A SWAT officer asked, “Umm, which one’s north?”
Shaw touched it. “When you get to the cedar, there’ll be a drop-off.”
A pause. “What’s a cedar look like?”
Shaw pointed one out.
“A drop-off you won’t see until you’re almost on it. And once you crest the ridge, you’ll have exposure to shooters from the high ground here and here. The sun’s in a good spot. It’ll be in his eyes. And if he’s got binoculars or a scope, there’ll be lens flare.”
Standish took over. “The hostage won’t have shoes. He may’ve made covering for his feet, but I don’t think he’s gone very far.”
Shaw added, “And he was brought here unconscious, so, for all he knows, he’s in the midst of Yosemite or the Sierra Madres. He’s not an outdoorsman, so I don’t think he’ll try to hike out. I was him, I’d look for water and shelter in place.”
Standish: “Secure the scene first and then we look for him. You probably gathered Mr. Shaw here’s done some tracking work. He’ll help us. He’s a consultant with the Task Force.”
She then asked Shaw where the logging road was. He glanced at the map and turned and pointed.
“He and I’ll go this way,” Standish said, nodding. “The unsub wouldn’t’ve dragged the vic that far—the ridge where the fire was. He would’ve left him near the road. Mr. Shaw and I’ll look for that scene and secure it.” She looked at them all in turn. “You good with that?”
Nods all around.
“Questions?”
“No, Detective.”
Standish started in the direction of the logging road while Shaw reviewed the map, deciding where would be the most logical place for the Whispering Man, playing Level 2 of the game, to have abandoned Henry Thompson.
The Dark Forest . . .
The officers clustered, talking among themselves, presumably selecting who wanted to go with whom. Someone barked a brief laugh. Shaw folded the map carefully and walked over to them. As he hadn’t known who’d spoken the words he’d just heard, he let his eyes tap them all. He nodded.
They nodded back. Discomfort settled like fog.
“I don’t know if Detective Standish’s a lesbian or not,” he whispered, having heard their infantile comment. “I’m pretty sure if you’re not part of the team you don’t say ‘dyke.’ I know for a fact that ‘nappy-headed’ is just plain wrong.”
They looked back, their eyes various degrees subzero. Two then examined the ground carefully.
He’d thought it would be the big one who’d push back; he had “bully” written in his furrowed brow and bulky arms. It was the slightest of the officers who said, “Come on, man. Doesn’t mean anything. The way it is in Tactical. You know, combat. You joke. We live on the edge. Burn off steam.”
Shaw glanced down at the man’s pristine weapon, which they both knew had been fired on the range only. The officer looked away.
Shaw scanned the rest of them. “And I do have a little Native American blood in me, my mother’s side. Great-great-grandmother. But you know my name. And it’s not Geronimo.”
The look of disgust on several officers’ faces was meant to convey that this untidy incident was Shaw’s fault for not playing along. Shaw turned to follow Standish, to look for the nest where the unsub had left Henry Thompson to escape if he could.
Or to die with dignity.
42.
By the time he’d caught up with her, he glanced back. The teams were deploying along the routes he had set out.
Beside him, Standish said, “I get it some.”
“You heard?”
“No, but I saw you turn back. Was it about being gay or about being black?”
“A bit of both. Wondering if you’re gay. And your hair.”
She laughed. “Oh, not ‘nappy’ again. Seriously? Those boys.”
“Struck me as odd, them saying it. It was about something else?”
Standish, still smiling. “You got that right.”
Shaw was silent.
“I moved in from EPA police direct to the Task Force, I was telling you. Moved up to gold shield fast. And I mean months.”
“How’d that happen?” Shaw was surprised.
She shrugged. “Ran some ops that ended okay.”
The modesty told Shaw that they were big, critical operations and they ended much better than okay. He remembered the commendations on the credenza behind her desk, including some actual medals, on ribbons, still in their plastic cases.
“Got me twenty K more salary.” She nodded toward the other officers. “You probably figured, Shaw, there’re two Silicon Valleys.”
“You’re from north of the 101. They’re from the south.”
“That’s it. They’re soccer dads who play golf when they’re not out at an air-conditioned gun range. Barbecues and boats. God bless ’em. Never the twain shall meet. They don’t want to take orders from somebody like me. And it doesn’t help I’m younger than the youngest.” She glanced at Shaw; he could feel her eyes. “I don’t need protecting.”
“I know. Just can’t help myself sometimes.”
A nod. He believed it meant she was exactly the same.
“Was that your partner? The picture on your desk?” Shaw had seen a photo in her office of Standish with a pretty white woman, their heads together, smiling.
“Karen.”
Shaw asked, “How long you been together?”
“Six years, married four. You were probably wondering about the name. Standish.”
Shaw shrugged.
“I took her name. She and I have something in common, you know? The rumors are that Karen’s family came over on the Mayflower. You know, Myles Standish?”
“That Standish? What do you have in common?”
“My ancestors came over on a boat too.” Standish couldn’t restrain her laugh. Shaw had to smile.
“Kids?”
“Two-year-old. Gem’s her name. Karen’s the birth mother. We’re going to—”
Suddenly, Shaw lifted a hand and they stopped. He scanned the dense forest. Where they stood was particularly congested, a soupy tangle of pine, oak, vines. A good place for a shooter to hide.
Standish’s hand dropped to her holster. “You see something?”
“Heard something. Gone now.” He scanned the trees and shrubbery, the rocks. Motion everywhere but no threat. You learn the difference early.
They continued toward the logging road, looking for where Henry Thompson had been abandoned. Had to be here somewhere. Shaw was searching for marks left by shoes, either walking or being dragged.
She asked, “You married?”
“No.”
“Sounds like you prefer I don’t ask if there’s anybody you’re with.”
“No preference. But there isn’t. Not at the moment.”
Another image of Margot began to form. It remained silent and opaque. Then, fortunately, disappeared.
“How ’bout kids?”
“No.”
They continued on for another fifty yards. Standish cocked her head—she’d gotten a transmission and was listening through her earbud. She lifted the Motorola mic and said, “Roger. Join up with the other teams.”
She hooked the radio back on her belt. “They’re at the clearing where the fire was. No sign of the unsub. Or Thompson.”
He crouched. Crushed grass. Caused by animal hooves and paws, not leather soles. Rising, he scanned the terrain. His head dipped and he said, “There. He walked that way.”
It was a faint trail that led toward the logging road. They started along it.
Standish said, “You know, we need a name for him.”
“Who?”
“The unsub. We sometimes do that. We get a lot of unsubs and it helps keep ’em separate. A nickname. Any ideas?”
&
nbsp; With a reward, you usually knew the name of the missing person or fugitive you were after. Even if you didn’t, you didn’t give them a nickname. At least, Shaw didn’t. He told her, “No.”
Standish said, “The Gamer. How’s that?”
It seemed self-conscious. Then again, it wasn’t his case and he wasn’t a cop with a lot of unsubs that needed telling apart. “Why not?”
Ten feet farther along the logging road, Standish stopped. “There,” she said.
Shaw looked down at a circular indentation in the pine needles, right beside the old logging road. Within the circle were a plastic bag of marbles like children play with, a coil of laundry line, a box of double-edged razor blades and a large package of beef jerky.
Big Basin Redwoods State Park
1 - Fire
2 - Landing Zone
3 - Logging Road
4 - Five Objects
5 - H.T.
“Look.” Shaw was pointing at a flat surface of rock a few feet above where the Gamer had left the five items. Those, and the matches or lighter he’d used to start the fire, were this victim’s infamous five items from The Whispering Man.
“Is that . . . ?”
It was. A version of the face on the sheet at the Quick Byte and graffitied on the wall near the room where Sophie Mulliner had been left.
The stark image of the Whispering Man.
She took a step forward, when Shaw stopped and closed his hand around her muscular biceps. “Don’t move. And quiet.”
Standish had good training. Or instinct. She didn’t look at Shaw. But as she crouched to make herself a smaller target, she scanned for a threat.
It wasn’t the kidnapper that Shaw had heard. The slow crackling of branches and a low vibration—a sound unlike any other on Earth—told him exactly who the visitor was.
Thirty feet away, a mountain lion—a big male, one hundred and thirty pounds—stepped into view and looked them over with fastidious eyes.
43.
Oh, man,” LaDonna Standish whispered. She stood straight and reached for her weapon.
“No,” Shaw said.
“We got a protocol in Santa Clara. They’re not endangered. We can shoot.”
“We don’t know if the Gamer’s nearby. Do you really want to tell him where we are?”
She hadn’t thought about this and withdrew her hand. Then said, “It is a fucking mountain lion.”
The creature’s muzzle was red with blood. Was it Henry Thompson’s?
“Look him in the eyes. And stand as tall as you can.”
“This’s as tall as I get,” she whispered.
“Don’t bend over. The more you look four-legged, the more you seem like prey to him.”
“It’s a boy?”
“Male, yeah. And open your jacket.”
“Showing him my weapon’s not going to make him go away, Colter. I’m just saying.”
“Makes you look bigger.”
“I shouldn’t have to be worried about this shit.” She opened the windbreaker slowly and held the zipper ends outward. She resembled one of those young folks Shaw occasionally saw when rock-climbing, wearing wingsuits, leaping into the void and arcing through the air like diving falcons.
He added, “And don’t run. Whatever happens, even if he approaches, don’t run.”
The animal, with perfect muscles and a rich tan coat, sniffed the air. His ears were low—a bad sign—and his long fangs, yellow and bloody and three times the length of his other teeth, were prominently displayed. Another mean growl emanated from his throat.
“What exactly does that purr mean?”
“He’s getting information. He wants to know our story. Are we strong or weak? Are we predators?”
“Who the hell’d mess with him?”
“Bear. Wolves. Humans with guns.”
She gave her own mean growl. “I’m a human with a gun.”
Keeping his eyes locked onto the animal’s, Shaw slowly crouched and, after a brief glance down, picked up a rock about the size of a grapefruit. He rose, an inch at a time. Confident, calm. Not aggressive.
Never display fear.
“You can fight. Just have to keep them away from your face and neck. That’s what they go for.”
“You’re not going to . . . ?” Her voice sounded astonished.
“Rather not, but . . .” Then Shaw said, “Open your mouth.”
“You want me to . . . ?”
“You’re breathing fast and loud. Open mouths’re quieter. You sound scared.”
“That can’t come as a surprise.” She did as he’d instructed.
Shaw continued: “They’re not used to anything fighting back. He’s debating now. Is this dinner going to be worth it? He sees two. The size difference—he might be thinking you’re my young. You’d be vulnerable and tasty, yet he’d have to go through me and he knows that I’d fight till the end to save you. He’s already eaten so he’s not driven by hunger. And we’re not running, we’re defiant, so he’s uneasy.”
“He’s uneasy?” She scoffed. “Is my jacket big enough?”
“You’re doing fine. By the way, if he does come after us and I can’t stop him, then you can shoot him.”
The creature’s head lowered.
Shaw gripped the rock, kept his eyes on the predator, and arched his shoulders. The black feline pupils surrounded by yellow remained fixed on Shaw. He really was a magnificent creature. His legs were like flexing metal. The face gave off what seemed to be an evil glare; of course, it was nothing of the kind. It was no more evil than Shaw’s when he was about to tuck into a bowl of stew for dinner.
Assessing. Odds that he’d attack: fifty percent.
He really hoped it wouldn’t come to shooting. He didn’t want the beautiful creature to die.
For food or the hide, for defense, for mercy . . .
Gripping the stone.
Decision made. The animal backed away, then turned and vanished. Shaw was aware of the faint crackling of underbrush once more, like the sound of distant fire, muted in humid air. It lasted only a second or two. For all their size, mountain lions had perfected the art of entering and leaving the stage quietly.
“Jesus.” Standish slumped, eyes closed. Her hands were shaking. “He going to come back?”
“Not likely.”
“But that doesn’t mean no.”
“Correct,” he said.
“Shot at by punks and junkies, Shaw.” She paused. “Sorry, Colter.”
“Know what? ‘Shaw’ and ‘Standish’ are fine. I think we’ve graduated. Mountain lions can do that.”
Margot had called him by his last name. He’d always liked it.
She continued: “Had an informant turn, halfway through a set, and come at me with a razor. That was a day’s work, I’m saying. Mountain lions’re not a day’s work.”
Depends on the day and depends on the work, Shaw supposed.
Standish had brought a roll of yellow tape and now spent a few minutes running it from tree to tree, encircling the crime scene.
“So, the blood?” she asked.
“Thompson’s?” Shaw replied. “A possibility.” He walked in the general direction the animal had vanished—cautiously. He climbed a rock formation and examined the tableau before him.
He returned.
Standish glanced his way. “You found something?”
“A deer carcass. He’d eaten most of it. That’s why he wasn’t so interested in us.”
She finished stringing the tape. Then rose.
Shaw studied the ground. “I can’t tell if Henry walked that way or not. I think so.” He was looking at a limestone shelf that led to a line of trees. On the other side there seemed to be a deep valley.
Shaw climb
ed onto the rock and helped Standish up. Together they walked toward the edge of the cliff.
There, they paused.
A hundred feet below lay Henry Thompson’s crumpled, bloody body.
44.
Ten minutes later two tactical officers were on the floor of the canyon, having rappelled down the sheer face—and doing a smart job of it.
“Detective?” one of them radioed.
“Go ahead, K,” Standish said.
“Have to tell you. Cause of death wasn’t the fall. He’s been shot.”
She paused. “Roger.”
Shaw was not surprised. He muttered, “Explains it.”
“What?”
“Why the Gamer comes back to the scenes. The Whispering Man—the game—it isn’t only about escaping. It’s also about fighting.” He reminded Standish about the gameplay: the players might form alliances or they might try to kill one another. And the Whispering Man himself, in his funereal suit and dapper hat, roams the game, ready to murder for the fun of it.
Shaw remembered that the character would come up behind you and whisper advice—which might be real or might be a trick. He might also attack, shooting you with an old-time flintlock pistol or slicing your throat or plunging a blade into your heart, whispering a poem as your screen went black and eerie music played.
Say good-bye to the life you’ve known,
to your friends and lovers and family home.
Run and hide as best you can.
There’s no escaping the Whispering Man.
Now, die with dignity . . .
The Gamer was simply following the storyline as written. He’d returned to the scene of Sophie Mulliner’s captivity to pursue her. He’d done the same here. He’d left Henry Thompson alone for a time, let him build the signal fire—the way he’d given Sophie a chance to escape. Then it was time to return and finish the game.
Standish said nothing but walked along the rocky ground to the clutch of tactical officers who’d joined them here. Shaw sat on a rocky ledge. He received a text from Maddie Poole.
The Never Game Page 20