Part III

"Mick"…

I can hear her, it's like she's calling me

"Mick"…

Her voice is so sweet, like an angel's

"Mick!"

Mick's eyes snapped open, his pupils adjusting to the darkness around him.

Where am I?

"With me Mick" a voice he knew so well answered his unspoken thoughts from the darkness.

Light streamed in from a tiny barred window, illuminating a figure that sat on the floor. Mick felt relief wash over him like ice cold water. He had found her. Hazel orbs gazed up at him, her beautiful face; half shrouded in darkness, a crystal tear found its way down her cheek.

"Help me Mick, I'm scared" she pleaded, an outstretched hand reaching out to him. Mick stepped forward, reaching for her, in an attempt to embrace her shaking body in his arms, a comforting gesture she had once given to him. His arms enclosed around nothing but air. He glanced down, a pool of crimson liquid glittered in the moonlight.

Sweat poured down Mick's temples as he awoke from his nightmare, his hands were shaking, and an image of his beloved Beth lodged in his mind. Memories flashed before his eyes;

Beth looking up at him, a smile spread wide across her perfect features. Her eyes, deep pools of rich emerald engulfed his own. When she looked into his eyes like that, he could never seem to look away.

Him holding her tightly in an embrace that seemed to last forever, he felt so safe in her arms, even though she was the fragile one, he felt reassured, like as long as she was there in his arms, no one could ever break them apart

Her hand brushing his as they both reached for the same paper. Her skin was so soft and smooth against his. It always sent shivers down his spine when she touched him.

A crimson pool of blood, reflecting the light of the moon.

Mick shook his head violently from side to side, in a desperate hope to clear his mind. He got out of his freezer, pulled his clothes on glanced at the digital clock that was positioned on a low, polished oak bedside table beside his freezer, three o'clock the miniature screen indicated as the ruby digits flashed across the miniature screen. He found his way to the light switch, flicked it on and took out the kidnapper's note. Deciding he was hungry, he walked downstairs, never taking his eyes off the piece of paper.

After pouring himself a glass of his favorite A+ blood, he took a long drink. The thick liquid, a deep scarlet revitalizing him as it cascaded down his throat. He read the note for the thousandth time in the past thirty-six hours. So far all he had found out from an analysis of the kidnapper's writing was that he was a man, judging by his rough strokes, definitely in his late thirties or early forties. He was a smart man, who did not like to be messed around with, and no doubt, he enjoyed being in control, fearless and scheming.

A perfect example of a kidnapper, leaving clues in riddles, no evidence, nothing vital.

His eyes scanned the page once more.

A wise old owl lived in an oak
the more he saw the less he spoke
the less he spoke the more he heard.
Why can't we all be like that wise old bird?

I suppose that means he's telling me to be quiet about this, not tell anyone, makes sense, why would he want this public?

A building stands alone, that could mean anything, surrounded by a home? What's he talking about, this guy must be a runaway from the mental institute.

Mick shook his head again; he switched the TV on and sat down, tossing the note on the seat next to him. He flipped through the channels impatiently, until he stopped on one, a documentary, a man was walking up a giant spiral of stairs. Circular walls were all around him, the man glanced up, and his half moon glasses reflected the sunlight that streamed in through a small window. Finally the man reached the top of the flight of stairs, a huge glass wall looked out onto an ocean, crystal water splashing against deadly rocks that broke the surface. A huge structure towered over the man, a beam of light shot from it, directed far out into the distant waters, illuminating the dark abyss.

Realization struck Mick like a slap in the face, the lighthouse. He grabbed his coat off the rack and shut the door behind him. His mind locked on his new destination.