Mind Games

by Moore, TJ

  Cameron sat at his desk and played with his stapler as his mind wandered back to the dark questions he’d been fighting ever since he saw the marshmallows on his kitchen floor. The looming possibilities about what was happening to Jennifer triggered a primal fear in the pit of Cameron’s stomach.

  He didn’t feel like moving.

  He wanted to curl up in a ball under his desk.

  Cameron dug his fingernails into his palms, reminding himself that this wasn’t about his own safety. Besides, he knew Jennifer would never crawl under a desk in fear. No, Cameron knew she’d stay strong. He tried to put himself in her shoes. If a group of abductors had taken him instead, Jen would do everything she could to find him and bring him back home safely.

  The least he could do was get off his sorry ass and try something; but the sleepless night added weight to his eyelids, threatening to pull them down in total exhaustion.

  Amy faced the evidence board like it was her deadly opponent. She eyed the corner of the board, and walked up to it, removing a stack of pictures clipped together by a magnet holder. Taking the photos in her hands, Amy sorted them onto a metal table like she was dealing a deck of cards. These were the photos of the other forty missing people from San Francisco within the last two years:

  Max Parsons, 18

  Dallas Hewes, 38

  Stan Trent, 40

  Claude Cannata, 34

  Robert Derrick, 27

  Meghan Cohan, 33

  Glenn Short, 49

  Elisha Langham, 52

  Valerie Burkhard, 22

  Alfred Hamiter, 30

  Manual Walla, 47

  Raymond Koening, 32

  Calandra Johnson, 30

  Arlen Canning, 45

  Malik Normand, 47

  Stephenie Polansky, 36

  Nathanial Minger, 29

  Jonas Rodriques, 55

  Conrad Mcdaniels, 44

  Young Lanter, 40

  Annelle Hillyard, 43

  Steve Fentress, 36

  Cyrus Tobin, 27

  Jeff Hartsfield, 45

  Morton Oldenburg, 32

  Molly Everette, 44

  Mauro Windstone, 40

  Esther Pike, 43

  Nancy Clinton, 32

  Lanelle Ewan, 37

  Keiko Croswell, 42

  Britni Dakin, 44

  Monnie Guth, 41

  Rosie Bucknell, 52

  Malia Cleavenger, 25

  Ingrid Roth, 52

  Trisha Kottke, 35

  Arcelia Bruckner, 45

  John King, 41

  Melanie Garcia, 43

  Jennifer Frost, 36

  Since the first reported missing person, a teenage boy from the country, the number of reports had been constant over the two years, finally stopping a few months ago when Melanie Garcia was taken. And over this entire time, many precincts within the city became involved in the searches, going as far as using helicopters to search rooftops of old warehouses and robotic probes to search the underground network of sewage tunnels. The F.B.I. also became involved in many of the desperate searches, but as the list grew and grew, none of the forty people were ever found.

  Amy’s involvement in the searches caused her to call her mother more often. During those phone calls, Amy reminded her widowed mother to lock her doors and never walk anywhere alone. As the reports piled in, Amy even went so far as to tell her mother to move in with a friend so they would never be in public alone. It’s not as though her mother’s friend had any useful self-dense training, but the pairing brought Amy peace of mind.

  She spread the pictures on the table, studying the forlorn faces of the multitude of missing citizens. From countless hours of studying the profiles, Amy concluded the victims really had been chosen at complete random. There were seemingly no major connections between their vocations, nationalities, hobbies, living conditions, or bank accounts. Truly, the victims appeared to be diverse in all of these attributes, sharing only one condition in common: their vehicles had been taken with them. The many reports had listed this detail as just another condition of the abduction, but Amy saw the importance of its listing.

  Stolen vehicles. Stolen people.

  The only real commonality between the many missing person cases was where they had vanished. The reports varied in speculation from eyewitness reports, but it had been confirmed that most of the vehicles vanished with their passengers south of the city. However, exact locations of the takings had not been determined.

  Amy placed Jennifer Frost’s picture off to the side of the other photos, realizing Jen’s smile in the photo did nothing to separate her from the other people.

  Amy’s investigation at Cameron’s house just hours before had revealed Jennifer’s vehicle still parked in the garage. Amy’s eyes poured over the other photos, recognizing that Jennifer Frost was the only missing person case not paired with grand theft auto.

  Cameron mentioned Jennifer’s recent security proposal at the Empire Bank, communicating the detail with a gravity that surpassed regular paranoia or fear. Amy noted the detail with great importance, counting it more significant than the random professions of the other captives.

  Turning Jen’s picture on the table as she thought, Amy saw Jen’s position at the bank as a powerful lead. Jen’s abductors took her to gain access into the Empire Bank.

  It wasn’t her body or her identity they were after.Amy thought.No, Jen’s abductors were after her precious mind.

  In a way, Amy could see how whoever took Jen might think of her as a human ATM, a secret weapon that would allow them access to the bank’s mainframe.

  Interlocking her fingers, Amy turned around and looked back to the various pictures still attached to the evidence board from the night at Fred Stefani’s mansion.

  Was it simply a coincidence that the list of missing persons had come to an abrupt halt around the same time as the house bombings?

  Amy paced along the evidence board, tensing the muscles in her legs and abdomen, squeezing the blood towards her brain. She flicked her eyes from photo to photo, studying the images from Stefani’s basement wall. Considering the illegal weapons dealings that moved through Stefani’s supervision, there had to be someone in his criminal network that had some kind of connection with the missing person cases.

  Was Jen’s abduction at all connected with Stefani’s weapon business? No. There didn’t seem to be any connection.

  With nothing more to go on than a hunch, Amy leaned closer to the evidence board, letting her eyes move over the images the way a metal detector scans for buried coins. The mess of newspaper clippings and photographs on Stefani’s basement wall seemed cryptic at best, chronicling world events that seemed unrelated to local crimes. Stefani had only seemed to use these clippings as a twisted guidebook for managing his arsenal of weapons and dealers, keeping the aftermaths of global attack as a source of inspiration.

  As Amy scoured over the photos, placing her mindset back in Stefani’s basement that humid night only a few weeks ago, she remembered that Fred Stefani made his money from dealing in human misery. Supporting and facilitating the sales of illegal weapons on American soil, he was actively providing his clients with the tools to hurt others.

  A bitter rage began to build in Amy’s body, starting in her feet then crawling up the muscles in her legs, up through her hips, and into her spine, finally manifesting as a piercing headache behind her eyes. Still, Amy remained in control. She wasn’t going to let her anger towards Stefani – a dead man after all – get the best of her.

  Discovering Stefani’s involvement with the local criminal network might lead towards peace in the city. If she deciphered the facts correctly, Amy thought the evidence from Stefani’s house could even lead to the culprit of the wide array of missing person cases.

  Among these thoughts, Amy’s eyes caught view of something rather spectacular: a picture of a green highway sign posted in the lower-left corner of Stefani’s photo shrine.

  Amy had seen the sign bef
ore, every time she went to visit her mother. It was the sign that started the curvy highway 17 down through the forestry further south of San Francisco. It was the highway that, on any satellite picture led deep into the greens of the forest, only emerging in a winding path about eighty miles south.

  Wait.

  Highway 17…

  Could it be the location of another hideout? Possibly a second clubhouse for Stefani’s weapons trade?

  Amy massaged her temples.

  Maybe someone along Highway 17 was a target for a future attack.

  There was so much information about Fred Stefani on the evidence board that Amy felt she was trying to run in water. She popped three pieces of gum in her mouth because she liked the flavor to last a while. And as her jaw worked the gum, her mind worked the evidence.

  Another two hours passed, and Cameron fell asleep at his desk. It was just after 2PM, and he’d been fighting sleep all day, but finally caved.

  Amy was still deep in thought at the evidence board.

  Think. Think. The Shrine. The four secret rooms. The maze. The computer. Yes,the computer.

  She concluded the mysterious man at the computer must have been choosing another target for the San Fran bomber to strike. Then, she moved her eyes to the photo Cameron had taken of the computer screen in the glass room at the end of Stefani’s maze.

  Looking closer, Amy noticed icons of faces along the side of the computer screen – like users logged into a shopping cart. It was difficult to make out the details due to a sharp glare across the computer screen in the photo.

  She now stood only inches away from the evidence board. That’s when she saw it. One of the faces had been photographed in black and white. The picture icon showed the silhouette of a large,fat man wearing a cowboy hat. No face. Just a silhouette.

  Amy rushed over and woke up Cameron, then gathered the rest of the team and headed for the door. “Come on, guys.”

  “You got a plan, ponytail?” Vince said.

  “No, but I think I know where to start. We’re driving south of town to highway 17.”

  “I don’t understand,” Cameron said, his voice still scratchy from his mid-day nap at his desk. “You think Jen was taken south?”

  “I’m not sure, Cameron. All I know is whoever took her is after the bank’s money, and I suspect it’s one of Stefani’s weapons clients. It just a hunch, but it’s better than waiting around. Stefani posted that local highway for a reason. Let’s go.”

  The team left town with five police SUVs.They planned to split up later if they found any leads.

  Cameron drove alone in the last SUV, bringing up the rear of the pack, praying all the while for Jen’s safety.

  Gaining momentum out of the city, the team drove south on Interstate 280 past Daly City, past the exit for San Bruno, and south past Woodside and Cupertino. They exited southeast onto highway 85, following it for about 4 miles and then turned southwest onto highway 17.

  The team was about thirty miles from San Francisco, and in the duration of their travels, a distant storm drew closer to the search party.

  Within minutes, a light sprinkle beaded and collected on Cameron’s windshield. He turned the wipers on and watched as the road became reflective from the dancing rain. A moment later, the rain fell heavier, muddling his view of the road. He reduced his speed and increased the wiper frequency.

  Now, the wipers could hardly keep up with the frantic downpour, and Cameron started to lose sight of the rest of the team ahead. Thunder rolled across the road and lighting flashed upon the darkened sky as if it were trying to get a proper exposure. He drove three more miles in the increasing intensity of the storm. Small pebbles of hail speckled Cameron’s SUV, and the cacophony of the storm became deafening. He leaned forward against the steering wheel and clenched it with his now white-knuckled fists.

  Lightning streaked and cackled as it broke through layers of mountainous clouds above. The wind grew in strength and pushed against the vehicle making it difficult to steer straight. The end of the road blurred off and down, almost in a streak. He couldn’t tell where the edge of the road was anymore.

  Through the veil of wind and rain, Cameron lost sight of any vehicles in front of him. He was afraid to slow down since a vehicle traveling at a greater speed behind could easily clip him off the road.

  His fears were suddenly amplified as he heard a faint cracking sound just ahead. A large tree moaned from the forceful storm and released a heavy branch onto the road, then the trunk bowed, stressed, and snapped as the large tree plummeted, covering the road ahead.

  Cameron slammed on the breaks and began to hydroplane, and just as he did, a pickup behind him cornered his left end and sent him spinning into the ditch. The SUV bounced and rolled twice, triggering the violent air bag to blast Cameron against the seat.

  Tilting and swaying, the SUV crumpled and crunched as it rolled. Once, twice, around and around, four times the vehicle rolled, twisting Cameron in a winding knot.

  The wind howled and mocked.

  Finally, the vehicle lurched to a stop.

  Cameron awoke in shock, unaware how much time passed since the steering wheel knocked him unconscious.

  It was dark now, and the heavy rain pelted the underbelly of the vehicle as Cameron hung upside down, face against the cracked windshield, harnessed in by his seatbelt. From his upside-down view, he could only see a foggy haze of rain and grass. A blur of green and dark grey speckled with white dots. Cameron experienced the small ice chunks as if they were falling up and sticking to a green Velcro.

  He carefully crawled out of the tangled seatbelt and regained an upright orientation. His head was still spinning, and he sat inside the vehicle amongst the chaos of the ragging storm. Cameron could feel the rain against his leg through the shattered windows and noticed a series of small cuts on his limbs. His extremities were chilled in pain, and as he flexed his fingers, all ten digits responded with movement.

  Cameron found the rearview mirror broken on the floor and tilted it up to his face. Aside from a few bruises and scrapes, his face had been protected by the airbag. Still, the multiple roles of the vehicle jostled him like a rag doll, and he could feel the effects of whiplash on his neck.

  Cameron felt his legs and was relieved to find no broken bones. His right leg, however, had an unsightly gash in it near his upper thigh. The blood was flowing steadily, and he needed to act fast.

  Every police SUV included a first-aid kit, some food, water, and a blanket. But even these necessities were now scattered all over the back ceiling of the upside-down wreck.

  He found the first-aid kit and attended to his wounds. He disinfected the gash and took off his coat to make a temporary tourniquet.

  Along with pain in his back, Cameron noticed a tingly numbness in his right ankle as well, which he assumed was badly sprained. He was thankful to be alive and without critical injury. Grabbing the armrest of the driver’s seat, he rocked himself forward and regained his balance.

  He crawled into the back seat and lay across the flat ceiling of the vehicle’s interior. Pulling a fleece blanket over his shivering body, he gazed out the blown-out window at the non-stop rain.

  In the midst of the traumatic circumstance, he’d never felt so powerless against the forces of nature. But he wasn’t going to focus on himself. Cameron figured the storm had caused his other team members to veer off course as well.

  Cameron reached for his cell phone…no service. He tried again. Nothing. The phone showed less than fifty percent battery, so he decided to conserve the energy and try again after the storm passed.

  Unfortunately, the storm caterwauled for another hour. The hair on his arm tingled from the electromagnetic activity surrounding the vehicle. Cameron wondered how far away from the road he’d landed. As the rain let up, he discovered there was no angle from inside the vehicle from which he could see the highway asphalt, only the tops of large semis as they zoomed by.

  The SUV rolled down far enough to where h
e could not be seen by the traffic above.

  The sun eventually broke through a section of clouds, stretching a hopeful beam to Cameron’s worn face. He carefully crawled out of the passenger window, and pressed his hand into fresh, soupy mud. He slowly slid the rest of his aching body into the pool of runny mud, and the cooling sensation was somehow refreshing.

  He craned his neck towards the road, and saw just how far the SUV rolled, leaving a trail of bent grass weaving down the ditch.

  Cameron wanted to get up and walk toward the steep conduit, up towards the road to wave for help, but he knew this would only prolong the healing of his right leg. He tried for cell service again, but it failed. Covered in mud, Cameron inched back into the SUV and tried to rest when his moment of calm was shortly interrupted.

  In the misty distance, Cameron saw two men in yellow rain jackets emerge from the trees. The first man carried an oil lantern, and the second man toted a wheelbarrow.

  They were headed straight towards the wreck.

  Cameron panicked, wondering if the men were there to hurt him or help him. He thought about running, but his legs didn’t respond.

  He watched as the yellow raincoats grew, wheeling towards him.

  The men did not talk.

  They did not look around. Only forward.

  And they were focused on Cameron.

  When they neared the accident site, Cameron noticed their boots were caked with fresh mud. Their feet splashed and squashed, then stopped, sinking into the watery brown fluids of the earth. The first man held the lantern over Cameron’s face. His voice was deep and clear, dripping with danger.

  “Are you in need of work, sir?”

  Cameron arched his neck to look up at the first man. The trauma of the wreck took the words from his mouth, rendering him temporarily mute. He moved his limp tongue, but nothing came out.

  “Can you hear us?” The second voice was even deeper than the first.