Sara's Game (16 page)

“I’m here, Teddy, I’m here.  Keep your voice down, okay?”

His response was muffled and wet.  “Okay.”

“Are you in pain?”

“A lot.”

“I’m sorry.  Listen to me.  Listen.  Everything will be okay.  We’ll get out of here.  I’ll get you out, I promise.”

“What’s...what’s going on?”

She could tell it was difficult for him to speak, difficult to push his words around the cloth binding his mouth open.  “Someone’s playing a game with me.”

“A game?”

“A bad one.  They have my kids.”

“What?”

“They’ve been kidnapped.”  She scooted close to the cage wall, wrapped her fingers through the bars and whispered, “How’d you get here?  Did he bring you?”

“The guy...him.”

“Not so loud, okay?  He’s working with some woman, any idea who?”

“No.  A voice...on a phone.”

“What did she say?”

“Said I...said I deserved this.  For being...a pig.”

“I think it’s somebody at the office.”

“Said I’m...motivation.”

“Motivation?  Teddy, focus.  Who’s doing this?”

“Don’t know.”

“Anything at all.  Think.  Guess.”

“Don’t know.”

“Teddy, please.  Say the first name that comes to your mind.”

The seconds ticked by.  He was silent for so long, Sara thought he might’ve passed out again.  Finally, he mumbled, “Maybe—maybe it’s—”

The door crashed open, slamming against the wall hard enough for Sara to feel the vibrations through the floor.  Thundering footsteps, followed by, “Quiet!”  The voice echoed off the walls as Sara screamed, pushing herself up against the far side of the cage, away from him.  Light from the open door penetrated the black cloth enough to illuminate the interior.  She could see her hands shaking.

The sickening
thuds
of fists on flesh replaced the noise of her gasping.  It sounded like someone with a sledgehammer beating a dead animal carcass. 

Teddy coughed and gagged.  Moaned.  She was almost relieved that she couldn’t see what was happening to him, but the images in her mind were just as bad.

One, two, three more punches, and then it stopped. 

The black cloth whipped open and the tall man knelt down in front of her.

“Don’t hurt him again,” she begged. 

“Penalty,” he said, slipping another note through the cage.

Sara grabbed it.  Hands unsteady, paper flapping like a wounded dove.  She didn’t want to read it, terrified of what it might contain.  What penalty had she brought upon herself?  What had she done by breaking a rule?  If it was for her, she’d take it.  She would take the punishment.

Not the kids...not the kids...don’t hurt them anymore...I’ll play...

Fingers trembling and uncooperative, she fumbled the note open.

THE PENALTY IS SEVERE.  NO MORE CLUES.  NO QUESTION FOR THIS ROUND.

AND NOW YOU MUST CHOOSE YOUR PATH:

1.  HE DIES – YOUR CHILDREN ARE SAFE AND YOUR CAGE TIME ENDS

2.  HE LIVES – I’LL REVEAL WHO I AM BUT THERE MAY BE CONSEQUENCES

One simple choice that changed the game completely.  Sara dropped the note to the cage floor.  It was easy.  The first option was clear: order Teddy’s death and the kids would be fine.  The ambiguity of the second choice left her wondering.  It didn’t say anything about harming Lacey, Callie, and Jacob, just that she would reveal her identity.

She won’t do anything to hurt them.  The game is over if she does.

I can’t risk it.  I can’t.  It’s not—it’s not even a choice.

She’d read about questions like these before.  Psychological tests designed to assess compassion.  A passenger train is speeding down the tracks, a single person in its path.  Derail the train to save one man and risk countless lives, or run him over and save everyone on board?  The problem with the question was the lack of guarantee that anyone would die in the first option. 

But this...this was different.  There were no alternatives.

She would have to play God.  Choose when and where someone died.  The remainder of her days would be spent wondering what might’ve happened if she had picked the second option, but the regret would pale in comparison to what she’d feel if she had read too far into it and something happened to her babies.

The tall man said, “Choose.”

“Give me a minute.”

She listened to Teddy’s breathing. 

He was clueless.  His fate contained in a simple slip of paper.  No idea that he was about to die. 
Had
to die.  If he knew what the note said, would he offer himself as a sacrifice?  Would he say, ‘Do it, save them,’ or would he be the same self-centered, egotistical brat that he’d always been?  Could he, for once, let go of his self-absorption and care about another person?  She’d heard stories of soldiers jumping on hand grenades, surrendering their lives to save others.  That level of personal disregard was almost incomprehensible.  She would do it for the children.  Would Teddy?  If he knew what was at stake, would he make that choice?

He wouldn’t.  He would come up with an excuse.  Run if he could.

Forcing away her pity didn’t make the decision any easier.  But, she only had one to make.

She kicked the cage, close to the tall man’s face, surprising him.  Watched him fall backwards, landing on his ass.  “Number one,” she said. 

He grunted, groaned, crawled back to his feet.  Grabbed the cage and shook it.  His only form of retaliation. 

Sara thought about kicking his fingers, smashing them against the bars.

He pulled a handgun from his waistband, screwed a silencer into the barrel.  Pointed it at her head. 

She lifted her arms, knowing the fleshy shield would do no good, but it was a natural reaction. 

“Watch,” he said, throwing the blanket off the cage, revealing the room. 

Teddy was a crumpled mass, bloodier and covered with extra bruises.  His body purple and limp.  Unconscious, unaware of his impending death.

The tall man lifted his gun, pointed, and paused.

Paused.

Paused.

Paused.

Sara screamed, “Don’t—” as he pulled the trigger.

CHAPTER 17

DJ

DJ sat at his desk, going over a list of LightPulse’s female employees while Barker went to check out Rutherford’s car for any evidence.  The initial feedback had been discouraging, but the Bloodhound was on a trail, and there was no convincing him otherwise.

There were nine women at LightPulse, including Sara, and he’d turned up nothing significant on the first five.  Mostly clean, a traffic ticket or two, one instance of a Minor in Possession.  Young women fresh out of college.  Still in party-mode, first real job, first real paycheck.  None of them fit the profile of what he was looking for, but then again, did a sociopath ever reveal her true nature?  And since Oregon didn’t list eye color on driver’s licenses, he examined their ID photos, enhancing them for clarity as much as possible, trying to discern different-colored irises.  Considering any one of them could’ve been wearing contacts to hide that fact, he could almost hear Barker over his shoulder, telling him how pointless it was.  Yammering on with some proverb that he’d heard hundreds of times over the years.

What I need
, he thought,
is an outlier. Something that stands out.

The next two proved to be as unrewarding as the rest.  Grandmothers in their sixties.  He didn’t bother going through their information.  It was unlikely either of them could be misconstrued as an attractive twenty-something with a possible boob job like the Ladyfingers bartender had suggested.

The last employee didn’t come up in his Oregon DMV search.  He checked the spelling of her name again. 
Hmm...still driving with an out of state license, are we?  How long have you been here?  A couple of months...where are you from...where are you from...California.

There you are, Shelley.  Shelley Ann Sergeant.  Formerly of San Diego...registered a tan SUV...California driver’s license says your eyes are...green.

“Shit.”  DJ hurled his mouse at the nearby wall, the cheap plastic shattering into a dozen pieces.  Heads whipped around, examined him, and then went back to their calls and case files.  Amongst the cluttered desks, with keyboards clacking and phones ringing, frustrated outbursts were common enough that nobody paid much attention.  As long as you didn’t hurt anyone in the process, you got it out, you moved on.  Standard norm for a group of people chasing wisps of information, trying to put jigsaw puzzles together in the dark.

Regardless, it’d been a long time since he’d had an outburst like that, and the embarrassment of losing his composure left his cheeks flushed.  He crawled across the floor, scooped up the remnants and tossed them in the trashcan.  Put his back against the wall.

We screwed up.  Chased too many shitty leads.  I’m wrong, Barker’s been wrong about everything.

Sergeant Davis ambled up to DJ’s desk, tossed a file down.  “Judge denied your request, JonJon, not enough circumstantial to search the car rentals.  Better luck next time, huh?”

DJ stared at the ceiling and beat the back of his head against the wall as Davis waddled away.

He called Barker, hoping he’d made some progress.

“Go for Barker.”

“Any luck?”

“Waitress across the street saw a tall guy park the car sometime this morning.  Said he left and never came back.”

“Tall guy, huh?  Think it’s the same one?”

“Has to be.  Too convenient.”

“Can she identify him?”

“Dressed in black, dark hair.  That’s about it.  Sent some blood samples back.  Hope we’ll be able to identify Rutherford from it, but we’ve got another clog in the drainpipes.”

“What’s that?”

“Found two receipts from yesterday in the center console.  Guess where the first one’s from?”

“Where?”

“No, really.  Guess.”

“Barker.”

“Ladyfingers, for eighty-four dollars.”

“Damn it.  I was sure he—”

“Hold up now, don’t get your panties in a wad.  Time-stamped at eight-fifteen, so he was there, but considering the amount of blood in his car and the second receipt, I’m about to give in and say you were right.”

“About what?”

“About Rutherford not being involved with Miss Stardust.  Not directly, anyway.  Ladyfingers is a connection, but the second one is from Hotel Llewellyn.  Our boy may not have been home last night.”

“Easier to frame somebody when they’re not home.”

“Doesn’t mean he wasn’t removing himself from the situation.”

“If the connection’s there, it’s there, but I won’t say I told you so about him not being involved.”

“Wild ass guesses don’t make you a genius, cowboy, but your instincts are getting better.”

“Wouldn’t worry about me being a genius.  Came up empty on the heterochromia.”

“The what?”

“The different colored eyes thing.  None of the women at LightPulse have it, from what I can tell.”

“Hate to break it to you, but I didn’t figure she’d be that close to home.  Where are you with the rental records?”

“Denied.  Not enough evidence.”

“No shit?  I figured Carson would be all over this one.  He’s usually Quick Draw McGraw when it comes to missing kids.”

“Guess it takes more than a stripper in a hospital bed.  So, what’s next?”

“Face time, JonJon.  Ask questions.  No more chasing ghosts.  Gotta pound the ground before this one gets too far away from us.”

“Like it hasn’t already.”

“Finish this one for me.  When one door closes...”

“Another one opens?”

“No.  You kick that son of a bitch off its hinges.  Now get your chin off your chest, put your helmet on, and get back out there for the second half, got me?”

“Got it, coach.”

“Back to the basics, DJ.  I’m sticking with the car and the giant for now.  Check for witnesses around the schools, check the babysitter—hell, check garbage cans.  Check out anybody who’s tweaked your whodunit instinct.  We’re missing something simple, I can feel it.”

“Will do.”  DJ hung up, thinking,
If it were simple, Barker, we’d have figured it out already.

***

DJ took out a notepad and began to draw a mind map of everything he knew about the case.  Sara Winthrop and her three missing children were at the center of it all.  The outward lines connected to Teddy Rutherford, Jim Rutherford, her assistant, Shelley, and the seven other women who worked at LightPulse.  Willow Bluesong, the babysitter who hadn’t been home when they’d stopped by.  Reluctantly, he added Brian Winthrop, but only because he knew Barker would’ve demanded that he be included.  He added the schools, their principles, the ice cream shop.  The tall man, the mystery woman.  Ladyfingers and Stardust.  By the time he was finished, it looked like a never-before-seen constellation and sparked no new sense of direction.

He came up with a reason to draw an
X
over each person and place on the chart.  Jim Rutherford had behaved oddly because he was trying to protect his son.  Teddy Rutherford was either missing or dead.  They knew almost nothing about the tall man or the mystery woman, except that they were working together.  The schools had already told them everything they knew.  He wrote ‘Ghost’ underneath Brian Winthrop’s name and ‘Collateral’
under Anna Townsend’s.

He crossed out everyone with good reason.

Everyone except Willow Bluesong and Shelley Sergeant.

He decided to start with them, and if neither one could provide anything fresh, he’d move on to friends and family.  Beyond that—as much as he hated the idea, and Barker loathed it because it made him feel inadequate—they would have to get the press involved.

The last they’d heard of Sara Winthrop, she was on foot, running away from the Rose Gardens.  If she were still playing this game—

Are you ready to play the game?

—and if she were still racing around Portland, surely someone would’ve spotted a distraught and harried woman.  They’d have to get pictures of her and her kids on the news, issue an alert.