Read Online Dangerous Dreams (A Dreamrunners Society Novel) by Aileen Harkwood - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Aileen Harkwood
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hospital somewhere fighting for her life? Or worse, alone in her condo, suffering a major brain event with no one to notice and call 911?
No. How could a hallucination go on that long? It didn’t seem feasible, and as bizarre as everything that had happened so far was, the experiences felt solid. The pain in her hand was very real. Her gut told her to stop pretending. Face the truth. Accept the reality. She wasn’t waking up, because she wasn’t asleep. She was really here, locked up in this cell for reasons no one had communicated. She was injured and wearing bloody clothes, shivering on a cold cement floor.
She didn’t want to look that closely at her hand. She knew something was gone, and feared what that something was.
Don’t look. Don’t. You’ve had too many shocks already .
The more she told herself this, however, the more she needed to see.
Her arm lay stretched out on the cement, her hand palm up. She tried, but couldn’t bring it any closer. She didn’t have the strength to lift her arm. With profound relief, however, she noted that all four fingers and her thumb were still there, tips emerging from the ball of wrappings.
She tested them, attempting to close her hand in a semi-fist. None of her fingers or her thumb responded. Why couldn’t she move them? How much and what parts of her hand, hidden beneath the bandages, were missing?
Don’t go there. Don’t think about it. Stay strong .
Had she been here long enough to be missed back home? She’d been scheduled for work the morning after they took her. Would her boss or work friends care enough to wonder why she hadn’t shown? Or had she simply been reported as absent, a black mark checked beside her name, while someone else was called to cover her shift? She had people she knew, people she spoke to regularly at the places she frequented, the store, her favorite restaurant, and the laundry room at her condo complex. These weren’t friends, though; they were acquaintances.
Sadly, she realized she’d distanced herself from people in the two years since the nightmares had started, ever since her ex had left her. She’d isolated herself, stopped calling people back, didn’t want to maintain old friendships or make new ones.
No one would come knocking at her door, asking if she was all right. Her abductors had chosen wisely. She would not be missed.
Instead of allowing herself to dissolve into tears, she wrested with the problem of what she was doing here. Focusing on the situation in which she found herself was the only thing she could do to distract her from the pain, and keep her from crumbling completely.
Figure it out. You’ve already been over the options, criminals, mistaken identity, serial killers. Whittle them down. Which is it?
Those who’d kidnapped her had access to medical supplies and sedatives, and had no trouble overriding her condo’s security system and breaking in to take her. She’d been brought to an obvious torture cell with no access to natural light or anything beyond its four bare walls, a drain in the floor and—she looked up—a tiny vent in the ceiling. Even if they hadn’t taken away the chair and she’d been able to stand on the seat to reach it, the vent was too small for her to use as an escape route, being eight inches across at best.
How many people were involved? Gray Man and his accomplice might have been the same two who’d abducted her, but she couldn’t be sure. If not, it meant a possible total of four men working together. For what purpose?
Not serial killers. Grey Man enjoyed the torture, but so far hadn’t expressed any desire to kill, only maim.
Not drug dealers. Too professional in their dress, the suits too corporate for that, or no. Not corporate. Grey Man’s suit wasn’t tailored. It was off the rack.
Government? Was she being held by the U.S. government?
Mistaken identity. That had to be the answer. They’d taken her because they thought she knew something
No. How could a hallucination go on that long? It didn’t seem feasible, and as bizarre as everything that had happened so far was, the experiences felt solid. The pain in her hand was very real. Her gut told her to stop pretending. Face the truth. Accept the reality. She wasn’t waking up, because she wasn’t asleep. She was really here, locked up in this cell for reasons no one had communicated. She was injured and wearing bloody clothes, shivering on a cold cement floor.
She didn’t want to look that closely at her hand. She knew something was gone, and feared what that something was.
Don’t look. Don’t. You’ve had too many shocks already .
The more she told herself this, however, the more she needed to see.
Her arm lay stretched out on the cement, her hand palm up. She tried, but couldn’t bring it any closer. She didn’t have the strength to lift her arm. With profound relief, however, she noted that all four fingers and her thumb were still there, tips emerging from the ball of wrappings.
She tested them, attempting to close her hand in a semi-fist. None of her fingers or her thumb responded. Why couldn’t she move them? How much and what parts of her hand, hidden beneath the bandages, were missing?
Don’t go there. Don’t think about it. Stay strong .
Had she been here long enough to be missed back home? She’d been scheduled for work the morning after they took her. Would her boss or work friends care enough to wonder why she hadn’t shown? Or had she simply been reported as absent, a black mark checked beside her name, while someone else was called to cover her shift? She had people she knew, people she spoke to regularly at the places she frequented, the store, her favorite restaurant, and the laundry room at her condo complex. These weren’t friends, though; they were acquaintances.
Sadly, she realized she’d distanced herself from people in the two years since the nightmares had started, ever since her ex had left her. She’d isolated herself, stopped calling people back, didn’t want to maintain old friendships or make new ones.
No one would come knocking at her door, asking if she was all right. Her abductors had chosen wisely. She would not be missed.
Instead of allowing herself to dissolve into tears, she wrested with the problem of what she was doing here. Focusing on the situation in which she found herself was the only thing she could do to distract her from the pain, and keep her from crumbling completely.
Figure it out. You’ve already been over the options, criminals, mistaken identity, serial killers. Whittle them down. Which is it?
Those who’d kidnapped her had access to medical supplies and sedatives, and had no trouble overriding her condo’s security system and breaking in to take her. She’d been brought to an obvious torture cell with no access to natural light or anything beyond its four bare walls, a drain in the floor and—she looked up—a tiny vent in the ceiling. Even if they hadn’t taken away the chair and she’d been able to stand on the seat to reach it, the vent was too small for her to use as an escape route, being eight inches across at best.
How many people were involved? Gray Man and his accomplice might have been the same two who’d abducted her, but she couldn’t be sure. If not, it meant a possible total of four men working together. For what purpose?
Not serial killers. Grey Man enjoyed the torture, but so far hadn’t expressed any desire to kill, only maim.
Not drug dealers. Too professional in their dress, the suits too corporate for that, or no. Not corporate. Grey Man’s suit wasn’t tailored. It was off the rack.
Government? Was she being held by the U.S. government?
Mistaken identity. That had to be the answer. They’d taken her because they thought she knew something
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