Ryan reached up to the vent, half above the bed and half above the bedside table where the countdown slowly ebbed away. Sheppard didn’t look at it—if this worked, there would be no need. Getting out of here had never been so close.
“You’ll have to take the whole unit off the wall. Behind the grate’ll be a dehumidifier. It’ll be heavy.”
“You seem to know a lot about this,” Sheppard said. Ryan smiled. “Perks of the job.”
Even now, his mind wandered. An intricate knowledge of the room. The perfect profession to set this all up.
But why? What motive did he have? What motive did any of them have?
“Thanks,” Sheppard said. “We get out of this and I owe you a beer.”
Ryan laughed, for the first time. “We get out of this and you owe me a brewery.” Ryan clapped Sheppard on the shoulder and turned. “I’m going to get started on the plumbing.”
Sheppard nodded as the young man rounded the corner and opened the door to the bathroom. He paused. Being hit with the smell. He pushed past it and disappeared, the door shutting behind him.
Sheppard started unscrewing the grate. When he had got both of the top flatbed screws out, he felt the grate wane with the weight behind it. He kept one hand pressed on the grate, pushing it in as he undid the bottom screws. As he did so, he heard Alan somewhere behind him, finally giving up on his phone. “Bloody hell, this is a day and a half.”
He slowed down, unscrewing so he could hear better. He stared straight forward at the grate. What would Alan be saying when he thought Sheppard was preoccupied?
Mandy stood up from the bed. As he felt the third screw come loose, Sheppard heard the muffled impact of shoes on carpet, then a little gasp and a shuffle. Like Alan had surprised Mandy somehow. Pulled her closer, maybe.
“We need to start thinking laterally here,” Alan whispered. As if to prove his point. However, he himself had been correct when saying that no one could have a private conversation. Now on the other side of one, Sheppard realized that everyone did indeed hear everything.
“Laterally?” Mandy said, with a tone that would have matched Sheppard’s at that moment.
What was Alan’s endgame? He was still suspect number one after all.
“This game is rigged, I bet you,” Alan whispered, harshly. “There is no answer, or at least no answer that was presented as such.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Misdirection, Mandy. The oldest of tricks. The reason people think magic is real, or bombs were in Iraq. The simple art of misdirection.”
“I suppose you know all about it. Being a sleazy lawyer and all.”
“Of course. I use it all the time. And I’m seeing it here.”
Sheppard took another screw out and the grate lurched again. How could a dehumidifier be this heavy?
Alan continued. “What if this isn’t his game?”
“I have no idea what you’re saying.”
“Why is he the one who gets to call the shots? Because the TV said so, or because he’s the one with the star power?”
“Hijinks.” A new voice in the conversation.
Sheppard looked around. Constance Ahearn was looking right at him. “Even in your thoughts, do not curse the king, nor in your bedroom curse the rich, for a bird of the air will carry your voice, or some winged creature tell the matter.”
Sheppard glared at her. What was that? The Bible. Sounded more like The Hobbit. But her outburst made the two behind him stop.
“Shut up, Ms. Ahearn, there’s a good little lunatic,” Alan said.
Sheppard looked back as the final screw came loose. The grate launched at him as it came free and he gripped it. It was too heavy. And he didn’t have it. He pushed back with his legs, as he felt a body next to him.
Mandy had climbed onto the bed and quickly grabbed the left side of the grate, taking some of the weight. He smiled his thanks as he got a better grip. Between them, they managed to pull out the dehumidifier. They carefully leveraged it and put it down on the bed.
When Sheppard looked back up at the vent, he saw a long and narrow path. It carried on into darkness. “We’re at the end of the corridor,” he said. “There’s no way it could carry on for that long if we weren’t. I’ll have to make my way around.”
Mandy looked into the vent and frowned.
“I’ll be back before you know it,” Sheppard said, “hopefully having got someone’s attention. Who knows, we could be ten minutes away from getting out of here.”
“If you’re sure,” Mandy said.
Sheppard looked from the vent to Mandy. He wasn’t sure about anything. But he wasn’t about to say that.
“Keep the peace, okay. These people trust you.”
Mandy nodded and got off the bed.
Sheppard stepped back and looked into the vent again. He took out Winter’s BlackBerry and looked at it. No. “Does anyone have a flashlight on their phone?” he said and looked around. Mandy and Alan shook their heads, Ryan was gone and Constance had turned back into herself. But Headphones showed a glimmer of recognition.
The teenager slid out from the desk, dug into her hoodie pocket and took out her phone. She threw it to him.
He caught it and smiled at her. He thought that he caught her blushing before she went back to her burrow under the desk. There seemed to be a lighter air in the room. Everyone seemed to be happier. Except Alan.
Sheppard was happier. The bourbon in his pocket and escape just a short shuffle away. This nightmare—almost over. The cold, hard crash seemed to have gone away for a while. That itching feeling on the backs of his hands was sated. The ache behind his eyeballs diminished.
Sheppard turned the flashlight on, catching a glimpse of Headphones’s dog again. He silently promised to bring the phone back safe.
He reached into the vent, hitching both his elbows into either side of the shaft. He placed a precarious foot onto the bedside table and the other foot on the bed, pulling himself up.
It took a few pushes with his elbows to fully get himself up into the small passageway. It was cramped. A small vent. His shoulders rubbing against the steel top. His legs flailing behind him. He wondered what the others were seeing in the room. Probably something comical. He took the smartphone and placed it in his top pocket. It illuminated enough for him to see ahead.
He felt the edges of the opening with his feet. The room behind him now. The room he thought he would die in. After this, he’d swear off hotels for life.
Because, finally, it was time to check out.
30
Sheppard shuffled forward, his knees already aching in response. More than ever, he felt like a mouse in a maze, chasing around to satisfy the horse mask, Mr. TV, the evil man. Although maybe this maze could lead to freedom. And maybe the evil man slipped up, maybe this was something he hadn’t thought of. He started forward again. His back scraped against the top of the vent, igniting it in a rush of pain. He would just have to worry about that later, drowning the agony in thoughts of escape.
He shuffled for a while longer, the flashlight in his top pocket bobbing up and down with each sliver of progress. The light showed the first intersection rather quickly, bouncing the light back to him. There were two paths—left and right. Both were tight corners—but they both looked able to support Sheppard’s size. Sheppard got to the intersection, shut his eyes and thought. If the window was looking north (he decided, just for orientation purposes), the wall with the bed against it was the east wall. So he could either go north or south. Whichever way he chose, he would be making his way around the room—skirting the walls.
He chose north for no particular reason, slowly edging around the corner. He got his torso around with little issue, leading with his arms, but when he tried to bring his legs around, the sharp corner of the vent dug into his shins. He briefly panicked, flailing with
his arms and trying to pull himself around. He managed it and took a deep breath. He had never been a claustrophobic person, but he had never been in a situation like this before. It felt like the walls were closing in on him ever so slowly, as if he was going to get crushed in the slowest compactor ever.
The other thing he hadn’t thought of was the smell. Not the smell of the vent, although it did slightly smell of burnt, hot air. The overpowering scent was his own—a sickly mix of severe body odor and recently jettisoned vomit.
Detectives don’t smell.
He adjusted to the new direction. He got into a routine, slumping like a handicapped dog, moving his elbows and then his legs. Forward, back, forward, back.
The phone light was strong but only carried so far—he could only see a few feet in front of him. The air had an eerie feeling—the aluminum (or was it steel?) echoing conversations seemingly happening all around the building. Ghosts of voices seemed to come to him, although when he tried to focus on them, they disappeared.
Maybe you’re just going crazy.
There were definitely a few voices he could hear. Alan and Mandy and another voice that sounded like Ryan’s. It sounded underwater, the words impossible to decipher. The vent sloped down and Sheppard found himself gaining speed. He came to another turn—only one choice this time, left. He made his way around and saw that the vent grew visibly narrower, supposing it was running under the window. He had to flatten his stomach, flopping like a fish to get through the opening. It grew slightly larger—but only slightly. He was able to bend his arms again to gain some grip and propel himself forward. The phone light was no help here, as it was pointed downwards. The darkness ahead of him loomed large. He became adamant there was something there in the dark, just out of his field of view, taunting him. He almost heard the shuffling of something, something that wasn’t him—not allowing him to think it was just his imagination. Which of course, it was.
Probably...right?
After a while, another decision. Forward or left. Left would follow the room so he decided forward. This would mean he would be heading toward the next room, and toward rescue.
He repositioned himself and fished Headphones’s phone out of his shirt pocket. He angled it ahead. The vent seemed to go on forever, or at least as far as he could see.
“Morgan.” A whisper in his ear.
He jumped, slamming his head on the top of the vent. The pain erupting before mixing in with all the rest. A voice. He had heard it. He had heard it, right? The hairs on his neck stood on end. Someone was right behind him. Someone had to be.
He realized the phone had a camera, and opened the camera app. He swapped to the front-facing camera. His face again. He could never escape it. He looked like he was dying. His skin, unreasonably pale, looking more like the scales of a snake than human skin. His hair seemed thin. His eyes, in the warm flashlight, almost looked yellow—the final curse of the alcoholic.
Get out of here, get to a doctor. Abridge the drinking history a bit.
Nothing behind him though. He tried to look over his shoulder to make sure, but couldn’t manage it. The more he thought of it, the less he thought it had been real. Maybe it had just carried through the vents? Maybe someone in the room had said it?
No one calls you Morgan. Not anymore.
No one except him. He did. The masked man.
He started moving forward again, keeping the camera on just for peace of mind. But there was nothing behind him, and never had been—not really. He lowered the camera just in time to keep from slamming head first into the vent wall. Another corner? No, this wasn’t a turn or an intersection. There were walls all around him. And there was something there, something white, on the vent wall.
He switched the flashlight back to front-facing. A sheet of metal was in front of him. And a piece of paper held up with a piece of tape. Sheppard looked at the words written on it, suppressing the sudden urge to retch up whatever was left in his stomach. No way forward. Air. There wasn’t enough air. And all he could think of was the words on the paper.
THERE WAS AN OPENING HERE IT’S GONE NOW C
31
Sheppard stayed still. There was nothing else to be done. His eyes ran over and over the paper, reading the words again and again. A dead end? How could it be a dead end? The evil man blocked it off? He knew that they would get into the vents. All this time, he knew. And planned accordingly. Sheppard pulled his arms out in front of him and flattened his palms against the cold metal. He pushed. Nothing. No give. It had been blocked off.
Unless this had never been a way around. Maybe the evil man was just toying with him. Maybe he had got turned around somehow. Because how could someone block off a vent—make it look like there was never an opening to begin with? Maybe he had just chosen a wrong turn.
He shuffled backwards, replacing the phone in his top pocket. Soon, he was back at the previous turn. This time, he went left. This meant he should be running parallel to the west wall of the room and the east wall of the next room. Sheppard stopped for a moment, listening. He couldn’t hear anything, apart from a low mutter of familiar voices that was surely coming from his left. Nothing from the next room.
What if no one was there? What if he couldn’t get anyone’s attention?
Then you keep going. You keep going until you do.
It was exhausting. Dragging himself along. And as he brought his knee up for another shuffle, he felt and heard the two bottles of single-serving bourbon in his trouser pocket. That would give him some more strength—a little pick-me-up. But he didn’t think he could reach them even if he wanted to.
He pressed on, the dark closing around him and the pain coming in waves. Knees, back, shoulders. All feeling raw and tender. He continued until he thought he must be nearing the edge of the room.
Sure enough, he came to the edge. Left, right or up—straight up, vertical. He angled the torch and looked. Up seemed like a hard task to accomplish so he went right.
As he traveled down the passage, he tried to focus on the low voices he heard, just to distract him from the pain. Mandy and Alan. He wondered what they were talking about, and remembered what he had heard just before he went into the vent. It felt like hours ago. He severely hoped it wasn’t.
Alan was clearly up to something, and even if he didn’t murder Simon Winter, he was a dangerous man. Unscrupulous. Never thinking he’s wrong. A talker.
Remind you of anyone?
Maybe that was why he was so wary of Alan. Because they were so alike.
He hoped Mandy was keeping him at bay.
About a minute later, the flashlight hit on something white ahead. He took the flashlight and almost dropped it. Another piece of paper, the same message...
THERE WAS AN OPENING HERE IT’S GONE NOW C
How? How was this happening? Another dead end, just as closed off as the last. He looked carefully at the sides of the vent but he saw no join or connection where the evil man (this C?) closed it off. It was just as if the vent ended here. But how was that possible? Was he turned around again? No, he was running along the south wall of the next room, he had to be. He retraced the route he’d taken in his mind. Yes, that was it.
He banged on the side of the vent with his right hand, the sound bouncing around him. “Hey. Hey. Anybody. Can anybody hear me?”
No sound apart from his own voice echoed back to him. No voices. No shuffling of movement beyond the vent. Nothing. What he had come to expect—the worst possible outcome.
“Hey. Anyone? Come on,” he shouted. Trying to convince himself he had some optimism left.
He tried the left side too—facing the corridor. But nothing.
He looked back at the message on the piece of paper.
C. Was C the one who was doing this to him? Was C the man behind the horse mask? The man who had known he would go into the vents. The man who seemed to know hi
m better than he knew himself. The smiley face seemed to broaden its grin, and then it winked.
He was sure it did.
But it didn’t. He imagined it. He must have.
And all of a sudden, it drew closer. The feeling of it all getting too much. The cold, hard crash shuffling into him. He could feel his skin—all of it, itching, like thousands of spiders running over him. He could almost hear them—could almost see their silky webs in front of his eyes. He shut them. He was so tired. And it would be so easy to let them consume him.
He moved backwards. Had to move on. Had to get out of here. If not away, then at least back to the room. Because he wouldn’t do this here. He wouldn’t die in a vent—refused to.
He kept his eyes closed until he felt the pressure let up. He opened his eyes to see the pathway up. He decided to take it, panicking now. He steadied himself and brought his legs around to the front of him. Reaching out with his hands, he managed to slowly stand up. His legs howled with pain as they tried to support his weight. Looking around, he found another offshoot—only one, to the left. This meant he would be going back toward the room. He didn’t care anymore. He clambered into it, pulling himself up and pushing off with his legs.
He tried to think about where he was. He had to be over the room. It had to be the ceiling. And as he finally got his full form into the vent, he looked ahead and saw light. Yellow strips of light.
He wondered if he was coming to another opening, but as he got closer, he realized it was a grate in the bottom of the vent. It looked down into the room. And as he reached it, the voices inside were easier to hear.
“...crazy.”
“Am I? Or am I the only one who actually has a brain in this room?”
He looked down. To see the mess of covers on the bed.
Couldn’t get an angle to see anything else.
Guess Who Page 13
