“No kidding. She got that eye disease thing you were so hell-bent on?”
“Davis is checking up on it. She’s from Cali, driver’s license says her eyes are green, though.”
“Liars lie. Whereabouts down south? You’ve got him looking for priors, don’t you?”
“Yep. Last known address was...holy shit.”
“What?”
“San Diego...S.D. Too much of a stretch?”
“I’ve seen less break a case wide open, so let’s run with it. Bartender said the letters were—what was the word she used? Intertwined?”
“Right. Could it be a logo?”
“Possible. What has an S.D. on it down there? You know, for a symbol? Sports team?”
“The Chargers?”
“Lightning bolt, JonJon. You don’t watch much football, do you?”
DJ ignored the jab. “The Padres? They have an S.D. on their caps, don’t they?”
“That they do, but it doesn’t give us much to go on. Check the colleges, too. Who’s in the area? UCSD?”
“UCSD and San Diego State, that I know of.”
“They use an S.D. for anything?”
“Texas, Barker. The only thing I know is orange and horns.”
“Have Davis check into it when he gets back to you.”
“On my list. Any news from your end?”
“Blood and hair samples off to the lab. Hunch says Rutherford, of course. But get this, cowboy, they dusted and found a full handprint on the window. Clean as fresh underwear. Big one, too.”
“Amateur or not, he wouldn’t be that stupid, would he?”
“The man walked away from a bloody car in broad daylight with a perfect handprint on the inside of the windshield. Either he’s a damn idiot—”
“Or he
wanted
to get caught.”
“Right as rain. I’m heading back to the station to check on the results. Where are you?”
“Sitting in traffic on I-5.”
“What in the hell for, son? You’re wasting time in the—”
DJ heard a beep over Barker’s voice. “Hang on, Davis is on the other line.” He clicked over. “Tell me you’ve got something?”
Davis said, “Did you figure this out, or did Barker?”
“The eye thing? Me—why?”
“Sounds like one of his left field theories. He must be rubbing off on you, JonJon.”
Come on, any respect? Ever?
“I’ll be sure to let him know. What’d you find?”
“Car accident last year. Shelley Ann Sergeant of San Diego cited for reckless driving. Driver indicated that she wasn’t wearing her contacts...officer noted a discrepancy between the stated eye color on the license and the actual eye color...doesn’t say what kind...no citation for providing false information. Cute girl. He probably took it easy on her.”
DJ felt a rush of blood surge through his head as he looked for an opening in the blockade of cars to his right. A rig to his left hauling a load of timber. Trapped. An ambulance screamed by on the shoulder, heading for the accident. He flicked on his lights, his siren, began angling himself to the right, forcing his way between an SUV and a furniture-delivery truck. “Good work, Davis. I need a couple more things. Find out where she went to school—”
“One step ahead of you. Graduated from San Diego State University. Smart cookie. GPA up somewhere around the moon.”
“You near a computer?”
“I can be, one sec.”
“Look up the symbol for their sports team.”
“Their sports team? Which one?”
“Doesn’t matter. Football. Look up pictures of the football helmet. Tell me what you see.” A horn blared and DJ flicked a look over his shoulder, expecting to see a pissed off driver with the gall to honk at a policeman, but instead, an woman had stopped and was waving him over, giving him room to get by.
“Um...looks like...red, black letters...says ‘Aztecs’...another one with ‘S.D.’ on it, sort of wrapped together.”
“Bingo. Move, dammit!”
“What’re you doing?”
“Sorry. Stuck in traffic. Damn idiots won’t get out of my way. I need an address. Portland current.”
“Let’s see...121 Blaylock Avenue.”
“Thanks, Davis,” he said. He made it to the shoulder, clicked over to Barker, hit the gas. The engine roared, pushed him back in his seat. “You there?”
“Thumb-twiddling. Davis got anything?”
“Forget the samples and the prints. Sergeant’s place, as quick as you can.” He recited the address, shot down the nearest exit ramp, and hung up before Barker had a chance to balk.
***
He made up time by ducking down side streets. Lights and siren off, but going too fast for the residential area. He almost clipped a cyclist as he barged past a stop sign, swerving around a woman backing out of her driveway. As long as he was careful, the dangers here were minimal compared to navigating the impossible traffic on Lombard Street, over where the pizza shops and bars and laundries kept a steady stream of customers zipping in and out of every gap they could wedge a car into.
DJ took a right onto Blaylock, and cruised to a stop two houses down from the Sergeant residence. Cut off the engine, surveyed the area while he waited on Barker. If his partner managed to fight his way through rush-hour traffic, sirens blazing, it would take him at least twenty to thirty minutes.
That’s too long...too long. But I should wait.
What if she has Sara in there right now? The kids, too. Ten minutes, Barker.
Cars were parked up and down either side of the street. A plump jogger lugged her body down the sidewalk, her running clothes soaked through to the skin. Lights illuminated living rooms, dining rooms. He imagined families inside sitting down for dinner or parents leaning over algebra books, trying to help out a teenager, but getting just as confused as their children. It made him think of Jessica and the home-cooked meal he’d be missing. Again. She didn’t mind. At least, she said she didn’t. She never complained, never asked questions. Simply kissed him and made him promise to come home safe. Every single morning, the same routine.
And so far, he’d kept his promises. The closest he’d come to a body bag was a domestic dispute six weeks in as a patrolman. The pop of a 9mm and the subsequent explosion of a brick, inches above his head. Way too close, and he’d frozen in place, unable to
make
his body react.
That was the thing. You never knew when it was your turn. Poke your head through a door, find out what a bullet tastes like. He had a recurring nightmare about it being something simple, like a routine stop to ask a couple of questions.
In the dream, he walked into the same building every time: a beat down, rundown, decrepit tire shop. A red Mustang, late ‘60s model, sat with its hood up and a mechanic’s legs sticking out from underneath. He’d think about how the legs looked like the Wicked Witch of the West’s after the house had fallen on her. He’d walk up, poke his head under the hood, looking at all the parts, examining how they fit together, worked together, admiring how clean they were, how spotless. Then he’d twist his head around, noticing the grinning face of the mechanic looking up at him. He could see the 9mm pointed at his head and then would watch as the knife-shaped blast of fire escaped the barrel. He’d hear the
crack
, and then stare at the bullet careening toward him in slow motion.
Always waking up before it hit.
Always.
He understood the symbolism, understood what his brain was trying to work out. Or at least he thought he did. It mirrored his life. The questions, the curiosity, snooping around under the hood, trying to figure out how the criminal mind worked. The fear of getting caught by surprise, of not being able to react in time.
All justified and reasonable. Both his fears and Jessica’s. He debated on whether to call her, let her know he’d be late. Decided against it, sent her a text instead, telling her it was going to be a long night, and to keep the bed warm for him.
She replied right away. Told him she loved him and missed him, and to be safe.
He smiled, checked the time. Twelve minutes had passed, and still no Barker.
He thought about Shelley, tried to scrutinize her profile. Atypical of what he knew and was accustomed to. Early twenties female, highly intelligent. Worked as close to Sara Winthrop as anybody could get. No real connection to the children yet, but it was close enough to matter. If she
was
involved with the kids, why go through all the trouble with the stripper? To frame Teddy Rutherford? Could be. From the way the people at the office talked about him, he was the obvious fall guy.
But what in the hell would a pretty little girl from San Diego have against her boss? Has to be something big to take it this far...pretty little girl...San Diego...
San Diego...San Diego...
Something blipped on the radar in his mind. Something else about San Diego. Something from earlier in the day. Something he’d read.
Where else did I see that? Barker...Barker...the station...Sara’s husband...reading his report...San Diego...
Brian Winthrop had made a trip to San Diego just months before he had gone missing.
And the connection is...?
He tried to play out the scenario in his head.
Brian Winthrop takes a trip to San Diego...he meets Sergeant somehow...she’s working the bar at the hotel...couple of drinks...roll in the hay with a younger woman...thinks he’s in love...flies home, can’t stop thinking about her...disappears like a coward...leaves a wife and three little kids behind...
Promising. Happened often—more frequently than innocent wives and families deserved.
But if that were the case, it didn’t explain what Sergeant was doing in Portland, working side by side with Sara, kidnapping her children.
He knew what Barker would say: ‘Only God and walls know why people do what they do.’
He checked his watch again. Twenty minutes.
Can’t wait anymore.
He opened his car door, stepped out into the street. Slowly made his way down the sidewalk.
Dreading this part. Dreading the approach.
And then he was saved from doing it alone with the slam of a car door and a loud whisper of, “DJ, hold up.”
Barker trotted down the street toward him.
DJ, relieved, said, “About damn time. What took you so long?”
“Had to stop and get you a fresh pair of panties,” Barker said, patting him on the back. “She home?”
“Doesn’t look like it. You think we’ve got enough for probable cause?”
“Wouldn’t bet my paycheck on it, but I’m going with ‘ready, fire, aim’ on this one. I think you’ve earned the right to kick the door open this time. Have at it, JonJon.”
DJ nodded and headed up the steps. Tried not to think about looking under the hood of a Mustang.
CHAPTER 20
SARA
Sara dumped Teddy into the car, lifting his legs and helping him inside. He managed to shut the door on his own, then collapsed back onto the seat.
Before getting in, she opened up the most recent texts on Michael’s phone, the ones to Sis, and read through. They had started that morning.
Michael says: Packages secure. No trouble.
Sis says: Good. Samson confirms.
Michael says: Napoleon?
Sis says: Convinced him. Meet Samson as discussed. Lose the car.
Michael says: Enough time for Mother Goose?
Sis says: Yes. Stick to the plan.
Sara could see that some time had passed between that and the next series.
Michael says: Took care of car. Barely made it. She’s coming.
Sis says: Stop texting, idiot. CALL ME!
And then another break, followed by a series that must have occurred while she had been blindfolded in the back seat.
Michael says: On way to cabin. Mother Goose out of control.
Sis says: OMG, are you driving and texting?
Michael says: Yes drvng. Not sure abt this. Kids?
Sis says: They’re ok. Do NOT text back. Drive.
Michael says: MG and Napo no prob, but kids? Too much. Can’t do.
Sis says: You can and you WILL. If she gets out of line, use the penalty.
Michael says: ok you right. Jus dont hurt kids. Plaes.
Sis says: You will not order me, understand?
Michael says: Sry my fault.
Sis says: Mother would not approve of this disobedience.
Michael says: I no. Sry. But ples no pain for kids, okay?
Michael says: Sis?
Michael says: Sis?
Michael says: Sis?
The conversation ended there. Sara felt a cool chill ripple across her skin.
Michael had been struggling with abducting her children the whole time.
Sara got in the car, checked on Teddy, felt for a pulse. He was out cold, beaten and bruised, sitting in his own piss-stained pants. Dried blood was caked around his nose, and his eyes were as purple as plums, his lips swollen. The gag had chafed the skin around the edges of his mouth. Bruises the size of eggplants were on his ribs and chest.
His breathing was slow, unsteady. He needed water, and she wished she’d remembered to bring the rest of her bottle.
He’d gotten the worst of it. His pain, his torture, was physical. Hers had been mental. He would eventually recover with the proper care. If he survived. She needed to get him to a hospital.
Sara cranked the ignition and sped down the gravel road. Trees and rocks and leaves and the stream flying by. She had no idea where she was, where she was going, or how far away she was from the city and her children. She remembered that they had originally been heading east. It
felt
east.
The sun, where’s the sun? There. That way. West.
She checked the phone signal.
Searching...searching...searching...
And, just like Michael had said before he unlocked his own cage with a well-placed bullet, the familiar connection bars appeared about a mile from the cabin. She pulled over at the next wide spot along the shoulder and sat staring at the keypad. Once she sent the message, the game would resume, and she would be on her own again, trying to figure out how to turn the tables on a psychopath.