Copyright © 2012 Bad-Boy Storyteller
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1479369667
ISBN 13: 9781479369669
eBook ISBN: 978-1-63001-230-4
“Sometimes you never know who is playing who until the damage is done.”
Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Final Chapter
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
To my numerous friends and family members who stood by me during the creation of Played—even Blueberry.
Prologue
As it plays out in his mind, he can see a rickety, wooden chair holding her motionless body far from anything normal. Consciousness has mostly abandoned her, leaving her at the whims of her captor, who moves patiently, circling his work. The windows are boarded, and the only light glows from a shaded table lamp, alone in a remote corner. Hope is long forgotten for the young woman as she slumps naked, exhausted, drained, and resting from her torments. Standing behind her he studies her body, leaning lasciviously close to her neck, whispering to her in the silent room.
“Ugly…shameless…deserving.”
A deliberate smile creases his lips as he examines his labors. The bleach-soaked ropes binding her wrists are now taking their toll, eating into the exposed flesh fashioned from her struggling. Her mouth is pulled tight and wide, held with a thin, black belt. Again he whispers.
“No one, not your lying prayers either, will save you…miss you…or ever care.” Positioned still by her side, partially blocking the light, he pulls something from his pocket, a chosen implement. With a pop he removes the orange cap from the filled syringe, and a tiny squirt of liquid shoots into the air that is teeming with revulsion and excitement.
“You’re a liar…fake.”
Containing his attack and savoring what is next, he sees himself placing the needle into a crudely positioned IV taped to her arm and pushing the plunger down. The shot of adrenaline will awaken her suddenly—but not from a bad dream, rather to more unthinkable nightmares.
“I…I am justified.”
Methodically he has prepared; now he envisions. Her heart pounds from the drugs and fear. Her body twists and contorts in pools of sweat. For the last time, she will fight against the restraints, making her final pleas for mercy, begging through the choking leather, her blood-drenched eyes desperately striving to read his thoughts. But nothing she can possibly imagine will prepare her for the hatred within him, driving him. He then stands immobile, clearing his broken mind of any sanity, putting in order his final assault.
Chapter One
“We are going to take a short commercial break, but stay tuned to Seattle’s KDEX 103.7 FM: talk radio that listens.” An after-Christmas liquidation advertisement begins as Sarah Michaels turns down the feed into the well-lit studio. It’s her place of refuge, where she’s worked for the past seven years covering all the hot topics of the day from the recession and health care to obesity in America. For Sarah it also serves as an outlet, an alternative home where she can disgorge all of her built-up opinions and views of the world’s problems—her true calling in life. And the success of the show has brought about not only her picture riding along the bus lines, displaying her short, brown hair styled around a tiny-featured face, but the renovation of the entire studio. It’s built like any other, packed with stacks of high-tech components, all emanating little flashing lights. A large stained-wood desk sits in the middle with a hefty chrome microphone suspended above it, hanging down from the ceiling. Underneath she sits in her new leather chair, staring at her schedule for the day and refreshing her lip gloss.
“T minus ten seconds,” says Howard, the set manager, over the intercom, waiving his hand, gay as can be, through the glass wall that separates the operations room from the studio. Sarah smiles through newly glossed lips and nods her head, assuring him she has it all under control. And in control she is. Her understanding of the world’s controversial topics is superior to most, sometimes even surpassing that of the experts that come on her broadcast. And today, so far at least, her self-confidence is evident in her quick wit and sexy-smooth voice— the same voice that has elevated ratings to the current estimated audience of over a million listeners. A red, flashing number three pulses on the equipment… two…one.
“Welcome back to the Sarah Michaels Show. I hope you missed me,” she says, and follows with a flirty laugh. She then swiftly announces the time, 11:35 a.m., and gets to the topic of the day. “Our national debt is currently over sixteen trillion dollars; is this sustainable?” she asks. “Can we really continue to borrow from China and spend without any foreseeable limits? I think not,” she adds, offering an answer to her own question while looking at the teleprompter that displays a name and city. “But we’re going to find out what Eldon Jacobson from Whidbey Island thinks.” She pushes a little green button and says, “Eldon, welcome to
the Sarah Michaels Show; what are your thoughts?”
“Hi, Sarah, and thank you for taking my call. The way I see it is that big government is out of control, which everyone agrees, but the problem is as soon as we start talking about cutting back on programs everyone starts yelling, ‘Not my program!’ It seems everyone really wants to be socialists; they just don’t want to pay for it.”
“Well that’s fascinating Eldon, but do you think that maybe—just maybe— there are many who don’t want all these entitlement programs, that there’s actually a force out there working against the status quo?”
“Yes, I definitely agree. And not only that—I think of myself as part of that movement, and at the same time, the thing no one seems to understand is that we’re not going to solve these problems with words. The only way we have ever solved these problems throughout other times in history is revolution! We need to take this country back and take the power from government and make them work for us!”
“Interestingly put,” Sarah replies, crunching her lips together while musing over his statement. Then the teleprompter lights up again with name and city —unknown, Seattle. Howard, the always-happy set manager, circles his finger behind the glass, telling her to move it along. Sarah agrees and thanks Eldon for his input. “Okay, let’s take another call.” Again she pushes the green button. “Okay, caller ‘Unknown’ from here in Seattle, what are your views?”
Silence.
“Caller, you’re on the air, and we would like to hear your analysis concerning our huge national debt. What say you?”
Still no response, only what sounds like light breathing. Sarah gives a quizzical glance to her producer, sitting next to Howard, and once again attempts to get her seemingly reluctant caller to talk. “Caller, you are on—”
“I’m going to kill her.” The voice comes across the line in a slow violent murmur. The man’s malevolent tone, more than his words, sends a chill through Sarah, tightening her legs.
“I am sorry, caller. I’m not sure what you mean,” she replies, in an effort to remain composed.
“I am going to kill this bitch!” the unknown caller replies, more loudly and angrily.
Sarah shudders, feeling a shock of terror shoot through her body. “Who are you going to kill?”
Caller Unknown from Seattle returns to silence, an eerie silence that raises the hair on the back of Sarah’s neck. Howard and her producer, behind the glass, are on full alert while Sarah scrambles for a pen. She has had her share of prank callers in years past, but her instincts tell her something about this is real, very real. “Who are you going to kill?” she inquires once more.
Again, silence.
“Caller, are you still there?” she asks, her voice cracking. A tense moment of stillness follows.
Then a calm and unnatural yes comes across the line, leaving her no doubt this is something she needs to handle with the utmost scrutiny. Howard gives her the signal to cut the call, but she holds up a finger, demanding some extra time. She pulls herself together and gets down to what she does best—getting her subjects to reveal their core feelings to her, to bare their souls.
“Caller, you’re giving me very little info about who you are, who you wish to kill, and most importantly why you believe this person needs to die. I want to hear, in detail, all you have to say; leave nothing out.” She hears only heavy breathing in response. “Caller,” she says more forcefully, “I presume you called this show because you have something to say, a message you would like the world to hear; is that the case?”
“Yes, I do want the world to hear. I want the world to hear her die!” caller Unknown blurts out furiously.
“Who?” Sarah asks, backing off her tone, trying not to piss him off.
“My fucking filthy wife. She’s playing me. She thinks she can get away with it. I have her tied up in a chair and a knife in my hand, and if you even think about taking me off the air, I promise I will torture her first. I have a drill and eight-inch wood screws I will bore into her legs.”
The thought wrenches Sarah’s stomach. “Okay, okay, let’s settle down. I’ve listened to what you’ve said, but I want to know more,” she replies, waving off her producer who is tapping insistently on the glass. Then in attempt to relate to the caller, she reveals some fictitious personal information. “I want you to know that I know your pain; my ex-husband cheated on me constantly; I know how you feel.”
Her plan backfires, opening floodgates of wrath. “You have no idea how I feel, bitch! You are all the same. You think you can do whatever you want and then cry your way out of it. You make excuses for all that you do.”
Sarah can sense an unadulterated evil mounting in his voice with every word, and she gets the sense he’s doing all he can to hold it back.
“I’ve given her every chance to tell the truth. She cannot tell the truth. She is a lying, cheating whore, and she is going to die!” The audio over the line changes. Sarah realizes he has put the call on speakerphone, and before she can respond, he begins screaming out his hatred in the background. “You fucking fantasy! You think you can fuck my friends and get away with it! You believe I do not have the power to do something!”
Then for the first time, Sarah can hear the woman in the room. “Mmm… mm…mm.”
“I have the power! I have all the power from God to make you suffer!”
Between his screams all kinds of other noises fill the studio: some Sarah can make out, like a chair being thrashed about and the strained sounds of struggling.
“Mmmrr…mmrrr…mrrraahh!”
More thrashing, and caller Unknown roaring, “Die, you fucking lying, disgraceful whore—die!”
“Mmmraghh! Mmmrr! Mmmrr!”
Then suddenly it all comes to a stop. There’s mostly silence on both ends of the line, only heavy breathing coming from caller Unknown.
“Caller, talk to me. Caller!” she shouts, panicked and disarrayed. Fear surrounds her, and she’s not even sure she wants his answer.
Before she can discern her thoughts, she hears him taking in a deep breath and exhaling the words, “She got what she deserved. They all did!”
The line goes dead.
Chapter Two
Thirty-five minutes earlier.
“Eleven…”
“Okay.”
“Seventeen…”
“Uh-huh.”
“Twenty-four…”
“All right, come on baby.”
“Thirty-two…”
“Damn.”
“Thirty-seven…”
“Damn.”
“And the power ball number is forty-two…”
“Ah, to hell with it anyway!” he grumbles to himself, sitting alone at the breakfast table. It’s a small table, cramped for two, that’s placed in front of his apartment window with shades pulled. Staring back at him sits a glass jar full of change, a half-eaten plate of eggs covered in Tabasco, a gun, and a badge that reads, “Detective Cools.” Again he glances to the loser lottery ticket, lying crinkled and helpless atop the table, and flicks it away. For another brief moment, he counts his loss and then finishes the eggs while ignoring the mid-morning news playing in the adjacent room. Nothing of interest catches his ear, just the ordinary blah-blah-blah bullshit and the weather.
Today will be cold and rainy—characteristic of Seattle.
The sound of a two-cup coffee pot on the counter means his morning fix is brewed. He pours a cup and lights the second cigarette of the day.
By and large he’s a hostile man, but wasn’t always so. He began his life in a prominent, middle-class family, schooled and raised in the peaceful, mountain suburbs of Redding, California. There he benefited from a good, old-fashioned upbringing that catapulted him into a world ripe with opportunity and optimism. And optimistic he was. He set out to save the world—full of intentions to promote his youthful liberal approach to life.
But then he became a cop. And the years observing people at their worst have taken their toll. All of them—fr
om petty thieves to diseased crack addicts, pedophiles to woman beaters—his job, his life is to take them off the streets only for them to be placed into a corrupt justice system where everyone spends their every breath lying. As a young child, Bradley Cools was taught to always tell the truth, and then into adulthood he took oaths to uphold his integrity. But it’s all been downhill from there.
Now his days teem with untruths from every player in the game. The criminals lie their way out of trouble; once that is accomplished, he and his coworkers lie them back in. Then in the courtrooms, the prosecutors and defense lawyers tell more lies. Enough to rival those told in the jailhouse full of snitches, or even the girlfriends who come during visiting hours.
He finishes his cigarette, drinks the last of the coffee, and rinses the cup in the sink before heading to the bathroom.
Passing the living room, decorated in functional boring, he steps into view of the bathroom mirror, where a smile is forced across his face. The glass reflects a hard, handsome man with strong features that serve as a foundation for frustrated age lines. Cools is, and always has been, good-looking. At six feet tall, sporting wavy black hair, light brown eyes, and a muscular build, he has never gone without attention from the opposite sex. Currently, and for the past two years, he has been dating Chelsea, a pretty woman who has a bit of an insatiable desire to be with him. Together they make the ideal fit. Being something of a wallflower, she thrives on his daring stories, while at the same time soothing his angry and sometimes sarcastic view of the world. And, although he doesn’t realize it, he needs her more than she needs him, and he is lucky to have her.
He finishes his daily grooming with an electric shave that leaves a hint of stubble. Then, already three hours late for work, he makes his way to the front door, checking things off his list: gun, badge, wallet, and so forth. Little does he know that the events soon to take place will offer him two paths, either saving him or plunging him alone into a final downward spiral where even the notion of escape is clouded.
Chapter Three
At the Seattle Police Department’s downtown precinct, Michelle Robertson, Brad Cools’s partner, sits properly just inside an open cubicle, doing her nails while occasionally glancing at her fellow policemen as they come into view. Everything about a man in uniform keeps her warm and safe inside. Her desk/office for the most part is out in the open for all to see upon entering the station; only one wall separates, and her glamour-magazine look contrasts with the pale, cement-walled ambiance. As viewed by others, she is overaccessorized (even were it the ’80s), wearing multiple earrings and thick makeup over tanned skin. If taken all away, what would be left is a beautiful, married woman with brown highlighted hair, a curvy shape, and metallic-blue eyes, metallic not only for their shimmering blue-gray tint but also for their steadiness.
Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done. Page 1
