “Haven’t you been happy, love?” she asked, looking at the way he sat with his face in his hands, his knees brought to his chest. “There’s no need
to be upset. Look, I brought us some sandwiches. I thought we could eat together. What do you say?”

  Mason said nothing, lowering his hands and looking up at her with a piercing stare. He looked even worse than yesterday, which was saying something. “You brought us sandwiches… You brought us sandwiches? I’m your captive, you crazy b—”

  “I’ll remind you to watch your language.”

  That silenced him.

  The Taker smiled at her dominant victory and took a hook from the side. As before, she attached it to the bag and lowered it down to him. Even when it reached his eye level, Mason only took one look and then turned his head like a stubborn child refusing his dinner. The Taker had no interest in arguing with him, so she simply dropped the bag to the bottom of The Pit and then dragged the rope back up, hook and all. When the delivery was made, she opened her own bag and produced a tuna mayonnaise sandwich, which she didn’t hesitate to cram into her mouth. The soft texture made it feel like air, and she wolfed it down without either of them saying a single word. By the time she was done, she was ready to talk.

  “Oh, come on,” she said. “You can’t go forever without eating.”

  Mason shrugged. “I’m not going to be here forever.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I have people looking for me.”

  The Taker giggled, burping into a closed fist. “Why so certain?”

  “Because I have a family.”

  “Is that all?”

  “I’m also a cop.”

  “Yes, well, don’t think for a second I didn’t already know that. I’m more than familiar with your background, Mason. Some might even say I’m an admirer of yours. From what I read, you’re sort of a trouble magnet. That stuff with Anarchy and Lady Luck—”

  “Shut up.”

  The Taker ignored him. “All of this after your ex-wife cheated on you. Tut-tut. What was her name again? Sandra? It must have really hurt you—really done a number on you to see her with her Pilates instructor. I had to laugh when I found out you’d even paid for the lessons.”

  “Please,” Mason said, shaking his head. “Shut up…”

  “But then again, it contributed to your rage, didn’t it? You know, I read some bullshit blog post about how they think you murdered the Lullaby Killer. Tell me, did he really escape, or do you have him in a room somewhere, like I have you?”

  “Shut the hell up!” Mason shot to his feet, clawing at the wall like a rat desperate to escape a dumpster. He leapt and scratched but to no avail, screaming bloody murder. “I’m a person, you psycho. A human being! Let me out of here, or I swear to god I’ll kill you!” He turned on the spot and kicked his bucket. Urine and feces spilled across The Pit, covering every inch of the previously clean floor as the edges of bright yellow liquid reached out to claim the bag with sandwiches in it.

  The Taker watched, fascinated.

  “You’re losing it already,” she said, standing up to avoid the putrid smell emitting from the hatch. “Tell you what: I should probably leave you alone to think about what you’ve done. If you let me go without yelling some more, I’ll consider bringing you a mop. Deal?”

  Mason stood still, his chest heaving as he wept. His fists were clenched, and he hunched over, his hands shaking while his knuckles turned white. Towering above him, she could see his teeth, bared like a rabid dog. But this little pooch was in his cage, right where he should be.

  “Good,” she said, reaching for the hatch. “Then we understand each other.”

  The truth was, she had every intention of bringing him the mop. Even as she heard his screams echo through the small hatch while she closed it, The Taker knew she couldn’t be so harsh as to make him wade through his own piss and shit. Eventually, she would have to open the safe room again—a couple times a day if she wanted to keep him alive—and she didn’t want that awful stench reaching her nostrils if she could help it.

  But for now, she’d done her job. If he didn’t want to eat, that was fine. She couldn’t be held responsible for that, which was what she reminded herself as she tightened the valve and picked up her empty sandwich bag, leaving the soundproof garage with her pet in The Pit.

  Chapter Nine

  Morgan sat on the living room floor, with his only child looking curiously around the room. Robin was only a year old, and although he’d spent many years wondering if he’d make a good father, Morgan knew he loved his son immediately after he was born. It was like a natural instinct that’d been buried deep inside him was now finally brought to life.

  His only regret was that he was always so busy.

  “I wish I could have more mornings like this,” he said to his wife.

  Rachel, who’d been passing through the room performing a number of household chores, stopped with a laundry basket tucked under one arm. Even in her winding-down gear, she looked as beautiful as the day he’d met her: gentle auburn hair, soft pink lips, and dazzling blue eyes to die for. They narrowed with concern. “Why can’t you?”

  Morgan shrugged, shaking a rattle for Robin. “Work.”

  “Ah, this again.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just that we’re always going to have trouble integrating your job with our lifestyle.”

  Morgan twitched, taken aback. He’d expected more resistance—not because Rachel wasn’t accommodating—but because, as far as he could see, his job was a dangerous one that required irregular hours. Especially when a case like this came about. “I don’t want it to be trouble.”

  “Then quit. Do something else.”

  “But I love the work.”

  “Then stay. Carry on.”

  Morgan laughed in a single draft, like he was deflating. “That’s useful. Thanks.”

  “I just don’t know what you want me to say.” Rachel set the basket on the side and came farther into the room, lowering herself onto the floor and crossing her legs. A scent of strawberry shampoo lingered around her. “You need to talk about it?”

  “I guess.”

  “Then I’m listening.”

  Shaking the rattle once more, Morgan gazed down at his son. Those chubby cheeks raised as he giggled at the sound, reaching lazily to take the toy from him. Morgan shook it again but remained focused. “It just reminds me of the DC Carver and Arthur St. John. I keep making promises that I’m going to slow down, and then a problem like this rolls into our lives. I can go on with the investigation—no issue there—but how long before it evolves into something bigger? It always seems to do that, and I don’t think this will be an exception.”

  “Your worry is that it’ll affect us somehow?”

  “That’s the short version, I guess.”

  Rachel watched him, adjusting her position to something more comfortable so she could rest a hand on his knee without leaning. “Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it. But to be honest with you, I don’t think that’s the real problem.”

  “Gah!” from Robin.

  “What’s the real problem?” Morgan asked, Robin’s shriek piercing his ears.

  “It’s that you underestimate yourself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Rachel crooked an eyebrow. “You’re always saying your work is too dangerous or the hours are too sporadic. You let it get to you, and it knocks your concentration. The thing is, you always find a way to take care of me. This Mason Black thing is a bit… out-there, I admit, but whatever happens I know you’ll come through for him and for us.”

  Morgan went into a blank stare while he considered this. He supposed it was true—if he stopped long enough to think about it and excused certain failures he’d had during their lives together. It wasn’t unlike him to miss things off their shopping list or arrive late for a dinner because work had held him back. But when it truly counted, was he there for Rachel? Would he always be there, both for her and their son? He sure thought so. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m being too hard on myself.”

  Rachel beamed. “There you go,
then.” She climbed off the floor and left to grab the laundry basket, passing through the doorway without looking back. “Now bring Robin into the dining room, will you? Dinner is ready in ten.”

  “Sure,” he said, feeling his phone vibrate in his pocket. Without checking, he knew it was Gary. He’d been waiting on an email since they’d spoken yesterday, and since then nothing else had been on his mind. Only his family, both of which were here right now.

  It was the work that beckoned.

  Chapter Ten

  Morgan wolfed down his dinner, cleared the table, and checked on Rachel before heading upstairs to his office. He shut the door, which in this household meant he was not to be disturbed, and gave his oak desk a wipe with a microfiber cloth he kept in his top drawer. A clean working environment was one of those things he found vital to the success of any project, and he’d been that way since his school days. It was his mother who’d instilled cleanliness in him, always threatening to smack him on the ear if he ever let her down. To this day, he didn’t know if she’d been joking.

  With an open workspace in front of him, Morgan raised the lid of his laptop and rapped his fingers on the oak while it booted up. It seemed to take forever, each whir of the computer’s insides teasing him as if to say, “It’s here, but you can’t have it.”

  Story of my life, he thought.

  By the time the computer was working, Morgan was ready to delve in. He’d only briefly perused the email from Gary on his cell phone, but the amount of attachments suggested he’d need the security of a real computer. Along with the attachments were a few short paragraphs from Gary, mostly telling him to “keep this on the shush.” Morgan didn’t need to be told twice—the last thing he wanted was Captain Bray chasing him down for another lecture.