THREE ATTEMPTS: A PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER, page 5
We will be celebrating tonight.
After thirty minutes of celebrating on the field, I return to the dugout and gather up my equipment, making sure to grab my batting gloves when two big arms wrap around me. “I’m so proud of you, babe,” I hear someone whisper into my ear and kiss my cheek. I turn around and it’s my favorite person, Hudson. I throw my arms out, hugging his neck.
“Babe! You made it for my game!” I say, so excitedly my voice squeaks.
He smiles and gives me a quick kiss, “Of course! I wouldn’t miss my girl going to the semi-finals for anything.”
His brother has a heart condition and has been in the hospital, so he has been in Texas visiting. He was so scared he wouldn’t be able to make it back in time for tonight. Hudson and I met in August about four years ago. It was the first week of school when I, physically, ran into him trying to find one of my classes. He helped me gather all my books and phone that scattered across the sidewalk. We talked for a few minutes before I thanked him and started to walk away, but he called after me asking me out. We’ve been together ever since.
We stand for a moment and catch up while the teammates are talking about which bar we are going to go to. “Will you come celebrate with us?” I ask, looking up at him with my pouting face.
He plants another kiss at my temple and replies, “I’ll meet you guys there. I have some running to do first. I haven’t been home in nearly a week!”
That makes me a little nervous. Hudson has had a rough group of friends for the last couple of years. His friends have been caught selling drugs, they get in fights, which has rubbed off on Hud, and they get in trouble all the time. I knew for a while that Hudson had been using cocaine, but I just figured it was a social thing. At the frat parties, it’s not uncommon to see people lining up in the bathroom to snort a line of the white substance. My birth family also had a significant substance abuse history, so I try to keep a distance from those things. I’ve been debating on bringing it up with Hudson.
The team makes it to The Pint, a local bar on the corner. After ordering our drinks, we are all dancing and having a great time. Later, I pull my phone out of my pocket and look at the time. We’ve been here for 2 hours and nothing from Hudson. I toss my phone onto the bar top and sigh. Tessa, a teammate, asks what’s wrong. I confess to her that I have been having doubts and thinking of ending things with Hudson.
I knew that I should have dumped Hudson a long time ago. I’ve been getting red flags for the past two years. He’s started selling cocaine, too, or at least that’s the rumors I hear. While I confess to her, she tells me the rumors she’s heard, just confirming my hesitation about staying with him.
We talk a few minutes about Hudson and his current path, but I’m caught off guard by my cell phone ringing.
It’s an unknown number, I hesitate, looking back up at Tessa, who looks concerned. I picked up the phone and said, “Hello?”
“This is an incoming call from the Carleson County Jail.” My heart falls into the floor, the blood leaving my face. “Please press one to accept the incoming call.”
She looks at me and mouths, “Is everything okay?” I shake my head at her, fidgeting with the phone, mashing my finger on the screen.
I hear the beep and then a voice coming from the speaker, “Tate? Tate! It’s me, Hudson. I need you to come down here. I need you to bring money and bail me out. I, um, accidentally sold to an undercover officer.” I roll my eyes. How could he be so stupid? Of course, that’s what he wants, me to come bail him out. Honestly, I should just let him sit there overnight.
But against my better instincts, I’m leaving the bar, walking down the street toward the county jail. While I could take an Uber, the walk is only a few blocks, so I don’t bother. Walking will help me clear my head. Maybe walking will soothe some of this rage I have right now.
I’m watching my feet, trying to dodge the cracks of the sidewalk when out of my right side of vision, I see a blur of black. Arms wrapping around me covering my mouth, dragging me backwards, and tugging me into a van.
I open my mouth to scream, to yell for help, as an old tie is shoved between my teeth. Just before something contacts my head, I hear a wicked voice say, “I’m so glad I found you, Tate.”
Chapter Eleven
Lauren (2023)
The person came back. They dragged me down a long hallway and into the next room on the left. I’m thrown onto the floor like I’m weightless. I yelp with the impact, melting onto the floor. I hear the person behind me shut and lock the door. I look around with nearly nothing in the room but me. There is no furniture, no clothes.
When I was abducted, I was wearing pajamas, standing in my kitchen. My matching pink set is now splattered with blood and dirt. I hold my arms out in front of me, the left easier to raise than my right, because there is less weight. I’m stunned looking at an arm without a hand, wrapped in a white gauze bandage. I don’t know how I’m not bleeding out everywhere or hurting. It must have been a nerve block because I never lost consciousness until I saw blood shooting out of my arm.
I continue to observe the room. I see a loaf of bread and a gallon of water in the corner. In the opposite is a bucket, I assume to relieve myself in. I start to cry. This scene is straight from a horror film. I can see a faint J.H. on the wall, written in blood. I gag, I can’t believe this is my reality. I have a realization that I might never snuggle my cat, Lucy, again. I might never get to go to work again. I may never find my prince charming and run away and get married. I could die here.
Drowning in my thoughts, I’m interrupted by a static noise from above, I look around for the source. “Lauren, welcome again. I see you’re discovering your room.” I want to die. This person, this voice. I can’t handle this any longer. I start screaming as loud as I can, hoping for someone on the outside to recognize I’m in distress.
There is twisted laughter coming through the speaker, “Lauren, you poor thing. You think I’d put you in there without sound proofing the room? Naive girl.” I break down, shrink into a heap on the floor, face buried in the only hand I have left.
“See, you take things for granted. Such as crying into both hands. Cruel, I know, but it’s only fair.” I look back to the white bandage and feel tears surge and leak onto my wounded face. “Anyways, welcome. I’m so glad to have you. We can begin our little game, but a few housekeeping things. First, if you find an opportunity to run, try it. If you are successful and make it out, you’re free forever.” I feel a wave of relief, of hope. This could be temporary. I can make it back home. “Ah, but rest assured, if I catch you, you return to your room. After three attempts, you’ll die. But I’ll let you decide your fate.” Click. The speaker shuts off, the static halting.
That’s it? That’s all I get? I run to the door, slamming with my hand, beating as hard as I can. I beat until my hand is bruised and swollen. I lay back onto the cold floor, staring at the ceiling. I lay there long enough to come down from my fit of desperation. When the adrenaline subsides, I realize I need to pee. I look around and frown when I notice the bucket is my only option. I relieve myself and replace my shorts. I study all the walls and then I see a window just above the bucket. It’s taller than me but maybe I can use the bucket to stand on it.
I grab the bucket, contemplating where to dump the contents. I can deal with the smell if that means that I have a chance to escape. I find an open corner and pour the fluid on the floor, gagging in the process. Flipping the bucket, I nudge it to the corner with my foot and stand on it; it’s the perfect height. The window looks as if it can open. I undo the lock and shimmy it upward, as best as I can considering I’m one handed. “Hello?” I say, into the empty space.
There is a moment of silence. With the thickness of the wall between the rooms, I’m not able to see all the room. The part I can visualize is empty. I click my tongue against my teeth, climbing down from my perch when I hear ruffling next door. Shocked, I jump back on the bucket. “Hello? Is someone over there?” I’m trying not to yell but I’m excited that I’m not alone and maybe it’s someone who can help me.
“Yes,” says a voice, quietly, followed by a cough and a groan. I nearly jump with happiness. The voice isn’t distorted, and it sounds like another female.
“What is your name and why are you here?” I ask. I don’t need to know a life story, but I need to know that it’s someone I can trust.
She takes a minute to reply. “Tate. I don’t know why I’m here, but I was kidnapped into a van. I woke up here and now I can’t walk.” Fuck. That’s the last thing I wanted to hear.
“What do you mean you can’t walk? Are you hurt?”
“No, like I can’t walk. My legs are fine, but I have a sharp pain in the back of my ankles and heels. There is blood everywhere... I think someone cut my Achilles tendons.” My god, here I am feeling bad for myself for losing a hand, but at least I’m able to walk.
“Tate, I need you to crawl over toward the back wall so I can see you.”
I hear some ruffling and then slowly, she comes into view. This girl is young, maybe 22 at most, with big blue eyes. Her small round head is covered with stubble. They shaved her head too. I hold up both of my arms, showing her my wound.
“They took my hand,” I say, voice shaking because it still doesn’t seem real. Her mouth falls agape, and I see tears swell in her eyes. “No, don’t cry.” I gave her an easy smile, fighting back the tears I wanted to spill. “Did they talk to you through the speaker?”
Tate nods her head and says, “Yeah, that we get three chances to get out of this hell hole.”
I nod in reply, smiling. “Yes. And you know what we are going to do? We are going to get out of here together.”
Chapter Twelve
Detective Hughes (2023)
Lauren French’s phone was left on the counter when she was taken. Steven was able to get all the records off it. I sit at my desk, thumbing through the thousands of pictures, text messages and social media messages. This girl had a lot of men after her; Rightfully so, she was beautiful.
Out of the three boys from Natalie’s high school relationships, two are completely normal boys. Parker and Tyler had alibis for both disappearance dates. The other, Will, I haven’t been able to track down. It’s like the last couple of years he simply disappeared. He was never reported missing, so we assume he is out in the world somewhere. But where?
As I read through her Facebook blocked list, I noticed several of the same name.
Will Roberts
William Roberts
Will J. Roberts
Roberts Will
I grab the office phone and dial Steven. “Hey, it’s Hughes. If you have her phone, unblock these accounts with ‘Will Roberts’ in them and then go back to messages. I want to look through them.”
“Give me ten and I’ll bring you the print outs.”
I put the phone back on the receiver and go back to searching. If Lauren and Natalie were both connected to will, what about Jocelyn? I shoot a text to Sanchez:
Will Roberts- I think he might be our guy. Connections with Natalie and Lauren. Find him.
Within seconds I get a reply:
Way ahead of you. I’m on it.
While scouring through the pages, Steven comes over and lays a large stack atop my keyboard. “There you go,” he says, “Anything else?”
“We still haven’t found Jocelyn’s phone?” I ask. That would give us a huge help in connecting the 3 girls.
“Not yet. If we do, I’ll keep my eyes peeled for this Roberts guy. There were a lot of messages from him,” he says, spinning on his heels to go back to his station.
I sigh. Every step we take forward, I feel like we take 3 back. My cell phone starts vibrating, shaking the whole desk. I grab it and hold it to my ear. “It’s Hughes,” I say into the speaker.
I hear what Sanchez is saying, but I wish I was hallucinating. He’s telling me there’s another girl missing. I can’t breathe. My collared shirt suddenly feels too tight. I tug at it, trying to make more room to inhale.
“Hughes, are you there? Can you hear me?” Sanchez asks, a tinge of concern in his voice. I’ve been doing this a long time and I never get choked up. But this, this is something that may be bigger than us.
“Yeah,” I say in between panting breaths. “Where are you?” My heart begins to pound in my chest.
“The Pint off Broadway. This was her last known location.”
I hang up the call and take three deep breaths, grabbing my keys. Maybe my husband is right, maybe I should retire. I can’t handle it like I could when I was 30. But even then, I don’t think I’ve ever dealt with four missing girls at once.
When I arrive, I’m again greeted by a couple of squad cars. Sanchez waves me over, guiding me inside. He leads me to the back office with a desk lined with computer monitors. He points to the bottom left screen, explaining, “This girl is one of the last people to see her alive. If we’ve framed that correctly, that’s Tessa Marshall. One of the officers is going to get her now and take her down to the station for questioning. Girl’s name is Tate Reynolds.”
“Have we checked her residence for clues or DNA?”
“Not yet. Do you want to go, or do you want to question Tessa?”
“I’ll go to the apartment. You get the girl. I’ll listen to the play back when I get back to the office.”
He nods, hands me a piece of paper with her address on it and heads to his car.
I arrived at a two-story apartment building. I walk into the lobby, pulling the paper out of my pocket to verify the number. I release a large breath, trying to prepare myself for yet another crime scene.
I enter the apartment and walk through the living room, looking for the bathroom. I find a hairbrush on the counter, scattered among the many hair products. I pull an evidence bag out of my bag and slide a few strands of hair into it.
Then, I decided to make a round in the bedroom. I find nothing extraordinary on the floor. Just clothes that missed the hamper and a softball bag. On her bedside table is a picture of a little girl and her parents. Tears begin to swell because when I look closely at the picture, I notice I know her parents. They adopted her when she was just a small baby. I hold onto the picture for a moment, making myself a promise to bring this girl home safe for them. Replacing it on the bedside table, I turn to the bed, and notice a folded piece of paper.
Chills scatter down my spine. I know what that is without even looking. I look around the room, ensuring that I’m alone. I reach into my pocket and don a pair of gloves before removing the note from the bedding.
Upon opening it up, I’m shocked. It’s two pieces of paper. I read the contents of the first one slowly, then over again to make sure I understood correctly.
If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stop while you’re ahead, detective.
I’ll make sure you find out what happened to little ole’ Jaime.
A loud gasp seeps from my lips. I throw my hand over to stifle it. Bile climbs my throat, my stomach now tangled in knots.
Carefully, I flip to the next page. Another journal entry. The same torn edges, the same lined paper, the same small handwriting. I take my time scanning the worn page.
I knew I was going to find a connection to everything when this case started, I felt it in my gut. Now, I don’t know that I want all the answers. But I’m not stopping until this fucker is behind bars or dead, whatever happens first.
JOURNAL ENTRY
5-29-2021
I really stepped out of my comfort zone and made a Tinder account. I’ve actually enjoyed talking to people on there over the last few weeks. But I’m not being completely truthful. But let's face it, most women aren’t either. The bio I made is authentically me- I like to read, take walks, and (I think) snuggle. The pictures I used, well that’s another story. I’ve already told you how unappealing I am. I’d never find anyone if I used my own pictures.
Since I moved here when I was ten, I decided I was going to use someone's pictures back home. I looked up people and used some pictures from a guy named Josh. He’s a SEC basketball player and what most girls would consider “hot”: Tall, lean, muscular, curly brown hair, green eyes.
I’ve been using his pictures the whole time. I’ve matched with hundreds of girls. It’s hard to keep their conversations separate. I’ve been talking to girls from high school. They would die if they knew it was little ‘ole Will they were talking to.
I was over the moon when I matched with a girl named Lauren. She was beautiful, with long black hair with big, red pouty lips. She had a small widow’s peak that reminded me of Mom. I knew from the beginning she’d be way out of my league, but I went out on a limb and invited her to the bar where I could meet her. I had a couple of drinks at home and was feeling brave. I tend to do that a lot now-a-days: Indulge in alcohol. It makes me feel like someone I’m not. Someone willing to take risks.
I approached her at the bar where she was waiting for me. You could see her looking around, anxious to meet the hot guy in the photos. When I confessed it was me, she basically took one look at me and ran. I tried to talk her into staying but she wasn’t giving me the time of day. I’ve tried to reach out since then, but she blocked me on every profile I made. She proves that women are all the fucking same, bitches.
I don’t know if I can keep handling rejection. I was doing so well for a while, I felt like I had a reason to be here. Part of me wants to get revenge. Make her pay for how she treated me, degraded me. She may not have said anything mean to me, but her running from me based on looks is disheartening.
I think my therapist is right. I do have feelings. I have my first feeling in a long time- anger.
