The Rabbit’s Hole
By
Brian Christopher Shea
The Rabbit's Hole is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 Brian Christopher Shea all rights reserved.
www.brianchristophershea.com
[email protected]
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No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
ASIN: B07GWZW9Q1
Author Photograph by Adam Rembisz
https://www.instagram.com/adam_blaise
Editor: Dana Lee:
https://www.lee-clarityconsulting.com
Cover design by Momir Borocki
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The Nick Lawrence Series:
Book One:
The Camel’s Back
Book Two:
The Lion’s Mouth
Book Three:
The Rabbit’s Hole
Chapter 1
His eyes flickered, allowing the meager light of the room to filter in. He lay on his back looking up as the yellow and brown circles of the water-damaged ceiling came into focus. An unwelcome combination of cigarette smoke and wet dog clung to the damp air. He tried sitting up but couldn’t. Nothing. His body was locked in place. Panic set in at the sudden realization that his arms and legs were tightly bound. The fibers of the rag stuffed in his mouth tickled the back of his throat. The gag made it impossible to speak. He closed his eyes hard willing himself to wake from this wretched dream.
His eyes opened again. To his dismay, he was still in the dimly lit room. His arms strained against their restraints. A muffled scream seeped out through the cloth in his mouth. He writhed. The only part of his body that wasn’t tied down was his head. He tried to calm himself and take a look around. His heart pounded, and he started hyperventilating. Unable to get enough oxygen through his nose, he breathed hard through the cloth in his mouth. This only made things worse as more of the gag was forced deeper into his mouth and his lungs pulled hard. A wheezing hum bubbled up from his throat. He swung his head from side to side searching desperately for an answer to this nightmare. It was hard to tell from the dull light that framed the drab curtain whether it was day or night. To the right was another bed and beyond that he could make out a small round table and chair by another window. There was something familiar about this place, but in his current state he couldn’t clear his mind enough to place it.
A clang. The sound of something hard against porcelain. Its distinctive sound caused him to look left, hoping to find the source. He found nothing but a wall. His gaze followed the faded floral wallpaper toward an opening where he could see the corner of a sink and an open closet. One thing he was certain of was that he was definitely in a motel room. How he got here was another question. His mind raced, searching for the answer.
The sound again, clang. Light flooded into the room from the opening to his left. His eyes were still adjusting to its introduction when a shadow crept across the floor as if chasing the light away, and his panic rose. He shook the bindings on his wrists and ankles hard. It did nothing to loosen him from the confines of the bed. With each pull and twist of his body the shackles cut deeper into his flesh.
A figure emerged from behind the wall where he assumed the bathroom was located and stood at edge of the bed. He strained to see anything that would provide an answer to this hellish situation. The figure’s head cocked ever so slightly to the left, evaluating him. He couldn’t make out any facial features. The figure standing before him looked black as night.
A flash drew his attention down to the figure’s right hand. The bathroom light reflected off the shiny surface of a large knife. He screamed but through the cloth it came out as a whimper. The figure moved quickly across the room. A click, and the television came to life. The images of an old black and white war movie filled in the backdrop behind the dark figure. The sounds of planes and bombs muted any chance of him being heard from a neighboring guest.
The figure approached and leaned in. He now understood why he couldn’t discern any features. The face, now only inches away, was shrouded by a tightly fitted black mask. What was even stranger was that a pair of sunglasses with red tinted lenses covered its eyes. In the strange desperation of the moment, the glasses reminded him of a combination of Jim Morrison and the devil.
The figure cocked its head again. He followed the shadowed movement over to the table by the window. The figure returned with the rickety wooden chair and sat. The knife now rested on the nightstand only inches from his face. A constant reminder of his dire circumstances.
“There is a reckoning upon you,” the masked figure said.
The voice sent a chill down the man’s spine. The voice was deep and had a robotic hiss that followed the statement.
“I know you. I know what you’ve done. The courts will fail you. They won’t do justice for the horrible crimes that you’ve committed.” The boom and hiss of each word resonated in the helpless man’s ears.
“In a perfect world you would be brutalized in the same way that you’ve brutalized others. But our world isn’t perfect. And thus, I am here.”
The imprisoned man twisted, trying to escape. His shoulders almost came out of their sockets. The bite from his right wrist’s restraint now released a slow trickle of blood. He could feel the warm liquid rolling steadily down his hand and off the tip of his pinky finger.
“Are you still trying to figure out how you got here?”
The man on the bed nodded vigorously.
“Think.”
The man on the bed cocked an eyebrow and squinted hard, trying to see through the rose-colored glasses of his captor. Something familiar in the eyes. His thought was interrupted as the masked figure sat back and withdrew a black handgun from his waistline. The weapon was placed next to the knife. The darkness of it was in stark contrast to the glint of the blade.
“They didn’t have a choice. But you do.” The metallic rasp of the voice carried with it an added weight.
The man on the bed craned his neck and eyed the weapons on the nightstand. His vision blurred as his eyes started to water, and he blinked rapidly to clear the tears. Bombs and the staccato of rapid-fire machine gun blasts poured from the television in the backdrop. The man on the bed looked away, facing his head toward the wall.
A gloved hand gripped his lower jaw firmly and turned his head back to the intense stare of the eyes hiding behind the rose-colored glasses. He resisted, but the effort was futile. The bastard must be deriving some sick pleasure out of this. Maybe even smiling?
“What’s your choice?”
The man on the bed screamed again. His jugular engorged with blood at the strain of his futile efforts.
The figure in the chair slowly tapped a gloved finger back and forth between the two weapons. The man slowly and desperately shook his head and pleaded with his eyes.
“Life or death is not your choice. Death is inevitable. It’s the how that you get to decide. Tick tock.”
The man began a rhythmic shaking of his head and his body quivered involuntarily.
“There is no fixing what you are. There is no justice that will undo what you’ve done.”
The words were spoken
more softly, but the finality in the message was clear. The gloved hand continued to move back and forth between the weapons metronomically.
“Know this. Your death will be far less painful than the lives of the people you’ve hurt. I can see that you’re incapable of deciding. That’s okay. I will lift that burden for you.”
At the same moment, the man on the bed widened his eyes in sudden recognition of the masked person seated before him. He finally connected the dots. He wept silently, choking on the mucus that rolled to the back of his throat. Once again, tears blurred his vision, but this time he didn’t bother to try to clear them. His breath whistled out of his nose, a long soft-noted sigh. Then all resistance faded, and his body went slack. The man on the bed closed his eyes, knowing that he would never open them again.
Chapter 2
“Are you ready?” Anaya asked.
“If you mean packed, then yes,” Nick said.
“What’s your worry? This is going to be fun.”
“I know, it’s just that I don’t know if we’re interfering. You know it’s been almost six months? Maybe she doesn’t want us to come.”
Anaya giggled. “Are you kidding me? She’s been blowing up my phone all morning long.”
“What about her new family? Maybe they’re not ready for us. Maybe we’re a reminder that she wasn’t always theirs?” Nick questioned.
“Did you feel that way? Were you worried that finding your biological parents would’ve disrupted the family who raised you?”
“No. But then again I was never able to locate them.”
“If you had, do you think your parents would’ve been upset?” Anaya asked.
“I don’t think so. I know that my mom was a bit ambivalent. Maybe she worried that I’d like them better or something.”
“Probably just a mother’s worry. Adopted or not, you were her son. I could see that being unsettling.”
“Yeah I know. That’s the funny thing about being adopted. No matter how much everyone tells you that you belong, there’s always a part that just feels lost,” Nick said.
“My bouncing through the foster care system was definitely different from the stability your parents gave you after adoption. That’s why I pulled some strings to guarantee Mouse would be placed in a family that wouldn’t spit her back after six months,” Anaya said.
Nick stuffed the plastic confines of his suitcase haphazardly without much regard for his clothes. He closed it. The suitcase was at max capacity. Nick placed both hands on the top, leaned forward, and applied the weight of his muscular frame, compressing the contents. He finagled his hand to the zipper and tugged. The pull tab nimbly balanced in his finger dragged the slider around the expanse, following the path of teeth chugging along like the little engine that could.
Secured, Nick stepped back to appreciate his work. He caught Anaya out of the corner of his eye. Her arms were folded, and her head shook. Nick couldn’t tell if it was a look of amazement or admonishment.
Anaya giggled. It was lighthearted and giddy. “For someone who spent the early part of their adult life packing and carrying rucksacks, I am amazed at the struggle that I just witnessed.”
“It was a simpler time,” Nick said, reciprocating the laugh.
Anaya handed him the boarding passes she’d printed for their six o’clock flight. Nick took them and slipped them into his travel bag, a blue Jansport that contained a spare set of clothes, book, and a toothbrush.
“I still can’t believe that you were able to get her placed in Pidgeon, Michigan. Talk about keeping a promise. You’re pretty amazing Ms. Patel.”
“Plus, the Westons are great people. They knew what they were getting into when they took on Mouse. This isn’t their first rodeo,” Anaya said deflecting the compliment.
“I guess I was just nervous. I don’t have much experience with kids besides trying to save them from predators. I hope she still thinks I’m cool,” Nick said.
“I don’t think she ever did. So, you don’t have to worry about that.”
Nick relaxed as Anaya slid her hand across his back. Her fingers lingered over the small lumps of scar tissue on his shoulder, the ever-present reminder of his time overseas. Three rounds from an enemy rifle that had almost cost him his life. His body was a tapestry of almosts.
Her caress stirred him, causing him to turn and face her. Anaya’s deep brown eyes caught the light accentuating the yellow flecks that peppered her pupils. Her beauty gave him pause. She smiled looking up at Nick. Her arms draped around his neck and their lips met.
“Get your head out of your ass Nicholas Lawrence. This is going to be a great trip,” Anaya said as she buried her head into his neck.
“I love when you take charge.”
“God knows you need it. I think you’d still be hemming and hawing on whether to ask me out if I’d left things in your hands,” Anaya said, still pressing her face gently against him.
Nick chuckled softly. “I’m glad you didn’t.”
He smiled and pushed her silky black hair across her bronzed shoulder. Leaning in, he kissed the warmth of her exposed neck, tasting a hint of the cocoa butter lotion she moisturized herself with each morning.
Anaya gave a coy smile. An urgency lay just beneath the surface of her playfulness. “I was going to wait, but I figure now is as good a time as any.”
“Wait for what?” Nick asked.
Anaya released her gentle embrace and stepped back from him.
Nick watched as she walked out of their bedroom. He’d abandoned his apartment after his near fatal encounter, and the two took a leap of faith, making the decision to move in together. Life moved a little faster when you were older. They had found a small ranch-styled home near the picturesque downtown area of Georgetown. The bedroom was a work in progress and much of their stuff was still in boxes. He surveyed his new life and smiled.
She returned a short time later with her hands behind her back. Anaya had a wide grin that seemed to spread wide beyond the boundaries of her face.
Nick panicked and looked at his watch, trying without success to match the date to some significant event. “Did I forget some anniversary?”
Anaya swayed with her head cocked, looking up at him through her long eyelashes. “No. Not yet.”
“Well you’ve got me stumped,” Nick said defeatedly.
“The master investigator can’t read my facial clues? I’m shocked,” Anaya said sarcastically.
Nick watched as Anaya closed the distance slowly. He could tell she really enjoyed tormenting him. He shook his head in mock frustration. Anaya stepped close and revealed her hands. In them lay a small wrapped gift. The shiny silver paper framed by the sepia of her palms.
Nick cocked an eyebrow of suspicion. “Oh boy.” Nick sighed.
Anaya said nothing. She waited eagerly, rocking back and forth in anticipation as Nick tore through the silver wrapping paper.
Nick looked down at the white 5x7 frame in his hand. He squinted, peering down at the black and white image encased beneath the thin layer of glass.
His jaw went slack, and he looked up at the woman standing in front of him. The yellow flecks in her eyes seemed to dance as they welled up with tears. Nick felt a warmth spread over his cheeks. His eyes blurred, and a smile stretched. He dropped down on his knees and hugged Anaya tightly around her waist. Nick pulled her into him, pressing his lips against her stomach.
“How far along?” Nick asked.
“The doctor said eight weeks.”
“When did you find out?”
“Last week,” Anaya said.
“Last week?” Nick asked pulling back and looking up into Anaya’s eyes, still wet with tears.
“I knew something was off, and so I took a home pregnancy test. I wanted to be sure before I told you. So, I went to the doctor,” Anaya paused exhaling deeply. “I was so worried. I didn’t know how you were going to react. Things were moving fast, and this just puts us into overdrive.”
Nick slumped to
the ground, looking at the picture again. His eyes traced the grainy lines that defined the life that was growing inside the woman before him.
“This is the best day of my life.” Nick’s voice cracked as he spoke. The sound of it caught him off guard.
Anaya wiped her face and looked down at Nick with a seriousness he didn’t normally see. “I don’t want you to feel trapped. It’s still just us. No need to run off and get married.”
“Married. We should—I mean when. We’ve—um—never really talked about—,” Nick mumbled almost incoherently.
Anaya pressed her finger against his lips, silencing him.
“It’s okay. We’ll figure everything out in due time. Right now, we’ve got to get ready for our flight,” Anaya whispered.
“Flight. Can you travel? Did you ask the doctor?” Nick asked. He felt lost and immediately overwhelmed. Two feelings that Nick was unaccustomed to.
“Yes, I asked, and he said it’s fine. Nothing to worry about this early in the pregnancy.”
“Do we know if it’s a boy or girl?” Nick asked.
“That’s at next month’s visit,” Anaya said rubbing his head.
“I’m so excited. I should call someone. Maybe Declan or Jones?”
“How about we wait? The doctor said it’s best to hold off until we get past the first trimester. You’ll have to hold on for about one more month,” Anaya said, patting Nick’s head. “Do you think you can do that?”
“Maybe we could tell Mouse?” Nick said.
“Okay, only Mouse. I never realized how bad you are at keeping secrets.” Anaya smiled and reached out her hands.
Nick nodded, taking her outstretched hands, allowing her to assist him up from the floor. Bad at keeping secrets, he thought. A pang of guilt struck him, knowing Anaya had no idea how wrong she was.
Chapter 3
The temperature had dropped over the night and sealed the windows in icy fractals that, under other circumstances, might’ve been considered beautiful. Not so pretty when you’re running late and can’t see out your window.
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