The Timer Game (25 page)

She tried the Fallbrook number first; it was disconnected. Then she called San Diego information and got the alumni office number for San Diego State. She dialed, wondering uneasily why she hadn’t heard from the Spikeman. She’d been given until six. It was already almost seven. Why the silence?

“You’re lucky I picked up,” the woman at the SDSU alumni desk said into the phone. She spoke in a southern drawl in one run-on sentence, not breaking for air. “But it’s homecoming week, alums piling in. We’re trolling, hoping to snag them, which is why I’m here on a Sunday morning early. We’re not supposed to give this out.”

“It’s his wife I’m trying to reach. Went to high school together, a reunion’s coming up.”

Grace could hear her fingers clicking. “Okay, I’ll bite. You tell me the name of the high school, and I’ll tell you their last known address.”

Grace skimmed the chart, hoping to find the name of Dee Dee’s high school. Nothing. She’d messed up and she knew it. She hung up, frustrated. She tried the law firm where DeeDee had worked. Nobody picked up. Hardly surprising on Halloween and a Sunday. Grace read through the chart again and called the history department where Fred had been a TA. An automated voice told her to call back Monday.

She massaged her neck, wondering what else she could try. Hekka was probably at the Center by now, judging by Mac’s report. If Grace was there in person and had time, she might be able to gain the parents’ trust, but not over the phone. That left the Bettles family in Poway. Their son had received the first heartin-a box a year ago. Maybe they could tell her something.

She got their number from Information and dialed. A woman answered on the second ring. Grace’s voice was ragged and close to the edge.

“Mrs. Bettles?” What Grace wanted sounded freakish now, a crank call.

“This is her sister, Margaret. They’re gone until Monday. I can take a message.” Her voice was sleepy.

“This is Grace Descanso. I’m calling from San Diego. I’m a civilian working in the police crime lab.”

“Good Lord. What’s happened? Are they okay?”

“Of course, I’m so sorry. I—no. Everything’s fine. They’re fine.”

“What’s this about?” Margaret’s voice had hardened slightly.

“No big deal. Fund-raising actually. Sorry to have bothered you.” She hung up slowly.

She checked her watch: seven-eighteen. Time was melting again. She had to hurry. Grace’s eyes went to the phone face and for the first time she saw the blinking red light.

Her heart skidded. She pressed the message button and was mechanically connected to a voice that told her the call had come in at 6:07. She’d forgotten to tell the desk to let calls through. How could she have forgotten? She licked her lips, waiting.

“Mommy. Mommy.” That was it, the entire message, those two words.

A sad little voice, a cry. It dissolved her, brought her to her knees.

She was here and she’d missed the call. Missed talking to Katie.

Tears rolled down her face. She called the front desk. “I’ll take calls now.”

“Of course, Ms. Descanso. Are you all right?”

“Just connect my calls.”

“Of course.”

Her plans were flimsy, a house of cards smashed by a monster. She felt small and alone and too tired to do this. This wasn’t going to work. She wasn’t going to get her back.

She’s alive
. The thought darted across her consciousness as fast as a green bird.

There and gone.
Katie’s alive
. She was still alive at six that morning.

Grace’s system flooded with adrenaline, so hot she doubled over, panting, wondering if this was how a heart attack felt, or a stroke. Her scalp prickled with sweat.

It didn’t help Katie if she fell apart. The only chance her daughter had was here. With her. She had a sudden flash of Katie warbling country-western songs in the car, curly head thrown back, legs golden, lashes curling on her flushed cheeks:
dance! I hope you dance!

The phone rang. Her throat closed. She picked it up. There was static on the line, a sound that could have been a dog barking. Or a child’s cry.

“Don’t you want to know what she’s doing right now?”

“I want to talk to her. Put her on the phone.”

“You missed her, Grace. That wasn’t nice.”

Grace squeezed her eyes shut. “Put her on.”

“Too late. Can you imagine how that made her feel?”

“I’d rather imagine how you’re going to feel when I find you and kill you.”

His sharp intake of breath made her realize she’d caught him by surprise.

“You think that’s funny? You think that’s wise? You can’t go around hurting people, Grace. This is what happens when you hurt people. People you love get hurt.”

She tried to find her face with her hand and missed. “Tell me what I did,” she whispered. “Maybe I can fix it. Let me fix it.”

He sucked in a savage gulp of air and blew it out softly. “This is the only freebie you get. The only time you can miss a deadline.”

The click was a dead sound in her ear. Grace rolled into a trembling wet ball, hugging her knees and moaning. No. No. She was going to breathe in and out. She stayed that way, knees jammed against her chest, until she felt her heart slow.

There was a knock on the door. She sat up and wiped her face. “Yes?”

“Delivery from CVS Pharmacy over on Fairfax and Third.” An Asian accent.

She rolled cautiously off the bed. “I didn’t order anything from the drugstore.”

“Package, ma’am.”

She hesitated and opened the door. A middle-aged Asian stood holding a package wrapped in brown paper, sealed with masking tape. He handed it to her and turned to go.

“Wait.” Maybe he knew something. “Let me pay you.”

She darted into the room for her bag and ran back out. The blue hallway was empty. She heard the sound of the elevator starting. Slowly she closed the door and relocked it.

This timer was shaped like a bullet with a computerized face and was about the size of her palm. Across the top in computerized pixels pulsed the notation:

4 0 5 N 5 N S R 5 8 S U P E R 8 P U N C H.

Underneath it was the number 240.

Chapter 28

All Hallows’ Eve, 8:04 a.m.

Grace checked out of the Farmer’s Daughter and parked a block away, the timer beside her on the front seat as she dismantled the cell phone. It was clean. Feverishly, she combed the car with the magnifying glass and discovered an audio bug. That made two. One on DeeDee Winger’s chart, and one under the dash. But no video. At least none she could find.

He could have hidden one. She had no real way of knowing and that scared her. If he’d hidden a camera she hadn’t found, then it was the worst news, news that could get her daughter killed. The number on the timer had changed to
22
9, so that must be minutes.

She looked at the message in the timer again: 4 0 5 N 5 N S R 5 8 S U P E R 8 P U N C H. A combination, maybe to a safe, but where? Until she heard from him, or figured out what he wanted her to do, she’d go forward in her secret life. Praying she didn’t screw up.

Traffic was light on Fairfax Boulevard. Ten minutes later, she pulled into the drive-through lane at a Taco Bell and gave her order. Afterward she drove into the parking lot and spotted the silver rental parked at the rear with a space next to it. All the saliva in her mouth dried up.

He’d parked the way she’d asked. He was silhouetted behind the wheel and even at a distance, she recognized him. He must have been looking for her in his rearview mirror because he got out of his car then and took away the orange cones he’d used to save her spot. She parked as he climbed into his car and reached across to open his passenger door. She focused on the tricky part, taking the food and the cell phone with her, leaving the charts on the seat, but quiet with the food bag so the Spikeman would think she’d left it there. She shut her car door hard, turned, and slid into Mac’s car, closing his door gently before she let herself look at him.

“Hello, Mac.”

“Grace.” His voice was unsteady.

The years had etched deep grooves, but he still had the same searching eyes and thick gold hair, laced with brown and a little gray. He smelled good, soap and fresh laundry, and wore a long-sleeved cotton shirt in a soft blue-green the exact shade of his eyes, a color that made his skin look like honey. The optimism in his eyes had died. He looked older. Weary. He’d cut himself shaving. A nick by the jawline. Grace had the sudden sense of spiraling into space, everything sliding away: years, jobs, the life she’d built. He kept staring. She swallowed.

“God. You look like hell.”

She felt her face warm. She offered the bag. “A burrito or a couple of soft tacos.”

He hesitated and reached down into the bag, still looking at her. He came up with a soft taco and stared at it dumbly before unwrapping it.

“You still have it.” She reached over and touched the Swiss Army knife attached to his key chain. She’d given him that the last day they’d been together. Now it was worn and polished to a satiny pewter. He locked eyes with her and looked away.

She knew she needed to eat. The exhaustion and panic had churned up an acid soup in her stomach and the thought of food made her sick, but she picked up the burrito and opened it. She tore off a small piece of tortilla and chewed. It tasted like cardboard.

“Your cell phone’s off, and you brought them?” Her eyes roved over the leather seats and settled on a leather satchel in the backseat.

“I use a BlackBerry; it’s off, and yes, I brought them. Three cuts on each CD, both CD’s exactly the same, although it doesn’t make sense. Aaron’s been up since you called, getting them ready.”

“Thank him for me.” She checked her watch. “We’ll need them in about ten minutes.”

He finished the taco and balled up the wrapping. He reached for the second taco and unwrapped it. “You said somebody close to you was kidnapped but you couldn’t get the police involved. What’s that about?”

She cracked open the carton of milk and drank, alternating sips of milk with a bite of burrito. It seemed the only way to keep it down. They ate in silence.

“Are you involved with anybody?”

He looked at her. “Come on, Grace. I drive up from San Diego so you can ask me—”

“This is hard enough,” Grace said.

Mac stared out the window. “Was. Someone in San Diego, most recently. I’m not anymore.”

He turned and regarded her and she knew she needed to say it before she lost her nerve. “My daughter,” she said. “It’s my daughter who’s been kidnapped.”

He sat in silence. It was a long silence. “You have a daughter?”

She read the carton. It was 2 percent, fattier than she liked but she needed the calcium.

“How old is your kid?” His voice was strained.

“Young.” She drained the carton.

“How old?” It hung there in the air, and Grace could see him doing the math, figuring out when he’d seen her in Guatemala, how many years that would make a kid, it if was his. “Grace?”

“Her name is Katie Marie and she just turned five.” She couldn’t finish the burrito. She rewrapped it and put it away. The silence went on so long Grace wondered if he’d heard.

“Five. You’re sure.”

“Sure what? Sure that she’s five? Sure that she’s yours? Come on, Mac. Even you.”

“It’s a reasonable question. A lot can happen.”

“A lot did,” she said quietly.

He scraped a hand through his hair. “I can’t believe it. I have a kid. A daughter. Five. Why the hell didn’t you tell me? It’s not like you had no idea where to find me.”

That much was true. A couple of high-profile romances, one with a television colleague, had been splashed across the pages of
People.
Not the covers, Grace reminded herself sourly. Just a couple of inside pages, but still. And she could always find him on CNN if she needed a fix. “We need to get things ready.”

He reached into his leather satchel and pulled out two Sony Walkmans with burned discs.

“Where do they start?” She looked at her watch. She had three minutes maybe.

“What do you mean?”

“The sound. What’s the first sound? And do they match exactly?”

“Ten seconds of dead air at the top, followed by six minutes of ambient sound. Exactly what you asked for, and yes, they’re calibrated so they exactly match.”

“Eating? Bag rustling?”

“Exactly what you asked for,” he repeated. “Starts with the sound of a person sitting down. What does she look like? I want to see her.”

Grace had expected that and she slid a photo from her wallet toward him. Mac studied it and looked up, his eyes silvery with tears.

“She’s beautiful.”

“Yes. You can keep it.” It cost her to say that and she looked away.

“She’s got your curly hair.”

“It’s your color hair, though. That kind of caramel blond. She tans, too.” Grace knew her voice held pride and love and a kind of wistfulness.

“Your eyes,” he said. “That dark brown with the black lashes. And your dimple. The high cheekbones. And your smile, look at that.”

“Think so? I think it’s yours. I always thought—” She stopped. It hurt talking this way.

“What position does she play?”

It was a soccer picture taken when the season started. Katie held the ball casually, gripped against her. The sun glinted, turning her curly pigtails bright gold. She still had her baby teeth and she was grinning, her face wide and hopeful.

“Mostly D. The coach puts her in as goalie second half, when everything’s fallen apart and he needs a kid with courage. She plays T-ball softball, too. First base, usually. A little rec basketball. If there’s a trophy involved, she’s in.”

“They give out trophies to five-year-olds?”

“Oh, yeah. For everything but ballet, that’s why she quit dance.”

He smiled. “Goalie. She’s going to be a heartbreaker.”

“She’s already broken mine,” Grace whispered.

He looked across the car at her and their eyes locked; for a single instant, they were parents. Only she’d kept him away. For the first time, she understood she’d done something terrible to Katie she’d never intended.