Snatched Super Boxset

by Hunt, James

  “Save his legs,” Mocks said, looking up at the doctor. “I don’t care what you have to do. He’ll be able to cope with limited movement, but he can’t lose them. Please, Doctor.” She clutched his arm, squeezing hard.

  “I’ll do everything I can, Mrs. Mullocks,” he said.

  Rick’s door opened and a team of nurses wheeled her husband out. And the doctor left to join them. He was still unconscious. Mocks followed a few steps before they disappeared through the double doors at the end of the hall and out of sight.

  Mocks shivered and she took a seat in one of the plastic chairs that lined the hallway. She rested her elbows on her legs and leaned forward, placing her face in her palms, the phone still clutched in her right hand. It was all too surreal. And it was her fault.

  When she was an addict, she’d hurt people before, but nothing like this. Most of the damage was to herself, and it made the burden less heavy. But to do something like this to Rick, the one person she loved more than anything in this world… That could break her.

  Mocks walked to the waiting room, trying to hide the tremble of her hand. Rick’s fate was in the doctor’s hands now. Grant’s was in hers. She hoped her hunch about the sawmills was right. The mill where Rick and the kids were kept was special to somebody. And she was willing to bet there were more places like it.

  The forests were chock-full of abandoned sawmills near the rivers. She imagined most would have been closed for a long time, some of them so off the grid people didn’t even know they existed anymore.

  Reclusive and forgotten, they were the perfect place for an organization to handle any business they wanted kept hidden from the public eye. She took a seat in one of one of the plastic, waiting room chairs, and bounced her knee nervously. Using her phone, she researched everything she could find about the Web.

  Most of the news articles that she found were written in another language, but the pictures included were graphic enough to tell the story without words. One article, written by an American reporter six years ago, revealed entire islands no longer under the control of the Philippine government.

  By controlling sovereign Philippine land, along with the surrounding waterways, the Web was a nation unto themselves.

  Mocks scrolled and read, distracting her mind with research. After an hour she set the phone aside and rubbed her burning, bloodshot eyes. A table with coffee, cups, cream and sugar beckoned her toward it and she poured a fresh cup.

  Until she had Sam’s data everything was just a hunch. She tried to think of what Grant would do, how he would work the case in her shoes, and a memory surfaced from their first week together.

  A little girl had gone missing, seven years old, taken from her school bus stop. They’d interviewed the kids that saw it happen, though nearly all of their stories differed in some regard. But there was one little boy who stayed quiet, and they’d spoken to him last.

  Once interviews were over they drove back to the precinct, and Grant asked her what she thought. Out of all the kids they spoke to there were a few common elements, and that the abductor was a man, in a white truck.

  “You don’t sound convinced,” Grant said.

  And she wasn’t. “That last kid we talked too. He said it was a car. Not a truck.”

  “You believe him?” Grant asked.

  “He was the only one that had a different story.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  Mocks sighed. “He pointed out a bumper sticker on the back as well. NRA. Probably for the rifle association. I don’t think he would have made that up.”

  “And what does your gut tell you?”

  “My gut is telling me it’s time for lunch,” Mocks answered.

  And that was when Grant changed his tone, and looked over to her as they pulled up to a spot light. “In our line of work you have two things: Facts and Instincts. You can’t be a detective without using both. When your instincts start to match up with the facts, follow it. And trust it.”

  Mocks stared into the Styrofoam cup steaming with coffee, Grant’s words lingering in her head. Her gut lined up with the facts. She just needed to trust it.

  She turned back to the waiting room, taking small sips of her piping hot beverage. Three other visitors sat in chairs, waiting for nurses and doctors to tell them what happened with their loved ones.

  A woman kept her purse in her lap, twisting the handle and staring at the same patch of carpet, biting her lower lip. An elderly man, his chin pressed hard into his chest that lifted him up and down with each heavy, snore filled breath. And a younger man, massaging his temples with his eyes closed. Each of them had their own worries, their own fears, absorbed in their own worlds.

  Her phone buzzed and she glanced down at the screen. It was the lieutenant. “What’d you find?”

  “We retrieved blood splatter in the northeast quadrant of the forest around the mill,” Furst said. “We think it might have been Grant’s.”

  Mocks’s heart sank, and she paced a tight circle on the waiting room floor. “A body?”

  “No,” Furst answered. “Not yet. We’re calling off the search team for now.”

  Mocks grimaced. It wasn’t ‘for now,’ it was for good. Unless they had new evidence to warrant a new search, they weren’t going to spend the manpower needed to scour that large of a search field.

  “Detective,” Furst said. “There are some things we need to discuss. I’m getting calls from the Mayor and Chief of Police. They want to know what happened up here. And the press are chomping at the bit for a statement from us.”

  “Can it at least wait till morning?” Mocks asked.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Furst said.

  “Thanks, Lieutenant.”

  The call ended and Mocks checked the clock and paced the floor, her mind racing through the scenarios and her stomach grumbling. She’d kill for a Pop-Tart.

  Her left hand trembled and she reached for the familiar feel of her green Bic lighter. But when she flicked the flint, her hand continued to shake. She let her thumb off the flint, and took a breath before she tried again. But still, her hand shook.

  Mocks frowned, flicking it repeatedly in frustration, each time harder than the first. “C’mon.” She grit her teeth. Her cheeks reddened. “Piece of shit!” She slammed the lighter on the ground, then kicked it across the room where it smacked violently into the wall. The room fell silent, and when Mocks looked around, all three pairs of eyes were locked on her. She snarled. “What?”

  The woman returned to twisting her purse handle, the old man closed his eyes again, and the young man watched TV. Mocks stomped out of the room and two nurses passed, their eyes falling to her still shaking hand. She tucked the hand in her pocket to avoid any more stares and walked over to the nurse station, knocking on the desk to catch the attention of the woman with her nose buried in her phone.

  “Can you tell me how much longer Rick Mullocks will be in surgery?”

  “We don’t have a way to check in with the doctors while they’re operating,” the nurse answered, shaking her head. “Let me check his file and see what the timeline was.”

  “They said it could take a while,” Mocks answered before the girl could swivel away in her chair. “I was just hoping for an update.”

  The nurse forced a smile and folded her hands on the desk. “I’m sure everything is fine, ma’am. If you can just take a seat—”

  “Everything is not fucking fine!” Mocks slammed her fist on the desk. It could have been the nurse’s tone, the smarmy smile, the way it felt like her concerns were being dismissed or the stress of the past few days from the case, but Mocks felt the frayed ropes of her sanity unravel. “My husband is on a fucking operating table and I don’t know if he’ll be able to walk again when he comes out!”

  The nurse’s face flushed red, but before she opened her mouth, or Mocks rammed her fist into it, she stepped away. She needed air.

  The automatic doors opened and Mocks zipped up her jacket in the frigid
early morning air. She crossed her arms walked until the sidewalk ended on the side of the hospital.

  Alone, Mocks lowered her head, fighting the tears. It was all too much. In one night she could lose her husband and her partner. The urge to use took hold of her thoughts. One little hit and it’d all go away. She knew it would. It was one of the reasons it had taken her almost three years to sober up.

  But there was one pivotal difference between Mocks then, and Mocks now. And that was the people in her life. The ones she loved, the ones she cared about, the ones that she couldn’t let down. Grant had kept his promise and got Rick out of there alive, saving herself and the kids in the process. She wasn’t going to let him down.

  * * *

  The moment Owen returned home, he shed his blazer and tossed it on a chair. He was glad to see the mess in the living room had been cleaned up and the furniture returned to their normal positions. He unbuttoned the cuffs of his dress shirt and rolled up his sleeves, then turned around to the pair of bodyguards still following him.

  “Find something to keep yourselves busy,” Owen said.

  The pair complied, and Owen disappeared down the hallway opposite of his protectors. The narrow cut through opened into a bedroom with high ceilings like the living room and was one of the few places inside his converted home with windows. And it had a beautiful view.

  A clearing in the trees revealed a waterfall gushing over a ledge. The violent white water spilled to the rocks and river below, and then drifted toward the sea. Such a powerful element water was, and adaptable. It could cut through rock, topple cities, and swallow ships, yet be as gentle and nurturing as a mother. It was a vile and giving creature. Owen thought of himself the same way.

  Owen shifted his gaze from the waterfall to a door on his left. It was late, but she was a night owl, and he hoped she still be awake.

  A spring appeared in his step as he walked toward the fantasy that lived on the other side. A world he’d created just for him. And it wouldn’t be much longer until that world grew larger. He unlocked the door and stepped inside. “And how are we doing this afternoon?”

  A young girl, ten years old, with light brown hair and hazel eyes looked up from her coloring book. She wore a yellow dress that accented the soft brown of her skin. She didn’t smile. She didn’t cry. It wasn’t the ideal reaction, but apathy was better than tears.

  “I’m good,” she said, her young voice high-pitched and soft. “How are you?”

  Owen smiled brightly, his skin drawn tight from all those plastic surgeries. He hated that feeling. It only reminded him of his age. The opposite effect of the surgery’s purpose.

  “I’m well, Izzy, thank you for asking.” Owen joined her on the floor, and the girl returned to the picture where a princess appeared in the window of a castle. A young knight looked up to the young maiden, standing outside the castle’s wall. “That’s a beautiful drawing.”

  “Thank you,” Izzy said, a happy tone to her voice.

  Owen pointed to the princess. “Is that you?”

  “Mmhm,” Izzy answered.

  “And who is that?” Owen asked, pointing to the knight.

  The girl kept quiet and shrunk inward. She stopped coloring and lowered her head.

  “Izzy,” Owen said, keeping his voice calm and kind. “You can tell me. Who is it?”

  The girl sniffled and, keeping her head down, answered, “My rescuer.”

  Owen nodded and then placed a comforting hand on the girl’s back. She trembled at his touch. “It’s all right, Izzy. Shh, shh, shh. Nothing to be upset about.” He lifted the girl’s chin. Her cheeks were wet with tears, but she made no sound.

  “Are you going to have special time today?” Izzy asked, her little voice thick with phlegm and grief.

  Owen smiled and then wiped the tears from her face. “No, sweetheart. Not today.” He bent over and kissed the top of her head. “Not today.” Owen laid on his side, and watched her finish her drawing. She didn’t look at him while he sat there, nor did he expect her too.

  A transition of trust took time, and he hoped that his current display of self-control would help strengthen that trust. It was all about layering, reshaping the girl’s mind to accept that what he did to her wasn’t just normal, but good. It was a process, but it was one that he enjoyed.

  He played with her hair for a bit, letting the smooth silky strands run through his fingers. She didn’t shudder when he touched her that time, another improvement. And while she didn’t talk much, he continued to ask her questions, the one word answers slowly morphing to longer explanations the longer they spoke.

  “Well, it’s getting late my sweet,” Owen said, kissing the top of her head once more. “Time for bed.” He picked her up and placed her under the covers, pulling them up close to her chin. He cupped her cheek, and smiled. “Sleep tight, love.” He held her tiny hand in his, kissed it, then walked out, shutting the light off on his way.

  Owen locked the door, then returned to his own bed, his body sagging from the long day. He needed rest. Tomorrow would be just as worse. He disrobed, and climbed into bed, naked, thinking of those detectives and his conversation tomorrow. But despite the circumstances, he was excited.

  For over thirty years, Owen had been abducting children, and when his relationship with the Web began almost a decade ago, it propelled him into a new level of power. It was an authority he reveled in, but he was so isolated. No one to speak with, no one to challenge him.

  But this detective had managed to do what no other authority figure could, and currently he was locked below, his mind no doubt wondering whether he would live or die. And depending on the answers Owen received, it could go either way.

  2

  Light broke the darkness, and exposed Grant’s naked body tied to the chair he’d sat in all night, or forever long it’d been since that door was closed. He squinted, the brightness painful to his sensitive eyes. Was it the old man from last night? Had he come to finish the job?

  The light exposed the sea of corpses that lay stacked at Grant’s feet. The sight of the rotting flesh accentuated the throbbing pain at the base of his skull. Those bodies had screamed at him last night, demons from his past clawing their way to the present. But now everything was quiet and he was convinced the lack of sleep left him delirious.

  Two pairs of hands removed the restraints that kept Grant in the chair and dragged him over the bodies toward the light. He caught the blank stares of a few, their jaws slack and tongues rolled out with their eyes open. He wondered if the dead could still see, and what they would tell him if they could speak now.

  Once out of the pit, the blinding whiteness of light began to fill in with his new surroundings. He noticed the hardwood floors that scraped his knees and feet. He lifted his head and saw paintings hung along the hallway.

  There was a picture every few feet, mostly of nature. Flowers, rivers, beaches, and forests. Some had people, others contained animals, and some were barren of anything but plants. Life ahead of him, and death behind.

  The pair of men that carried him were dressed in suits. But Grant saw the spider web tattoos creeping up their necks from behind their collars. The old man who visited him last night had tattoos like that, but on his hand. He was the spinner of the web Grant had found himself caught in, and what an intricate web it was.

  Grant was dropped in a room completely furnished with a bed, dresser, and nightstand. The bed was made, and a pair of slacks, a dress shirt, and a belt and socks were laid on top of the comforter. A pair of shoes rested on the carpet directly underneath, and a jacket hung on the closet door handle.

  Naked and filthy with dirt and sweat, Grant turned back to the pair of thugs that had dragged him to the room. They stood expressionless, their hands on the assault rifles that were strapped over their shoulders. Both of their heads were shaved, and Grant suspected that if they smiled, he’d get an eyeful of silver and gold.

  “Wh—” Grant choked on his own voice, his throat dry and hoar
se. He took a dry swallow and cleared his throat. “What do you want?”

  “Shower,” the guard on the left said, then pointed to the clothes. “Dress.”

  The two words were Grant’s only direction. Slowly, he pushed himself off the carpet and leaned against the dresser for support once on his feet. He hobbled to the bathroom, his joints stiff and aching from the night in the chair.

  There was no curtain for the shower, no privacy of any kind. A mirror revealed the guard directly behind him. The thug’s expression was hard as stone. Grant looked at him through the mirror and arched his eyebrows. “Did you bring the sponge?”

  With the joke lost on his captor, Grant stepped toward the shower and turned on the faucet. He cranked the temperature to hot and let the water cleanse him. With a bar of soap, he scrubbed the dead off, rinsed, and then dried himself. When he stepped back into the bedroom and reached for the clothes, he found that they were all in his size.

  Once dressed, he checked himself in the mirror. He didn’t recognize the face of the man staring at him, but he recognized the type of attire he wore. All black. Funeral colors. He absentmindedly went to rub his wedding ring, and when his fingertips touched only skin, his heart skipped. He turned to the goon, his fists clenched, but the man only motioned over to the dresser.

  It was there Grant caught the gleam of his wedding ring. It had been cleaned and polished. He picked it up and placed it back over the pale circle of flesh where it had resided for over a decade.

  The thugs grabbed Grant by the arm and thrust him into the hallway. With one thug leading and one behind him, Grant was sandwiched into the narrow hallway as they walked single file until it opened into a large dining room.

  A long, wooden eight-seater table was adorned with plates, silverware, and breakfast. Eggs, steak, bacon, fruits, and orange juice. The food steamed on their plates and a servant poured water into a crystal glass from an even larger crystal pitcher.

  The goon behind Grant elbowed him forward, and Grant was escorted to the seat to the right of the head of the table.