Playtime (14 page)

"So I let you know what is going on,"
Nielson says. "Don't go doing anything stupid that will mess us up. Stay
cool. Let me and Winslow and the rest of the force do our job." They are back
at the station, parked in front of the office. Blaine nods. 

 "I appreciate it," he says. "I
feel like we have a shot at it." 

 "Damn right we do," Nielson says.
"We will get your girl back." He puts an arm on Blaine's shoulder,
squeezes, then grabs his coat from the back and gets out, walks up the
sidewalk. Blaine watches him go, thinking no wonder these guys have rotten
dispositions: dealing with the dregs of society day after day. The creeps, the
subhuman. He wonders if Nielson could get in trouble for handling the case this
way. He believes he probably could. Nielson is beginning to seem like a bit of
a cowboy, Blaine thinks, but he will save his complaints for later. If they
don't get Renee back. 

 Blaine has always thought that people were penalized
for what they had done, whether the law caught them or not. That their own
feelings of guilt or shame were penalties, even when they apparently "got
away" with something. So what about the sociopaths or psychopaths who
didn't have those feelings? What was their punishment? In Blaine's mind, the
fact that they didn't or couldn't have those feelings was the punishment, as
well as the cause of their actions. They weren't quite human because they
lacked the emotion and empathy that humans had. And that was their punishment.
They weren't quite human. It made them objects of hate, but of pity also. They
were like dangerous monsters. 

 He is driving down the road away from the station
now, watching the traffic automatically and thinking. A lot of people wouldn't
agree with him that those people were already being punished by their lack of
humanity. They would be screaming for punishment, and Blaine is swinging over
their way. It is one thing when it is a dry intellectual discussion and another
thing when somebody has your girl. If they catch this motherfucker, he hopes he
goes straight to hell. If he gets a chance to put him there, he will do it.
Without hesitation, without a second thought. Blaine jerks his attention back
to the road. He is almost home, though he has no real recollection of the
streets he has just driven down. He feels the .22 in his pocket, thinks it's
time to go bigger. 

 Automaticity. The way the brain allows you to
focus on other things when you have learned an activity well, he thinks, somewhat
bitterly. He has so much information that seems useless. Think. That is what he
needs to do. Put himself in this guy's head. What would he do if it were him?
He recoils at the thought, but presses on. It seems from the way things have
gone so far that this guy has something against him. Either something personal
like the guy in the bar, or something just because he was hooked up with Renee.
Right off the jump-go, the guy in the bar is the only person he can remember
tangling with at all lately. And even that wasn't really a big deal. No blows
or physical actions. Just a few tense words. Not the magnitude of confrontation
to escalate into a kidnapping. 

 Except these guys sometimes got fixated. Blaine
had read that before someplace. Little things could loom large in their minds.
Tiny slights could provoke large responses. You heard about it all the time.
Look at guys in prison. Glance at them the wrong way, you get killed. It is
hard to tell what was going on in some other guy's mind. 

 And with women, Blaine could understand that. How
easy it was to become fixated. He had been there. Nothing rational about it.
Outside the pale. You were driving your life down the road, in control, and
suddenly you weren't. Other forces causing your decisions, like the wheel being
jerked from your hands. One day in charge of your destiny, then suddenly,
without warning it is like you were some dog on the prowl, tuned into your
partner's movements, watching the curve of her neck, the swell of a breast, the
long muscles of her thighs, no more in control than a beast in rut. Saliva in
your mouth like one of Pavlov's dogs. 

 Renee knew the effect she had. He believes it
gave her a sense of power. Sometimes she would walk around in those panties,
and just by the way she moved, he could tell she knew that he was watching. She
would have this … look on her face, he couldn't describe it, but it had to do
with her knowing her power and accepting it, enjoying it. He would get hard
watching her, sometimes even right after they had just had sex. It was beyond
his control. That was the scary and wonderful thing about it. And she knew it.
She got him so revved up he would just grab her, right there, wherever she was,
and do her. And she would … let him, like she knew he was out of control. And
he was. That was what he loved about it. 

 He has an erection now thinking about it. 

 He was such a thinker most of the time, analyzing
everything around him for patterns. Deep thoughts. That was the reason he
enjoyed the surfing and climbing so much. The thoughts stopped for a while.
Sometimes just being is better than thinking. But being with Renee was the only
time he shared that feeling deeply. 

 And she loved it too, that was the thing. Not
only with him, but that power over men in general. That was one of the reasons
he had thought she might not have been completely honest with him about her
other relationships.   

 He pulls into the drive of the house and sits at
the wheel. How would she be feeling as somebody's captive? She is smart and
resourceful and not above using her attraction as a tool. She is tough, too;
and all things considered, he figures she is still alive. She is attuned to men
and what they want, and she would be playing this guy as hard as she could. He
probably is some manner of psychopath. Blaine thinks that is true of men who
commit this type of crime, almost by definition. People who do shit like this
just don't care about other people. Which doesn't surprise him. There are a lot
of people running around who don't give much of a hoot about others, many of
them successful with families and community standing. At least, that is the way
it looks to Blaine. 

 So she would be playing this guy, using every
tool she has to gain some modicum of control in a situation where ostensibly
she has none. Blaine shuts his eyes in the drive and thanks whatever God there
is that she is like she is. Maybe she can survive. 

 What can he do?   

 The first thing I can do, he thinks, is keep my
head straight. No more of that bullshit with the different times on the
computer and such. He still doesn't believe his mind had fooled him like that.
That kind of shit makes you doubt everything. 

 Wait a minute, he thinks. Doubt everything. Head
all screwed up. That is exactly what this guy would want. What if he had some
computer expertise? What if he had managed to hack into Blaine's machine?
Blaine grasps at that idea like a drowning man. Sure would make him feel better
if that were true. It would be bad if some guy had managed to hack him, but it would
certainly be better than the losing your mind alternative. He straightens up
from the wheel, gets out and looks around. His neighbor is busy pulling her
wash from that ecofriendly line. She glances at him, cuts her eyes away.
Probably wondering what he's doing sitting out in the truck like that. Not even
playing music. He throws a wave at her, walks up onto the porch and goes
inside. 

 He is not completely ignorant about computers; in
fact, he is fairly knowledgeable. That is almost a necessary survival skill in
this day and age. He sits down and runs a security scan, does a few other
tricks he has learned, but comes up with nothing concrete. Maybe it was hacked,
maybe not. But the way he is thinking, he is going to go with the maybe. That
would mean this is about him, not just Renee, though he has that feeling
already. Why else would somebody be that concerned to make him suffer? Though
some people are just built that way. He looks at the time and date on the
computer, checks his watch. Time is ticking away. 

So he goes back out, and for a while he just drives
aimlessly around looking up and down streets for … anything, he guesses.
Anything out of the ordinary. He can't think of what else to do. He doesn't
want to calculate the odds against him seeing anything useful. But he is
thinking, letting everything turn over in his mind, and the odds of seeing
something useful are a lot better driving around out here than sitting in front
of the computer. He drives on. 

 He rolls through the old sections of town, huge
Victorian houses with pillars, from the late 1800s. Kids out playing in yards.
Bangers cruising by with that deep-pulsing bass beat. Houses that survived the
1900 Storm. Finally he decides to go see Renee's mom. 

 She opens the door to the hotel room with that
same pinched look on her face, motions him into the room. She has a pair of
faded jeans on and a yellow blouse. No shoes. On the table by the window facing
the gulf is a bottle of bourbon, a bottle of cola, and a glass. She asks him if
he'd like a drink and he says yeah, neat is good. They sit down. The way she
moves is so familiar, so Renee-like, it seems to mock him. The bottle is about
a quarter empty, but she does not seem drunk at all. Her eyes are clear, her
speech unslurred. He takes a sip of his drink. 

 "I know," he says. 

 "Know what?" 

 "I know Renee is still alive."   

 Her eyes well up with moisture. "I wish I
knew that," she says, and takes a healthy swallow of her drink. 

 "At least she's got a chance," he says. 

 "Nielson told me I couldn't tell you, you
know that, right?" she says. "I wanted to." 

 "No, I understand," Blaine says.
"I would have done the same if it were me." 

 "She's all I ever held on to," Charlene
says. "The crappy men came and went: her father, all the rest of them. But
she and I were two against the storm. We always had each other. I can't tell
you the times I was down to no food, without any money in my pocket, and
something would always come through for us so I could keep her fed, keep
clothes on her back." She sniffs at him. "I did whatever I had to do,
you understand? Whatever." 

 Blaine is looking at her, nodding, but really, he
is not sure he does understand. She seems to be telling him she did some
drastic things at times. He is lucky. His dad was still alive when they were
growing up, and they hadn't been rich, or even that well-off, but the wolf had
never been at the door like it had for Charlene and Renee. He wonders what it
would be like to be a woman with no real education trying to raise a girl. He
knew Charlene had worked in bars on and off during that time, whenever she had
needed money and couldn't get it any other way. Renee had told him that. She
had been a really attractive woman in those days, you could still see more than
traces of that, and there had been those times, more than a few from what Renee
had told him, when she had hooked up with men she met, times when the money was
relatively plentiful and she didn't need to work. But those times never lasted. 

 "Do you know anything else that I might not
know?" he asks. 

 "All I know is somebody's got her," she
says. "He called the cops, told them to keep it quiet that she was still
alive, put out the murder story to the friends, or he really would kill
her." She sighs and rattles the ice in her drink, pours a touch more
bourbon, then some cola on top.   

 "I think it's aimed at me," Blaine
says. 

 She eyes him over the top of her glass. "Who?
The guy in the bar?" 

 "You know about him?" 

 "I've seen the sketch." 

 "Could it be somebody that you know?" 

 "No," she says. "At least I don't
think so. Why would it be?" 

 "No reason," Blaine says. "Just
making sure."   

 "So why did Nielson let you in on this? I
thought it was supposed to be kept a secret," she says. "No
offense." 

 "I more or less forced his hand,"
Blaine says. "Threatened to go over his head. I guess he thought it best
to come clean." 

 "Couldn't that jeopardize Renee?" 

 "I don't think so," Blaine says.
"Not if I don't do anything stupid. I think if they don't get this guy
soon, they will go public anyway." 

 "Well," she says, draining the last of
the drink, setting the glass back on the coaster gingerly, "Don't. Do
anything stupid, please." 

 "Why did they tell you?" Blaine says.
"It seems to me, with you being in another city, they could have kept it
completely quiet." 

 "The bar manager called me, didn't want to
give me the news himself, told me to call the cops," Charlene says.
"I guess that they figured the best thing to do would be to bring me in on
it. I told Nielson I was on my way down to find out what the hell was going
on." 

 "So they probably wanted to keep you quiet
till they got this guy," Blaine muses, "but it just hasn't worked out
yet." He runs his fingers through his hair, looks at her, stands up.
"I've got some things I need to go take care of," he says. "I
would offer to put you up for the night, the rest of your stay, but I've got my
brother down." He pulls at his lip, considering. "Why don't you come
over? I'll put you up in my room. I can take the couch. I fall asleep on it
anyway, half the time." 

 "Oh, no, this is fine," Charlene says.
"I'm more comfortable by myself, anyhow. That's just how I am." She
jumps up from her chair and gives him a hug.   

 "They will get her back," he says,
after they untangle.   

 "I know they will," she says looking at
him, eyes still clear. "She is still alive. I can feel it." 

 "She is a smart, tough woman," he says.
"Like her mother." 

 She sniffs again. "Don't try to flatter me,
Blaine. You can't shit a shitter." 

 "You've got my number, right?" he says.
"You call me if you need anything, no matter what it is or what time.
Hell, if you want me to come back here and stay with you, I'm just a click
away." 

 "Yeah, I've got it," she says,
"and just so you know, Blaine, I always thought you were the best thing
that ever happened to Renee. I felt better about her when she lived with you,
when you guys were together. When you broke up I told her how stupid I thought
she was. If I had ever found a guy as decent as you," she smiles up at
him, "I would have never let him go." 

 He hugs her again, pats her on the back and
clears his throat, "Well, I don't know about all that. Renee is something
else, herself. She could have had her pick from a thousand men." 

 "I realize it doesn't seem like it
now," her mom says, "but I know all about that. And I am sticking
with my statement." 

 He gives her a quick peck on the forehead and
goes to the door and gets out of there before he breaks up on her. She is
holding herself together with everything she's got, and he won't be the one to
mess that up.   

 He hadn't really realized that she liked him that
much. Oh, he knew she liked him, but he had always sensed that protectiveness
about Renee in her and knew that the moment she considered he did anything
against her baby she would be on him like a mama tiger. That was just how
things were with your partner's parents, if they were any type of parents at
all, they were 100% for their kid, and for you while you were. But only then. 

 So he's out in the truck again, and some stone
freak has his girl, but he can really think of no good way to proceed, so he
turns the old Dodge around and heads down the beach. He is too keyed up to go
back to the house and sit around on his ass doing nothing, thinking about
Renee. That motherfucker has her out here somewhere, and if driving around
looking gives him an additional one chance in a million, then that is one more
chance than he has at the house. The beach is where he's always gone to think,
ever since he was a kid, and he puts the window down, sucks in that briny smell
only an ocean has and rolls down the boulevard among the parade of the alive
and well, the fun-seekers, the casual strollers. He has the .22 Mag in his
pocket and is carrying a .357 in the console of the truck, extra ammo below the
seat.