Shadow Ridge

by M. E. Browning

  “Why is there such a backlash against women in gaming?”

  She swallowed. “Because there’s a vocal minority who are scared to death we’re going to do away with the games they like and make everything more touchy-feely.”

  “No offense, but you don’t strike me as touchy-feely,” Jo said.

  “Funny, that’s exactly what Alice Walsenberg said.” The straw squealed against the lid as she drank her Mountain Dew. “There’s room for both. Traditionally, game designers were guys—just like cops. They designed games centering around shit they liked to do. Lots of war games. First-person shooter stuff, martial arts. Here’s the kicker. Half the gamer community is women, but it’s still perceived as a male pastime. Take that little kid who just walked in with his dad.” She pointed with her cup. “Check out his shirt.”

  “Superman?”

  “A comic book character, but it will still prove my point. Pretty buff, right? When women characters were first incorporated into comics and games, they all had huge boobs, tiny waists, itsy-bitsy costumes, and squat in the way of survival skills—always needing to be rescued.” She popped the lid off her nacho cheese container and dipped a chip. “Then the industry wonders why women don’t feel included.” She rolled her eyes dramatically.

  “But you like gaming.”

  “Yeah. I do. Did from the moment I first played. That’s the problem with generalities. There’s always exceptions to the rules. There’s a lot of women who love first-person shooter games. Some of them probably became cops.” She nudged Jo with her foot under the table. “But what happened was a group of gamers—mostly men—got it in their craw that they ruled the industry. Any woman trying to change the status quo was viewed as a threat—one that needed to be destroyed. Or at least stopped.”

  “Gamergate.”

  “You know about Gamergate?”

  “I’ve been trying to wrap my head around what’s going on with your case.”

  “Yeah, well, Gamergate was the tipping point that brought the issue into the mainstream. Here’s the thing. It wasn’t the start of the problems in the industry. It really wasn’t even representative of it. But it showed how social media could be weaponized. Doxing, trolling, SWATting. They’re all ways to try to control and frighten people.”

  “I never thought I’d be glad you’ve only been spoofed.”

  “Yeah. About that.”

  “Number thirty-eight. Your order is up. Number thir-tee-eight.” Talking into the microphone appeared to be the highlight of the teen’s shift. The father didn’t even have to step forward to collect the two bags. They walked out, leaving the restaurant empty of everyone but Jo, Quinn, and the two workers. Clearly, Taco Bell was the happening place to be on a Sunday night.

  Quinn wiped her hands on her napkin and dug out her phone. “I called you last night.” She hit a couple of buttons and handed the phone to Jo. “I need to update my report.”

  “You might consider leav—” Jo abandoned the rest of her sentence, ambushed by a photo of Quinn in a lingerie ensemble with a come-hither look on her face. She tried to reconcile the woman on the screen with the one devouring a double-shelled taco on the other side of the booth. She failed. The gallery contained seven photos in all, each one more provocative than the last.

  She clicked on the profile and read Quinn’s phone number and address. “Is this why you weren’t home?”

  “The main one.”

  “But not the only one?” The home page suggested a dating site, but the photos and bios clearly suggested escort services and more. “How did you find out about this?”

  “My neighbor’s a freak who’s been trying to get into my pants since I moved in. He found the site and was kind enough to cross-post it to the college forum. I guess I should be flattered. I’ve gotten so many calls, I had to turn the ringer off.”

  “Which explains why you didn’t pick up when I called you today to let you know I was at your apartment.”

  “I didn’t see a call from the PD.”

  “I called from my personal phone. Don’t make me regret trusting you with it.”

  “Aw. I feel so special.”

  “Where did the photos of your face come from?”

  “How do you know it’s only my face?”

  “I’m a detective.” She handed the phone back to Quinn. “A, you’re showing me the site, and B, none of the women in the photos have an infinity tattoo on their wrist.”

  Quinn twisted her wrist, the small symbol clearly visible below her pushed-up sleeves. “Yeah, they don’t have anything on their thighs either.”

  “Anything in the photos you recognize?”

  “The sunglasses. I got them at the beginning of summer and lost them a month or two later, which means whoever this weirdo is, he’s been watching me for months.”

  “What about your neighbor? He’s got the hots for you. Kind of convenient he found the website.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Any chance you think it’s Professor Lucas?” Jo posed the question casually, as curious about Quinn’s thoughts on the matter as she was on whether the woman would disclose the relationship. The last time she’d mentioned the professor’s name, she’d gone ballistic.

  Quinn piled her empty wrappers one atop the other until she had a neat stack to hide behind.

  “He came over to my apartment one night. To talk about my grade.” Her voice had turned flat. “Made it clear I could influence the outcome, if you know what I mean.”

  After twelve years of police work, Jo knew exactly what Quinn meant. Quinn’s features twisted as she described the encounter, but her body remained perfectly still, her eyes never leaving Jo’s face as if daring her to disbelieve her.

  “And then I kicked the bastard out,” she said. “After everything I’d done, I still managed to blow my grade.” She drank deeply of her soda and then rattled the ice. “No pun intended.”

  Jo balled her fist under the table. “We can pursue charges.” A small consolation that would turn into a he-said/she-said slugfest with Quinn the ultimate loser.

  “Right. All he has to do is show the email and I become a woman who cried rape after changing her mind. No thank you.”

  She couldn’t argue. Quinn was right. There wasn’t a DA anywhere that would touch a case where consent was so neatly implied.

  Jo slumped against the plastic bench. Every day, the bastard taunting Quinn remained hidden behind an impenetrable curtain. It pained her to admit, but she was no closer to identifying him now than when she’d taken Quinn’s initial report.

  “Do you think Lucas is telling the truth about receiving an email, or do you think he’s the mastermind behind everything?” She was so tired. Tired of death. Tired of threats. Tired of falling short.

  “He doesn’t have the balls to mastermind anything. I should know.” She pressed her thumb and index finger close together and held them up in front of her eye. “I’ve seen them.” She dropped her hand. “There’s more. I found two escort services, five social media sites, a couple discussion boards that all have my name attached to them. But that’s not the worst of it.”

  Jo waited. She’d learned as a rookie not to ask what could possibly be worse. In police work, there was always something.

  “I got another email. Well, actually, I got several, but one sticks out.”

  “Sticks out how?”

  “All it says is ‘And then there was one.’”

  The implication hit Jo immediately. She’d been right. The cases were linked. Even if Tye Horton had suicided, something bound all the deaths together. But in Jo’s mind, there was no longer any doubt. Tye had been murdered. She’d overlooked something, and she was going to figure out what it was.

  In the wake of Quinn’s pain, Jo tried to ignore her growing excitement, but it took root in her gut and grew. Whoever was harassing Quinn had stumbled. Given her a clue. Several really. Social media sites could be tracked. Discussion boards could be infiltrated. She’d need a new round of subpoenas
for records. Go back over the items collected at the Horton scene. Hunt down Lucas. With any luck, she’d be too busy to think about the article.

  Quinn broke in on Jo’s thoughts. “There seem to be two themes to the bogus profiles—I’m either a whore for hire, or a game designer who is going to single-handedly topple the industry with my social-justice-warrior shit.”

  “Social justice warrior? That sounds like a good thing.”

  “Not in these circles. It’s a slur against anyone considered too politically correct. You know, those nefarious people who think equal rights and inclusiveness are the devil’s work. Heaven forbid we gamers push back against the kidnapped-princess trope. The world isn’t going to stop if a woman turns out to be capable of saving her own ass.”

  A new thought struck Jo. “Are you?”

  “What?” Quinn asked.

  “Capable of saving your own ass. I mean, other than in video games. You charged my car today. What if I’d had a gun? Your cell phone isn’t a magic shield.” She crumpled up her wrappers and dropped them on the tray, suddenly eager to leave. “You ever get that feeling on the back of your neck that says you shouldn’t do something?”

  “Only when I’m with you.”

  Quinn talked a good game, and she looked fierce with her spiky hair and edgy clothes, but she was up against an unknown. Were these new developments ramping up to a finale? The email stated that Quinn was the only one left—which meant she now had the stalker’s undivided attention. A smart mouth wasn’t going to save her.

  “Fear is a gift,” Jo said. “It’s an early-warning system. Based on your earlier actions, it’s something you need to start paying more attention to. It’s not enough to flee danger. You have to run toward safety.”

  “I suppose you’re going to teach me everything I need to know about personal safety in ten easy lessons?”

  People were amazingly intuitive about danger, but too often they allowed themselves to rationalize the threat. She’d taken countless police reports that began with the victim telling her they’d had a funny feeling about someone, or that they knew something wasn’t right. Maybe, just maybe, she could teach Quinn something about situational awareness. And she knew the perfect way to do it.

  “Even better,” she responded. “Grab your jacket.”

  37

  Wyatt had been all hush-hush about where they were going, and even when they arrived, Quinn didn’t have a clue where they were. The cinder block building on the edge of an open field had all the warm fuzzies of an apocalyptic outpost.

  “Is this the part of the movie where you confess to being a serial killer? Because you should know, I can’t be a victim. My underwear doesn’t match.”

  “This is our gun range.”

  “If that was meant to be comforting, your delivery needs some work.”

  “It’s also where we have our training simulator.” She tapped a code onto a keypad and opened the door. “After you.”

  “Great. Should we agree on a safe word?”

  Wyatt flicked on the lights. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

  A table inside the door had a computer with its own tower and other electronic equipment that Quinn didn’t recognize. A giant three-piece screen was set up flat against the back wall with massive wings that jutted into the room at oblique angles. A rack to her left displayed a selection of guns.

  “Platypus,” Quinn whispered.

  “What?”

  “My safe word.” She was equal parts awed and spooked. “What is all this?”

  “Pretty much anything you want it to be.” Wyatt booted up the computer. “Critical incidents, active shooters, hostage scenarios, in-progress crimes, traffic stops. You name it. The system is comprised of one hundred and eighty degrees of laser-reactive screens, high-definition projectors, surround sound, and the computer system to run it all.” She typed in a password. “You supply the adrenaline.”

  Quinn glanced to her right. “What’s the treadmill for?”

  “It makes things a bit more realistic if your heart rate is elevated before you start the scenario.”

  “You know how to run all this?”

  “I’m one of the use-of-force trainers. We got the system through a grant when I was a training officer. I still operate it when we qualify.”

  “Shmup.”

  A line formed between Wyatt’s eyebrows. “What?”

  “Shoot ’em up. You want to play games, you gotta speak the lingo.”

  “Copy that.” Using a remote, Wyatt went around and powered up the projectors suspended from the ceiling. “Once a year we have a citizens police academy and we run them through it.”

  “Do any of them survive?”

  “Depends on the scenario, but they all have a better appreciation for how quickly decisions need to be made.”

  The screen flickered to life and displayed the simulator’s corporate logo.

  Wyatt strapped a duty belt around her waist, adjusted it to a smaller size, and selected a handgun for the holster. “The guns we use are real, so the weight and feel is accurate, but they’ve been modified with a laser, so if you squeeze the trigger, you’ll register the hits on the screen. If you miss, that’s registered too.”

  She added a radio and clipped the shoulder mic to the collar of her fleece. “Normally we use our own equipment and are dressed a little differently. Drawing from a belt that isn’t actually anchored to my pants is going to be a hoot.”

  “The perils of tights.”

  “On the outdoor range, we practice with our off-duty guns too. I carry mine in a backpack. Occasionally a purse. Imagine how much slower it is to dig it out, aim, and fire. But that’s another point. You have to work with what you’ve got.” She gestured toward the computer. “I’m going to set it on autoplay so you can watch me go through one of the scenarios. The whole point of this type of training is to expose officers to different situations in a controlled environment. Stress makes people do stupid things, but it can be managed. Cops who say they never get scared are liars.”

  “I’m not a cop.”

  “No, but there are plenty of takeaways.”

  Wyatt hit a button, and the front of a police car entered an alley. She walked into the area in the center of the frozen screens and pointed at the back door of a business. “Just because you’re focused on one threat doesn’t mean you can ignore the rest of your environment.” She turned and pointed to a parked car, a dumpster, and a guy smoking a cigarette two businesses away. “Always look at a person’s hands. Are they holding a gun or a cell phone? Can it be used as a weapon? Sometimes the best thing you can do is return to your car and throw it in reverse. Create a safe distance until you have backup.”

  “Run away.”

  “We prefer to call it a tactical retreat.” She stepped back. “Ready?”

  “Whenever you are.”

  Wyatt hit the remote.

  The radio crackled to life with three short tones. “Unit to clear for a possible robbery in progress. Twelve-sixteen Main Street. One-two-one-six Main Street. Conflicting reports of a man with a gun inside the business. White male, black hoodie and jeans. Nothing further.”

  Even standing behind Wyatt, Quinn felt as if she’d landed in the middle of a video game.

  “Echo, David-three.” Wyatt spoke into the microphone on her collar. “I’m on scene in the alley behind the store with a visual—”

  The door flew open so hard it banged against the wall. Quinn jumped. A man wearing a black hoodie backed out while shouting at someone inside.

  Wyatt drew her gun, the whole belt rising as she freed it from her holster. “Police. Stop. Show me your hands!”

  The man continued to yell inside the building, but he started to shuffle backward away from the door. A woman followed him into the alley from the business. She yelled at him, flailing one arm like a crazy Italian, the other hand down at her side holding something.

  Wyatt transformed. “Gun!”

  Gone was the runner wi
th a messy ponytail peeking out through a hole in her beanie. She moved like a fucking superhero ballerina, barking orders. Her eyes seemed to glance everywhere and yet never leave the two people, even as they broke apart.

  The woman swung the weapon toward Wyatt. Wyatt squeezed the trigger twice, then aimed slightly higher and fired again. The woman dropped to the ground.

  The guy in the hoodie bolted.

  Wyatt talked into her radio again. Telling other officers the guy was running, his direction of travel, details Quinn hadn’t noticed. Then she moved toward the screen, her gun pointed at the woman on the ground, giving her more orders, even though she wasn’t moving.

  Quinn wasn’t even between the screens, and her pulse hammered in her neck. She wiped her hands on her pants.

  Finally, Wyatt holstered. She clicked the remote, freezing the program. “Quick. What do you do?”

  “You dropped one, you can’t let the other get away.”

  “It’s hardwired into a cop’s DNA to chase anyone who runs from them.” She spoke to Quinn while walking back to the computer. “It’s not always the right choice.”

  She tapped several commands onto the keyboard. The scenario backed up slightly, the scenery changing as if an officer was chasing hoodie guy. Within seconds, the woman on the ground reared up and shot.

  Wyatt stopped the program. “You’re dead. Why? Because you thought neutralizing one threat meant there weren’t any others. Close your eyes.”

  Quinn was too overwhelmed to argue.

  “Describe the woman.”

  All she remembered was the gun. It was huge. “She was white, I guess.”

  “What else?”

  “She had a gun.”

  “What about age, hair color, clothing?”

  “I got nothing.”

  “Not unusual. What about things in the alley?”

  “Just the normal collection of dumpsters. I suppose you could have used one of them to hide behind.”

  “Good catch. Officers still need to engage, which means we’re sticking our noggin out, but you may need to hide. If you have a choice, hunker down behind something that will stop a bullet, not merely hide you from view. The garden wall is a lot better than a fern.”