End Game

by John Gilstrap

  The question hit Graham like a smack. Something sagged in his chest. On top of everything else that had turned shitty, he was homeless. Homeless, and maybe an orphan. He felt a rush of sadness that made him gasp. Words wouldn’t come.

  Deputy Price leaned in closer. Close enough to touch, but he didn’t touch. “Talk to me, Graham. I want to help you. Have you and your friend Jolaine been up to no good?”

  Graham wanted to answer. He wanted to tell this cop with the friendly eyes all about the people who invaded his house and shot up his family. He wanted to tell about the doctor in the middle of nowhere, and about how terribly pale his mother looked the last time he saw her. He wanted to tell the cop about everything, and then he wanted to be free from it all.

  Graham wanted a do-over. He wanted a time machine where you just climb in, turn a few dials, and flip a few switches, and suddenly nothing is what it was. He wanted to do anything that would take away that horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach, the fear—no, the certainty—that something terrible was going to happen to him.

  Yet as much as he wanted it—as much as he would have sold his soul to attain it—he knew that none of it was possible. He knew that telling Deputy Price anything would pose more problems than it would solutions, just as Jolaine had said. They’d listened to the radio in the car, and they’d watched television in the motel room, yet there’d been no mention of all those terrible things. How was that possible?

  With no police reports to back him up, no one would believe his story anyway. And even if they did, and they drove all the way out to Antwerp to investigate, they’d find a lot of bullet holes and dead bodies, and then they’d start asking why he and Jolaine were on the run instead of calling the police in the first place.

  And that would be a hell of a good question, Graham thought. Last night, it didn’t make sense to him why they didn’t call the police, and it didn’t make any more sense right now. They didn’t call because Jolaine said that it would be a mistake to call. That was the only reason, and what kind of reason was that?

  Reason enough for her to risk her life to save me and Mom.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

  Price’s shoulders sagged. “Son, I can’t help you unless you talk to me.”

  Something about the deputy’s delivery rubbed Graham the wrong way, and his filters kicked in again. Maybe it was use of the word “son.” He already had a father, he didn’t need another one. “Let me ask you a question,” he said.

  The deputy shrugged. “I’m all ears.”

  “That ugly lady. Peggy. She said she wanted to help me, too. She told me that the best thing I could do was to tell her everything. Now you’re saying I should do the same thing. Why should I believe anything you say?”

  Price took his time answering. “You can’t honestly tell me that you don’t trust me more than you trusted her.”

  “That just makes you the good cop.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The good cop. You know what I mean. It’s in every friggin’ cop show. She was the bad cop, and you’re the good cop. You work in a team so that she pisses me off, and then you butter me up.”

  Price’s eyes narrowed to the point of squinting. “It’s not like that, Graham. I promise you.”

  Graham wanted to believe him. He thought he did believe him, but trust was just too big a risk. “That’s exactly what you would say if I was right,” he said.

  Deputy Price took a breath to reply, but then he let it go and smiled. “I got nothin’ to say to that,” he said. “You’re right. That’s exactly what I would say if I were trying to trick you. That’s not where I’m coming from, but I understand where you’re coming from. I got no answer that you can dare believe.”

  Silence fell between them, and it lasted probably two minutes before a door on the far end of the room opened up and a young man and woman entered from the outside and walked to the front desk—a window thing with thick glass and a microphone. The couple didn’t look much older than Jolaine.

  “I believe those are your foster parents for the next day or three,” Price said.

  Graham felt a jolt of panic. “You mean I have to leave?”

  “I promised you a comfortable bed. We don’t have any of those here. You’ll be fine. They’re the Markhams, and they’re very nice people. You’ll be safe with them.”

  “But I was beginning to feel safe here.”

  “This is a police station, Graham. It’s not a place for fourteen-year-olds. You’ll be better off there.”

  Graham watched them at the little window as they talked to the lady in the uniform. They turned in unison and looked straight at him. The wife waved at him with the tips of her fingers. It reminded him of a cat scratching at a screen.

  “I don’t like them,” he said.

  “I’m telling you they’re good people,” Price said. He leaned over to the side to gain access to his back pocket and he pulled out a little black leather wallet. Inside was a stack of business cards. He slid one out and handed it to Graham. “This is me. My numbers are on it. If you have any problems or concerns, if you get scared, or if you just want to talk, you give me a call anytime—day, night, or early morning.”

  Graham held the card in both hands. Why was this guy being so nice? What did he want?

  Price pointed with his head to the Markhams. They were approaching, and he held up a hand to tell them to stay back for a bit. They stopped and moved to some chairs on the other side of the waiting room.

  “Look at me, Graham,” Price said.

  Graham looked. He saw a mask of concern on the deputy’s face.

  “I know some bad things have happened. I don’t know what they are, but just in watching the emotion in your face and in your body language, I know that something really bad is going on. I know that you feel as though you can’t trust anyone.”

  He paused, as if waiting for Graham to confirm or deny. He did neither.

  “I’m going to tell you something important,” Price continued. “Whatever your secrets are, they’re yours to keep, from whoever you want to keep them. Now listen to me. If you’re not willing to tell me—and that’s fine that you’re not, I respect that—I don’t want you to tell anyone, understand? Whatever your secrets are, people are trying to hurt you to get them. That’s not right. That scares me, and it should scare you. You keep your secrets secret, understand?”

  Graham’s sense of fear deepened. Price was serious, and he looked genuinely worried for him.

  “Am I going to be okay?” Graham asked.

  Deputy Price looked away. “I don’t know, Graham,” he said. “I just don’t know. That’s not the answer you wanted to hear, and I apologize for that. But it’s the only answer I know how to give.”

  Price leaned forward and put out two hands in a clamshell gesture. “I pray to God that this is all just nothing,” he said. “But if the shit hits the fan—pardon my French—you give me a call and I’ll be there for you. Please trust me that much. If you find yourself without any other options, I’m worth a roll of the dice.”

  Graham found tears tracking his cheeks before he knew that he was crying.

  Price sat up straight. He shot a glance over to the Markhams. “No tears, Graham,” he said. “That’s no way to start with the new family. I hate to put it to you this way, but now’s the time to suck it up and roll with what’s coming. Don’t show weakness, know what I mean?”

  Graham in fact did not know what he meant, but he knew that nodding yes was the right thing to do.

  Price smacked the side of Graham’s knee twice. “Good,” he said. “I know this is all very scary, but try to think of it as an adventure.”

  With that, the deputy stood and beckoned for the Markhams to come over and join them. They rose in unison and walked nearly in step. They stopped when they were six feet away and they smiled.

  “Anita and Peter,” Price said, “this is Graham Mitchell. Graham, this is Anita and Peter Markham.�
�

  Anita smiled wider and Peter extended his hand. “Hi, Graham,” he said. “I’m sorry that you’re going through tough times. I’d consider it an honor to have you join us at our home.”

  The words sounded at once sincere and rehearsed. Graham wasn’t sure how they pulled it off, but it didn’t feel threatening. He accepted the hand and they shook. Peter treated him like a girl, accepting only Graham’s fingers in the handshake. That felt strange.

  “Hi,” Graham said.

  Anita’s hand shot out next. “I’m Anita,” she said. “This is Peter.”

  Graham made a smile face and shook her hand, too. “I got that,” he said. He stood.

  “Are you ready to go?” Peter asked.

  Graham improved his posture and settled his shoulders. “Sure,” he said.

  And it was done. The three of them headed toward the front together. As they reached the door, Graham shot a look back to Deputy Price, but he’d already moved on to other matters.

  The lock turned and Jolaine’s cell door opened. She stood from her concrete cot.

  A guard—an officer (they didn’t like being called guards)—said, “Are you Jolaine Cage?”

  “Yes.” Who the hell else would she be? They’d put her here, for God’s sake.

  “It’s time to go.”

  She instinctively took a step backward, away from the door. “Go where?”

  “There’s a team here to transfer you to Chicago.”

  “Why?” Jolaine asked.

  The guard half smirked, and assumed a weird, asymmetrical stance with one hand notched over the nightstick that resided where a firearm would be if he were a real cop. “I know I look like I run the place,” he said, “but you’d be surprised the shit they don’t tell me.”

  Jolaine sensed that she was supposed to laugh at that, but she was disinclined.

  “Yeah, okay,” the officer said. “I need you to turn around so I can cuff your hands.”

  Jolaine didn’t move.

  The officer rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, don’t do this to me. It’s almost the end of my shift. Don’t make me call the crisis team.”

  He said that as if she had any idea what a crisis team was. “I don’t understand,” she said. While mostly a statement of truth, it was also a delaying tactic, buying time for one of those options she’d been waiting for to materialize.

  The officer said, “What’s to understand? You turn around and I cuff you.”

  “But I don’t want to go anywhere,” Jolaine said. “What’s in Chicago? That’s a long way from here.”

  “Great food and a pretty city,” the guard said. “Though I don’t think you’re scheduled for a lot of sightseeing.” That joke fell flatter than the first one. “Look, I don’t know, okay? I have orders to deliver you out front. For me, that’s the beginning and the end. And please believe me when I tell you that I have every intention of following my orders.”

  Jolaine remained in place.

  “Your call,” the officer said, “is whether it all happens easily or if you end up bloody in the process.”

  “But I haven’t been charged with anything,” Jolaine protested.

  The guard shrugged with his whole body. Handcuffs dangled from one of his outstretched hands. “That’s yet another thing that lies outside my give-a-shit zone,” he said. “I’ve told you what my orders are. Now, you have to decide whether or not you’re going to follow them.”

  “Don’t you see that this is wrong?”

  The guard said nothing. He just stood there, the handcuffs dangling from one fingertip.

  Jolaine tried to think of an alternative, but no option seemed available. She could refuse to leave, but then the crisis team would storm in—she imagined burly guards in riot gear with nightsticks and pepper spray. The result would be blood and bruises and she’d still end up in the car where she didn’t want to be.

  Or, she could fight this guy. Same result.

  She had no option but to comply. She turned her back and surrendered.

  Venice Alexander entered the final bit of code into her keyboard and bingo! Her screen jumped to life with a checkerboard of color images from the local jail in Lambertville, Michigan. That one had been a difficult hack—far more difficult than the security feed from the police station down the street where Graham Mitchell was being held. Once in, she now had to cope with an embarrassment of riches. In the case of the police station, she was faced with a matrix of sixty camera images. For the jail, it was at least twice that many. Choosing which images to concentrate on was a dizzying challenge.

  After only a minute or two of watching both banks of images among four screens, Venice opted to ignore the police feed and concentrate on the jail instead. As the mother of a young teen herself, her heart belonged to Graham, but the boy had one big thing working against him. The most recent picture she had of the kid was nearly three years old. Kid years and dog years shared the common element of vast physical changes in very short periods of time. Even if she found the image of someone who likely was Graham, there’d be no way for her to be sure.

  With a few clicks of her mouse, Venice reduced the police station to blackness and then split the jail feed among the four screens. As was often the case with jails, every cell had its own camera with its own video feed, but the voyeuristic element of it made her exceedingly uncomfortable, especially when it came to the cells of young men, who, she’d decided, were incapable of keeping their hands off their private parts for more than a few minutes at a time.

  It was that thought, in fact, that awarded her first big break in the challenge to locate Jolaine Cage within the jail. While she hadn’t had a chance to figure out the logic in the order of the camera feeds—assuming that there even was such a thing—she knew that wherever she found a male prisoner, she no longer had to worry about finding Jolaine.

  In the end, it turned out that fewer women committed crimes in Michigan than men, and by a large margin. By the time she narrowed the images down to the ladies’ cells, it was a simple matter to locate Jolaine. She looked exactly like her photo.

  If she wanted to, Venice could have manipulated the camera from her desktop, but she opted not to because of the risk. Somewhere in that jail, a guard (or ten) was watching exactly the same images she was, and if something started to pan or zoom without affirmative input from them, the result would likely be unhappy. Like Peeping Toms (Tomasinas?) everywhere, she needed to be grateful for the view she had, even if it wasn’t as good as it could be.

  As she watched, Jolaine was in the middle of a conversation with someone who was just outside the edge of her camera’s view, and it was not a happy exchange. From the way Jolaine moved, Venice imagined that she was trying to put space between herself and whoever was speaking with her.

  Since the cells only held one prisoner apiece, that meant that the other party had to be outside the cell, which by definition meant that the other party had to be in a hallway.

  Splitting the images yet again onto different screens, she was able to increase the size of the thumbnails, and increase their clarity. Venice scanned the dozens of squares looking for the image of someone in the mirror image of Jolaine, facing the edge of a frame while engaging in a heated discussion. She did this while glancing back to Jolaine’s frame every couple of seconds just to keep track.

  “There,” she said. The sound of her own voice startled her, and she pointed at the screen, as if to display her discovery to someone else. A man in a uniform stood in the middle of a long hallway, dangling what appeared to be handcuffs from his fingers. Details were difficult because it was a fairly long angle. Venice imagined that the camera had been placed at the end of the hallway to capture all of the doorways in a single frame.

  She dragged that frame over to the screen that displayed the interior of Jolaine’s cell and she watched. It wouldn’t be beyond the technical capacity of the security system to capture sound as well, but Venice had not had the time to untangle that part of the knot. She’d ha
ve to settle for just the video.

  Venice keyed her microphone. It was a gooseneck that rose from the table and allowed her to multitask while minding Jonathan’s business and keeping him out of trouble. “Scorpion, Mother Hen,” she said.

  Jonathan’s voice told her to go ahead.

  “I’ve tapped into the video feed from the jail where they’re keeping PC Two. I have eyes on her right now.”

  “I copy,” Jonathan said. “We’re still ten to twelve miles out. What’s the situation?”

  Venice keyed the mike and then released it as she watched Jolaine turn and offer her hands to the guard behind her. “Stand by,” Venice said. “I need to pay attention to the keyboard and screens for a few minutes.”

  Multitasking was one thing, but she sensed that what was coming was going to require intense concentration, and she was right. As Jolaine moved her hands behind her on the left-hand side of the screen, the man in the uniform applied handcuffs to someone on the right. The actions were too perfectly choreographed to be anything but two angles on the same action.

  “I think they’re moving her right now,” Venice said into the microphone. “I see them applying handcuffs. Yes, they’re moving. Stand by.”

  Venice watched the hallway feed as the guard ushered Jolaine out. With Jolaine’s cell now empty, Venice killed that image from her screen, and watched as the PC was led directly toward the camera. She understood that it was a mistake to ever look in a PC’s eyes, even through a television screen. They eyes were a person’s window to emotion—their window to personhood—and Jonathan had told her a thousand times to keep the emotion out of 0300 missions, rescue missions. Until they were safe, PCs were merely objectives—pawns worth dying to protect—and as such, it was a mistake to get involved in the emotions or the injustice of their situation. Jonathan’s theory maintained that sympathy got in the way of sound decision making.

  Still, Venice saw the terror in Jolaine’s eyes, and her stomach tensed. They disappeared as they crossed under the camera, and Venice jerked her head to the thumbnails on her other screen, scanning for the movement that would match the images she’d just seen.