The distant wail of the approaching police siren cut through the tension like a knife, its ominous sound a chilling reminder of the rapidly closing window for action. The cold air around me seemed to thicken with anticipation, each breath a heavy sigh as I frantically scanned the shed for any avenue of escape. My gaze darted across the cramped space, the corrugated iron walls, adorned with tools and shelving, offered no solace, only an unsettling reminder of the confines within which I was trapped. The clutter and dust that filled the shed provided a meagre barrier between me and Louise, whose presence at the entrance, knife in hand and movements unpredictable, added layers of complexity to an already dire situation.
As I contemplated my next move, the silence was abruptly broken by Louise's voice, her betrayal ringing clear as she alerted the outside world to my presence. "He's in here!" The desperation in her voice, whether feigned or genuine, shattered the last vestiges of silence, propelling me into action.
"Shit!" The curse was a whispered echo of my frustration as I realised the futility of a straightforward escape. The arrival of Detective Karl Jenkins, his voice authoritative and commanding, brought a new player onto the field, complicating the dynamics of my predicament. Louise's compliance with the detective's demand to surrender the knife was a small relief, but her next words sent a shockwave through me. "I've got the bastard trapped inside," she declared, her voice breaking with emotion. "I can't find Brianne!"
The mention of Brianne, Kain’s fiancée, and the insinuation of my involvement in her disappearance left me reeling. Louise's portrayal of the situation painted me in a light far removed from the truth, casting shadows of doubt and accusation that I had never anticipated facing.
I know Louise doesn't like me, but the thought that she might truly believe I was capable of harm was a bitter pill to swallow. The accusation, hanging heavy in the air, forced me to reassess not only my immediate situation but also the relationships and perceptions that had led me to this point.
As Detective Jenkins issued his orders, directing Louise to retreat back into the safety of the house, I found myself at a crossroads. The authority in his voice offered a brief respite, a momentary pause in the unfolding drama that allowed me to gather my thoughts.
Darting back into the shadows of the shed, the weight of Louise's accusations and the imminent arrival of law enforcement forced me to weigh my limited options.
From my concealed position, I observed Detective Jenkins as he stepped into the shed, his form outlined by the backlight from outside. The idea of using the Portal to escape, a tactic I had relied on before, seemed suddenly fraught with uncertainty against an adversary like Jenkins. "I'm unarmed," I declared, aiming to set a tone of non-aggression. Despite the delicacy of the situation, I clung to the hope that a peaceful resolution was possible, bolstered by the fact that, in technicality, I hadn't committed any crime.
Jenkins moved forward with a cautious grace, his hands visibly empty and raised slightly—a gesture that seemed to bridge the gap between authority and understanding. "I just want us to talk," he stated, his approach measured, almost inviting dialogue rather than confrontation. Could the resolution to this be so straightforward? The thought flickered through my mind, a glimmer of cautious optimism amidst the storm.
"I'm Detective Jenkins. You must be Luke Smith?" His introduction was formal yet lacked any edge of accusation. "Yes, I am," I answered, finding a small measure of relief in his direct yet seemingly open demeanour.
"Where is Brianne?" The question came swiftly, a direct pivot to the heart of the matter. "With Kain," I responded, the truth of my words mingled with the complexity of their implications. Jenkins' follow-up was expected. "And where might that be?" Jenkins probed deeper into the specifics of their whereabouts.
"I am not exactly sure," I confessed, threading a line between honesty and the necessity of vagueness. "Kain sent her a message about an hour ago with an address of where to meet him. That's why she took off in his car earlier when I arrived."
"So why is Louise so concerned about her safety?" Detective Jenkins probed further. "I don't know. I guess she is just confused and scared. I suppose I would be too if people around me were going missing and being secretive," I reasoned, painting a picture of misunderstanding and fear that, while not entirely untrue, was designed to deflect from the deeper truths at play.
"Are you being secretive?" Jenkins' question cut deeper, challenging the façade I had carefully constructed. "No. I really don't know what's going on," I lied, a sudden departure from the nuanced dance of half-truths I had been performing. The assertion was bold, perhaps too bold, but it was a line I had crossed with the utterance, stepping firmly into the realm of deceit in a desperate bid to protect the larger secrets that lay just beneath the surface.
Jenkins' unwavering gaze felt like it could unravel the fabric of my carefully constructed narrative, each question pulling at threads I desperately wished to keep intact. "And what about Jamie?”
"Jamie is safe," I found myself saying, the words a blend of truth and necessity, the sigh that followed a release of tension I hadn't realised I'd been holding.
The shed, dimly lit and filled with the remnants of our confrontation, suddenly felt smaller, more oppressive, as Jenkins prepared his next question. The pause that preceded it was heavy with implication, a silent herald to the scrutiny that was about to intensify. "I do have one question for you." His voice, steady and expectant, filled the space between us with a palpable sense of foreboding.
"What's that?" My response, an attempt at nonchalance, betrayed a flicker of uncertainty.
"We tracked your movements to Adelaide just yesterday. How did you manage to sneak past all of our surveillance and back into Hobart?" Jenkins inquired, the question striking a chord of alarm within me. The implications of his inquiry were clear—he was dangerously close to peeling back layers I had fought hard to keep covered.
I opted for silence, a nonchalant shrug my only reply to a question that dug too deep, threatening to expose more than just my own secrets. The realisation that my actions were under such close scrutiny sent a wave of dread crashing over me. How much did they really know, and how close were they to discovering the existence of Clivilius?
Karl's observation, "You are a cunning little bastard, aren't you?" carried with it a change in tone, an edge that sliced through the false calm of our conversation. His words, though perhaps intended to provoke a reaction or an admission, only served to highlight the precarious nature of our interaction. The stakes had indeed escalated, his acknowledgment of my evasion a clear sign that our cat-and-mouse game was nearing a critical juncture.
The impulse to flee, to evade the looming threat of detention and the unravelling of Clivilius' secrets, surged within me with an intensity that bordered on desperation. My hand, almost of its own accord, edged towards the sanctuary of my back pocket, seeking the Portal Key that had become my lifeline in situations far less dire than this.
"Don't move!" The sharpness in Karl's voice, amplified by the acoustics of the shed, halted my movements instantly. The sight of his hand moving towards his holster was a stark reminder of the reality of our confrontation, a reality I had hoped to avoid. My involuntary startle, a reflex born out of surprise and fear, sent an unfortunate chain reaction through the shed, culminating in the crash of a nearby motorbike. The sound, loud and jarring, shattered the already fragile silence, marking the end of any pretence of a peaceful resolution.
Karl's response was swift and decisive, a testament to his training and instincts. The force of his tackle was unexpected, the impact with my chest sudden and breathtaking, quite literally. As we tumbled to the floor, the breath was forced from my lungs in a whoosh that left me gasping for air, my mind racing even as my body struggled to cope with the immediate physical demands of the situation.
The application of a wrist lock to my right arm was both precise and painful, a clear demonstration of Karl's control over the situation. The pain was sharp, a white-hot line of fire that seared through my nerves. Instinctively, I reacted, a jerk of motion driven by pain and the primal urge to escape. Our struggle on the floor was desperate and disorienting, a physical contest of strength and will that left us both slick with sweat and grappling for dominance.
Ultimately, it was Karl's strength and technique that prevailed. I found myself immobilised, sprawled on the cold concrete floor, my arms secured above my head in a position that left me vulnerable and exposed. The weight of his body pinned me down effectively, a physical reminder of the precariousness of my situation and the seriousness of the consequences now looming over me.
Lying there, the cold seeping into my bones, I was acutely aware of the sudden shift in our dynamic. Karl's physical dominance was not just a matter of strength; it was a clear message, a demonstration of the lengths to which he was willing to go to secure his objectives. The realisation that my options were rapidly diminishing, that my usual means of escape and evasion were no longer viable, filled me with a sense of dread and helplessness I had not anticipated.
Exhausted and uncertain of my fate, our eyes met, a silent clash in the dim light of the shed. "Well, this is awkward," I managed to say, the words slipping out in a feeble attempt at humour. In that moment, I was grasping for any semblance of leverage, a way to diffuse the tension or perhaps create an opening for escape.
"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" The disgust in his voice was palpable, a clear reflection of his feelings towards the situation and, by extension, towards me. His disdain acted as a sharp reminder of the seriousness of my predicament, a contrast to the levity I had attempted to inject.
Despite the intensity of the moment, a wild grin found its way across my face, an involuntary reaction to the absurdity of our standoff. It was then that Beatrix's face momentarily appeared in the doorway, a fleeting glimpse that sparked a flicker of hope. Perfect timing! The thought raced through my mind, her presence a potential game-changer in the deadlock between Karl and me.
"And what about you?" I shot back, seizing the opportunity to probe Karl's resolve, to keep him mentally off-balance even as he maintained physical control. His retort, a declaration of restrained violence, sent a chill down my spine. "If my hands weren't pinning you down right now, I'd punch you in the face."
A shudder rippled through me at his words, a visceral reaction to the threat they represented. "Well, ain't that a shame," I replied, the remark accompanied by an inadvertent wink as dust irritated my eye, adding an unintended layer of insolence to my response.
Karl's whispered accusation, "You're a fucking psychopath," delivered so close, carried with it a weight of panic and realisation. The immediacy of the danger, the potential consequences of my actions, and the fine balance between escape and capture became overwhelmingly clear. The surge of panic was palpable, a tangible force that threatened to overwhelm my senses. Yet, despite the fear, the necessity of maintaining my composure, of finding a way out of this predicament without being arrested or worse, became the singular focus of my thoughts.
"What makes you think I'm a psychopath?" I shot back, my voice laced with a mix of defiance and curiosity. Beatrix's fleeting appearance at the door had injected a sliver of hope into the dire situation, yet her intentions remained a mystery, leaving me to navigate this precarious dialogue with Karl on my own.
Karl's next words came as a hammer blow, his voice heavy with accusation. "Do you have no remorse for what you have done? You've murdered at least four people!" The claim sent a jolt through me, a visceral reaction to the seriousness of the charges he laid at my feet.
"I haven't murdered anyone," I retorted, my denial immediate and forceful, yet internally, I was besieged by a tumultuous flood of images. Visions of Cody, of Karl dressed in ominous black, the haunting memory of a swinging chair and a harrowing tumble down stairs—the echoes of snapping bones and the visceral sight of dark blood pooling ominously. These fragments of memory, disjointed and disturbing, assaulted my mind, blurring the lines between reality and perception.
A sudden, gripping fear took hold. "Have you?" The question slipped out, a reflection of the turmoil within, turning Karl's accusation back upon him in a moment of desperate confusion.
The intensity of our confrontation seemed to shift then, with Karl's grip on my arms loosening slightly, a small concession in the physical struggle that mirrored the complex dance of our conversation. "So how do you want to do this?" he asked, the question marking a pivotal moment in our encounter. It was an opening, a potential path to de-escalation that I hadn't anticipated, yet one that carried with it the weight of decision.
Before I could formulate a response to Karl's probing question, an abrupt interruption shattered the tense atmosphere. The crackle of the radio attached to Karl's belt pierced the silence, a harbinger of external intrusion, while the shed's lone light flickered ominously, casting our shadows in stark relief against the cluttered walls. Panic surged through me like a live wire, sparking a frantic thought: I can't go through Beatrix's Portal. The reality of my limited escape options settled heavily upon me, a suffocating cloak of dread.
Then, as if summoned by my desperation, Beatrix's voice cut through the chaos, a beacon of unexpected hope. "Luke!" The sound of her voice was the precursor to the door closing with a definitive thud, revealing behind it not the expected darkness of the shed's exterior but a wall of brilliant, swirling colours—the Portal, activated and inviting.
The moment of distraction was all I needed. Acting on instinct, I delivered a swift knee strike to Karl's groin, a desperate bid for freedom. Our bodies became entangled in the struggle, a messy tangle of limbs and determination. My hand scrambled for the Portal Key in my pocket, its familiar shape a promise of escape. With a sense of urgency bordering on panic, I aimed it towards the floor and pressed the button, a silent plea for it to transport us away from this confrontation.
What followed was a chaotic descent into the unknown. Objects crashed around us, their sounds muffled by the thick, Clivilian dust that enveloped us in a disorienting cloud. The wrestle between Karl and me continued unabated, our struggle undiminished by the transition through the Portal. Finding myself once again on my back, with my hands pinned by Karl's superior strength, a whisper escaped my lips, "Bye, Karl." It was a whisper filled with the taste of a fleeting victory, a momentary triumph savoured in the face of overwhelming odds.
But victory was short-lived. Swift and precise, Karl's counterstrike was the last sensation I felt before my world plunged into darkness.
