Sara's Game (10 page)

Because he has your kids.  And you have no idea where.  He knows you won’t risk it.  He’s in complete control.

Sara paced back and forth as a woman approached, riding a bicycle.  She looked like one of the many environmentally conscious commuters around Portland who biked to and from work every day in an attempt to reduce their carbon footprint, even if it was the size of a baby’s shoe.  Dressed well in a pants-suit, blue backpack clinging to her shoulders, listening to something on her iPod.

I have to fight back.  This might be my only chance.

Are you insane?  Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do it.

Sara made an impulse decision in the few remaining feet before the biker was upon her.  She ran, looking back, trying to match the woman’s speed.

When they were side by side, the woman flicked at look at her, then refocused on the bike path ahead.

Sara said, “Can you help me?”

The biker removed her right ear bud.  “I’m sorry?”

“Can you slow down a little?”

“What’s up?” she asked, easing up her pace.

“My phone is dead,” Sara said, wheezing, plodding along the hard concrete.  “Would you mind making a call for me?  Or can I use your phone?  It’ll only take me a second.”

The woman shook her head.  “I’m sorry.  I can’t.”

“If you could call for me—I really need help—you don’t have to do it now, just when you get a chance.”

“That’s not—”

“All I need you to do is call Detective Johnson at the police department.  Tell him the game is real, and it’s Teddy Rutherford at LightPulse.”

“I can’t do that, Sara.”

Sara ran into an invisible wall, screeching to a halt.

Oh no.

The biker pedaled faster, shouting over her shoulder, “That’s not how the game is played.”

***

Damn it.

How many rules had she broken?  How many offenses had she committed with that ridiculous, ill-conceived stunt?  How long would it take before the woman told Teddy what she’d done?  And what would he do to the kids as a result?

Sara sprinted, chasing after the woman for the remaining half of the bridge, but it was a useless waste of energy.  She was on a bike, moving too fast, and had gone out of sight by the time Sara reached the opposite shore.  She stopped under the overpass.

So stupid.  What did I just do?  Who else is watching?  It could be anyone.

An older couple strolled past, holding hands, laughing.  They smiled at her, said hello.  Or were they checking on her, making sure she was playing the game as she should?  They kept walking.  Sara waited on them to reverse their course, follow her.  Check in with Teddy, report that she was on schedule.  Paranoia billowed in her mind like a gathering thundercloud.  Dark and threatening, voluminous, ready to pour down and soak her last remaining sense of composure. 

They never looked back. 

She wrapped her arms around her body, doubled over, and cried.  Wind blew at her back, scattering the teardrops before they reached the concrete.  She thought about Brian and the way he had pulled her in close whenever she was sad or having a bad day.  Thought about how she used to lay her head on his shoulder, listening to the bass reverberate in his chest as he told her she’d be fine, that he was there for her, and that she had nothing to worry about.  If he was still here, would any of this be happening?  Would she be at the office right now, answering emails, making calls, reviewing Shelley’s latest copywriting masterwork? 

Tell me it’ll be okay, Brian.  Tell me it’ll be okay.

She heard the squeal of brakes as a car slowed to a stop beside her.

The driver called out, “Hey, you need some help?”

Sara stood and waved him off.  “I’m fine,” she lied.   “Bad knee.  Hurts to run.”

“Go see a doctor,” he said, pulling away as a honk from another car urged him on.

She remembered Teddy was tracking her with the phone.  He’d be able to see that she’d sprinted to the far edge of the Hawthorne and stopped.

Move, Sara.  Move before he calls.  Move before the son of a bitch hurts the kids again.

She walked, exhausted from the run, exhausted from the spent emotional energy, up to the bike path exit, and then down toward the Eastbank Esplanade. 

The white sedan waited for her in the parking lot.  The sight of it gave her a foreboding sense of dread as black as its tinted windows.  What waited inside?  Who waited inside?  The woman from the bicycle?  The man who had driven away in her minivan?  The person who had dropped him off back at the gardens? 

How many are involved?  Three?  Three at the least?

She scrambled over the fence, stepped around the bushes, and then walked over to the white sedan.  Hesitated at the rear door, yanked it open.  Climbed inside.  The soft
shunk
of rubber on rubber as the door sealed shut was as loud as a prison cell clanging shut.

The interior of the car was dark from the window tint.  Front and rear seats separated by a metal grating, like a police cruiser.  The air was thick and difficult to breathe, permeated by the scent of stale cigarette smoke and the lemon-shaped air freshener that dangled from the rear view mirror.  The driver, a male, wore a baseball cap pulled low, wraparound shades, and a jacket with the collar up, revealing nothing more than a sliver of his tanned cheek and the pointy tip of his nose.

To her left sat a small, brown paper bag.  “Is that for me?”

The driver offered one slow nod.

Sara placed the bag in her lap, almost afraid to open it, but she relented.  Inside was a bottle of water, an apple, a small box, and a familiar white slip of paper.  She pulled it out and read:

KEYS OPEN LOCKS.  LOCKS OPEN CAGES.

24 HOURS.  IF YOU THINK HARD, THE ANSWER WILL COME.

Confusion.  I’m supposed to lock myself up for twenty-four hours.  What am I supposed to think about for twenty-four hours?  And the kids?  Just sitting there waiting for me.  I’m so sorry, guys.  So sorry that Mommy got you into this.

The driver started the car.  Drove out of the lot.

Sara reached into the bag and removed the small, square container, examining it as they pulled onto the street, heading east.  Charcoal gray, hinged on the back side.  A jewelry box.  She held it up to her ear and shook.  Something rattled inside.

She held her fingers to the lid, waiting, not knowing what to expect.  Perhaps some clue, something to help her remember, something to remind her of what she was supposed to think about for the next twenty-four hours.

Twenty-four hours.  It seemed impossible.  Undoable.  But that was what he wanted.  The torture of being helpless.  The torture of making her sit idly, locked in a cage, unable to do anything.  Waiting, waiting, waiting while he controlled the game, controlled her fate, controlled her children’s fates.  How afraid they must be without their mother, hoping she would save them soon, not knowing why they were trapped in a room with a stranger, not knowing why she hadn’t come yet.

The guilt was settling in already, and she wasn’t even inside the cage yet.

She looked down at the box, her hands poised, ready to open it.

Did you take this from my house, too, Teddy?  What did you find in there to torture me with?

She squeezed, pried the lid back, then slammed it shut when she saw the object inside.

CHAPTER 11

DJ

DJ marched out of Jim Rutherford’s office. 

What had started out as a pleasant, helpful conversation had disintegrated into a muddled mess, turning his mood foul.  But it left him with two leads.  The husband theory had its structure built on sand and speculation, while Rutherford’s son, Teddy, had just become the prime suspect.  The exact phrase match, coupled with his convenient disappearance to an unknown golf tournament, was enough to pursue. 

Yet it wasn’t as concrete as he would’ve liked, because it was missing motive, and he wanted a measure of reassurance before he issued an APB for the guy and brought him in for questioning.  He didn’t want to risk a lawsuit if Teddy Rutherford were standing on the 18
^th
fairway over at Riverside or Heron Lakes.

He called the station, asked them to check up on golf tournaments in the area.  “Call me if you find any.  Call me faster if you don’t.”

DJ approached the nearest employee, a scrappy looking kid with a greasy, unwashed mop and pimpled skin.  He went into Barker’s version of ‘steamroller mode’: a tactic he used to overpower and intimidate someone that might offer more information when confronted with a bigger presence. 
Bees with honey, DJ, but piss and vinegar when necessary. 

DJ said, “Name and rank, soldier.”

The kid looked up from his laptop.  “I’m sorry?”

“I said name and rank, soldier.”

“My rank?”

Doesn’t work on the clueless, Barker.
  He said, “Forget it.  What’s your name?”

“Jeremy.  And you’re…?”

“Detective Johnson,” he said, flashing his badge.  “Where can I find Sara Winthrop’s assistant?”

Jeremy recoiled.  He gave a simple, “Whoa,” and added, “Not sure.  I think she’s gone for the day.”

“Gone?”

“Yeah.  Pretty sure.”

“How sure is pretty sure?”

“Well, I mean, very, I guess.”

“You guess?”

He pointed toward the front door.  “I heard her tell somebody over there that she’d see them tomorrow.”

“You
heard?
  Did you actually
see
her leave?”

“Kinda.”

“Kinda?” 
What’s he hiding?
  “Come on, you either did or you didn’t—which is it?”

“I did.”

“And you’re positive?”

“Positive,” Jeremy said, and then added with some reluctance, “She’s got a tight body.  I checked out her ass when she left.  So yes, I saw her leave.  You got me.  Guilty as charged.”

Jesus.  He’s just embarrassed.
  “Not exactly a crime, Skippy.  When was this?”

“Ten-ish,” he said, pausing to think.  “Wait, yeah, ten o’clock.  She and Teddy both left right before the group meeting.”

DJ put his hands on his hips, examined him for any signs of malfeasance.  No twitching, no avoided eye contact, no hint of deception in his body language.  He seemed legit.  A goofy dork who happened to be admiring an untouchable ass from a distance.  Right place, right time.

So the girl who knows the most about Sara and the guy who has a connection to the note are both gone, and they left around the same time.  Coincidence?

Jeremy said, “Anything else?  I’m kinda behind here, dude.”

“You said you heard her say she’d see somebody tomorrow?  Any idea who she was talking to?”

“There’s like, forty-five people here.  Best guess would be Sara.”

DJ sighed.  “Not likely.”  Dead end.  Not that observant when he wasn’t checking out somebody’s ass.  “What do you know about Mrs. Winthrop?”

“Is she in trouble?”

“Not with us.  How would you describe her?”

Jeremy thought for a second, said, “About five-eight.  Brown hair, brown eyes—”

“Not physically.  Her personality.  She get along with people here?  Any reason to think someone might hold a grudge?”

“Not that I know of.  She’s kinda like a bowl of ice cream.  Cold but sweet at the same time.”

“A bowl of ice cream, huh?  You come up with that all by yourself?”

“I write some of the creative storylines for our games.  Keeps me thinking in metaphors.”

“Sounds like a fun job.  And Teddy Rutherford?  What kind of dessert is he?”

“Um...a sugar cookie?”

“How so?”

Jeremy looked around, wary of prying ears.  “Promise you won’t tell him I said this?”

“Promise.”

With a hint of a smile, he said, “He
thinks
he’s delicious, but in reality, he’s just small and boring.”

***

DJ drove away from LightPulse, wondering where he should go next.  Maybe catch up with Barker, see if he had gotten anything solid from the witnesses at the Rose Gardens, let him know about Teddy Rutherford and the absent assistant.  Question Sara’s friends and neighbors, which they should’ve been doing hours ago, instead of wasting precious minutes on half-cocked theories about Brian Winthrop. 

Damn.  We’re blowing this one.  Big time.

The remainder of his conversations with some of the other employees proved to be as insignificant as Jeremy’s sugar cookie.  The general impression of Sara around the office was exactly as Jim Rutherford had described.  She was fierce but encouraging, down to earth but revered.  They had witnessed her heated encounters with Teddy, but it was nothing more than putting him in his place, like the rest of their management did on a daily basis. 

The ones that had interacted with her outside the office talked about how great she was with her children and how well she’d coped when her husband disappeared.  DJ sensed that the hat she wore at LightPulse was completely different than the one she wore at home, which wasn’t unusual for anyone juggling a high-profile career and family life. 

And from what he got based on their answers, Teddy was universally disliked around the office but either knew and didn’t care, or floated along in this oblivious state of being God’s gift to humanity.  A Napoleon complex wasn’t enough to make the guy a suspect, but his connection to Sara’s note and the timing of his absence was, and it was close enough to make DJ suspicious.

But what about his dad?  He knew where the phrase came from.  Is he involved?

Jim Rutherford was a remote possibility, but he had too much to lose and too little to gain from kidnapping the children of his shining star. 

“Don’t chase, DJ,” he said.  “Stay focused.”

His cell rang.  He whipped into the nearest parking lot, stopped and answered.  “Johnson.”

“Got some info on those golf tournaments, JonJon.”

“Seriously, Davis?  You, too?”

A chuckle, followed by, “Too easy, DJ.  Couldn’t resist.”