“We’re close. She’s a bulldozer sometimes, but she’s one of my favorites. I’m sure you can understand that I’m busy as hell trying to run this place, but I try to keep tabs on everyone here, you know. I do my best to get out into the trenches with these guys so they don’t think I’m some seagull owner.”
“Seagull owner?”
“Flies in, shits on everything, and then leaves.”
DJ chuckled. “I think I’ve known a few of those.” He liked the man, had a strong feeling that he wasn’t a suspect, and regretted having to ask his next question. “Are you in any way involved in the disappearance of Sara Winthrop’s children?” Such a pointed question obviously wouldn’t get a positive answer, but it was designed to take Rutherford by surprise in order to gauge his immediate response.
“Definitely not.”
The clear, definitive answer, coupled with the body language of a truth-teller, was the response DJ was looking for, in contrast to the dodging, evasive answers, and nervous tics of a person on the front-end of a lie. He asked, “And do you have any idea who might be?”
“Not in the slightest. Like I mentioned, she’s an asskicker, but around here,” he said, motioning toward the glass wall and the open office on the other side, “she’s well liked. Respected. Some of the younger kids have a healthy dose of fear of her, but I love that about Sara. She scares the hell out of my son, Teddy, which is sorta funny, to be honest, and frankly I think he does better work because of it. Out there in the real world, though, I’m sorry to say that I don’t know what people think. I can’t imagine their opinions would be much different. But here in the office, she gets shit done, Detective Johnson, and we’d be lost without her.”
“And you don’t think that type of demeanor would be enough to create some animosity?”
“Animosity? Of course it’s a possibility, but if every poor sap stuck in a cube got pissed off and kidnapped his boss’s kids, there wouldn’t be any children left.”
“True, Mr. Rutherford, but I’m trying to establish a motive. It has to come from somewhere, and an angry employee is an obvious place to start.”
“Not with the kids we have working here. They just want to play video games and have fun. Sara’s like the—ah, hell, what do they call the older lady who stays at a sorority house?”
“The house mom,” DJ answered, which he knew only because his wife Jessica had been an Alpha Phi at the University of Oregon. Her reluctance to leave her home state was the reason he’d said goodbye to Texas. But for her, he would have done anything.
“That’s it, the house mom,” Jim said. “She’s either the house mom or the drill sergeant that you eventually like and respect, even after he’s removed his size eleven boot from your ass.”
DJ knew what he meant. Four years in the Army, two of them spent as an MP, had left him with distinct memories of that exact same boot insertion and removal. He said, “I had one of those. Believe it or not, we exchange Christmas cards. Was Sara ever in the military?”
“Not unless she was in an ROTC program while she was in school, and I don’t remember anything like that on her resume. She started working here right after she got out of college and has been killing it since day one. What Sara has,” Jim said, “is an inherent strength.” He groaned as he stood up, massaging his lower back. He moved with a slight limp over to the window, pried open two shades, and took a long look out into the world beyond.
DJ waited. According to Barker, if you stayed silent long enough, individuals would usually offer more information than if you had asked them something directly. People want to talk, DJ. Listening is an art. Hearing is biology.
Still looking out the window, Jim said, “Detective?”
“Yes, sir?”
“What I’m about to tell you—” The blinds snapped shut with a metallic chink. “—should be used with some discretion,” Jim said. He leaned against his massive expanse of a desk and crossed his arms. “Do whatever you like with it, and I completely understand that you have an investigation to conduct, but I’m asking you to keep this as contained as you can. I feel guilty for saying this, but I have a multi-million dollar business to run, and I can’t risk having Sara’s authority undermined if—not if, when—you find her children and she’s able to come back to work.”
There it is. There’s the ruthless businessman. You’re all the same. At least you made it this far.
He said, “I’ll do my best, Mr. Rutherford. You’ve got a business to run, but I’ve got three missing children to find.”
“I’m well aware,” Jim said, pausing. He bounced a hanging foot, toe-tapping the air. “I wasn’t sure I should bring this up, because I think in absolutes. Ones and zeroes. Something is, or it isn’t. This information is pure speculation, got it?”
“Of course.”
“I don’t know why I’m telling you this.” Jim shifted on the desk. Flashed a look at the ceiling, then down at the floor. His bouncing foot moved faster. “Ah, hell, what I’m trying to say is—before Sara’s husband disappeared, I had a hunch that he was cheating on her.”
DJ rolled his eyes. Not you, too. The husband, the husband. I’m looking for the kids, damn you.
“At the Christmas party—why is it always the Christmas party, huh?—anyway, Sara was talking to some of the programmers from out there in The Belly, and in the back of the room, I saw Brian walk in looking like he’d been running around the block, and about thirty seconds later, one of the waitresses came in after him, putting on some fresh lipstick.”
DJ said, “Not exactly proof. And I don’t see how that has anything to do with the kids being missing.”
“No, it probably doesn’t. Like I said, pure speculation, but where I was going with that—my mind wanders, Detective. I dream up these crazy ideas. Storylines, right? I mean, that’s what I do for a living. I don’t want to distract you with dreamed up scenarios, but what if it’s Brian? What if he’s come back for the kids?”
“It’s something we’ll take into consideration.”
“You’re not a fan of the idea, huh?”
“It’s not at the top of my list, Mr. Rutherford,” he said. Then another Barker-ism popped in his head: ‘Acknowledge the possibilities first, but trust the facts later.’ DJ adjusted his tie, fidgeted in his seat, frustrated with the fact that Barker was rarely wrong and was leaning toward the husband-as-culprit scenario, as well. And now Rutherford hinted at the prospect. “Let’s say that it is the husband, it is Brian Winthrop, and he’s come back from the dead or wherever he’s been, why now? What makes you think that he would come back two years later and kidnap his own children?”
Jim shrugged. “It’s a plausible scenario. When we design games here, we weigh the possible against the whimsical, and if the two meet in the middle, we know we have a winner. In Sara’s case, that’s all I can come up with.”
DJ stood, no closer to having any leads than when he’d walked into Jim Rutherford’s office fifteen minutes earlier. Regardless of what the Bloodhound’s instincts were telling him, he wasn’t about to sit there any longer and dream up convoluted schemes with an aging gamer who lived in some fantasy world where a mass of invading aliens could be considered possible.
Whimsical—yes. Possible—not likely. They’d have a better chance of crafting the plotline for a new game with this nonsense than he would of uncovering the truth if he sat here any longer, entertaining these implausible notions. He had children to find, and he’d already wasted enough time on the inane hypothesizing of Barker and the absurd theories of Rutherford.
He said, “I appreciate your time, Mr. Rutherford. Mind if I ask your staff some questions while I’m here?”
“Be my guest. They’re on strict deadlines, so please keep that in mind.”
“It won’t take long. Any suggestions on where to start?”
“Shelley would be your best bet. She’s only been here a couple of months, but I’d say she knows Sara better than anyone in the office. Except for me.”
/> DJ thanked him again, and moved for the door. Opened it, then stopped before he left. “One last thing, Mr. Rutherford. I’m sure you’ve heard it thousands of times, given your profession, but does the phrase, ‘Are you ready to play the game?’ have any special meaning around here?”
Rutherford’s eyes popped open. “How’d you know about that?”
The reaction surprised DJ so much that he didn’t have an adequate response ready. He’d tossed the question out almost as an afterthought, never intending to fully discuss that particular aspect of the case. He said, “It’s a—it’s a lead we’re following.”
“A lead? Is Teddy a suspect?”
“Your son? No. Why?”
“Did you two talk before you came in to see me?”
“I didn’t. Mr. Rutherford, if you know anything—”
“I’m sure he has nothing to do with Sara’s kids.”
“Does that phrase have anything to do with him?”
“He wanted it on the title sequence in Juggernaut 3. The staff shot him down, told him it was too mundane. He came crying to me and then pitched a fit when I agreed with them.”
DJ took a single step back inside Rutherford’s office. He said, “If that’s the case, I have some questions for him. Where’s his office?”
“He left early this morning, around ten o’clock. Said something about a golf tournament.”
“Any idea which one?”
“If I did know, Detective, I’m not sure I’d be willing to offer that information, given the circumstances.”
DJ said, “And you know that impeding an investigation is a serious offense?”
“Young man, there are a lot of things I do know that I’m sure you don’t. Unfortunately for both of us, I have no idea where Teddy might be, golfing or not.”
“I’ll still be asking around before I go.”
Rutherford shooed him away with a dismissive hand. “Good luck.”
Chapter 10
Sara
...I didn’t know they could bleed so easily.
The words clanged around inside her head. Sara bent over the hand railing and vomited a mixture of bile and breakfast into the Willamette. She retched and dry-heaved until nothing was left. Coughing and spitting, she wiped her mouth with her sweaty forearm, and cursed into the phone. “You son of a bitch. If I ever find you, if you touch my children again, I will—”
“You’ll what, Sara?”
“—do whatever you’ve done to them a thousand times over. Do you understand me?”
“But you’re there, and I’m here, and you have a game to play.”
It came out before she could stop herself, but the anger, the fury inside her had reached the internal temperature of the sun. Reason, and the result of the consequences that would come, provided a gauzy barrier and her words ripped through unhindered. “You can shove this goddamn game up your ass.”
“Now, now, Sara. We mustn’t let things get out of hand. And by the way—” Another yelp of pain from one of her children—Lacey, this time. “—I told you not to defy me again.”
“Stop!” she screamed. If it’d been an option, if it’d been offered as an end to the game, an end to her children’s torture, she would’ve backed up, climbed over the railing, and flung herself into the river. “You win, okay? You win.”
“We’ll find out who wins when the game is over.”
“I have the key, just tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”
“Do you want to ask your question for this round now, or later?”
She wanted to ask now. She wanted to ask Teddy why he had chosen her. Why he had picked her instead of one of the other senior managers that constantly teased him and made fun of his height and called him ‘Little One’.
Why did he get her children involved? Why did he have to bind them and torture them? Why not kidnap her? Why not take her, by herself, to some abandoned warehouse where he could do whatever unmentionable things he wanted to do? If he really wanted to get revenge for whatever offenses she had committed, why drag it out with this elaborate game that had so much room for error?
Because he’s a cat playing with a mouse right before it eats it. He wants me to ask now. To make the game harder.
“Later,” she said. “I’ll save it.”
The disappointed answer of, “Fine,” and the long silence that followed confirmed her guess.
She said, “I’m waiting.”
“I’m sorry, Sara. I took a moment to feel how soft your son’s hair is. It’s like gossamer, isn’t it?”
Her stomach churned again. She imagined Teddy standing over her son, running his sausage fingers through Jacob’s hair. Saw Jacob’s tear-streaked face, cringing, trying to move away but unable to because of the tight ropes or rough chains. Rather than screaming more poisonous threats, she rolled her head from side to side, stretching her neck, trying to maintain control. Made a fist, punched the lamppost hard enough for a knuckle to pop.
Think, Sara, think. He’s testing you. What’s he want? Obedience? Submission?
She clenched her jaw and said, “You’re right.”
“Soft, blonde gossamer. You may get to feel it again one day.”
“Please just tell me what the next level is.”
“Such impatience. I expected you to be eager, but this fire in your belly is encouraging. It should serve you well during the first half of Level Two. I like to call it...Confusion. Are you ready to play the game?”
“I’m ready.”
And you’d better be ready, because if I ever get the chance—
The voice said, “Keep the phone. Keep the key. Continue to the eastern side of the bridge. Take the bike path exit, down to the parking lot under the bridge. Your transportation will be waiting. I’m sure you’ll recognize the car. You will be given further instructions. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“This next level will provide quite the challenge. Oh, and Sara?”
“What?”
“You’re doing great...Little One.”
Little One. It was more than a hint. It was a taunt, saying, ‘I want you to know, come and get me.’
Such a deliberate admission. It was enough, so obvious. She could go to the police, tell them precisely who had her children. But why, why be so blatant?
Because he has your kids. And you have no idea where. He knows you won’t risk it. He’s in complete control.
Sara paced back and forth as a woman approached, riding a bicycle. She looked like one of the many environmentally conscious commuters around Portland who biked to and from work every day in an attempt to reduce their carbon footprint, even if it was the size of a baby’s shoe. Dressed well in a pants-suit, blue backpack clinging to her shoulders, listening to something on her iPod.
I have to fight back. This might be my only chance.
Are you insane? Don’t do it.
Sara made an impulse decision in the few remaining feet before the biker was upon her. She ran, looking back, trying to match the woman’s speed.
When they were side by side, the woman flicked a look at her, then refocused on the bike path ahead.
Sara said, “Can you help me?”
The biker removed her right ear bud. “I’m sorry?”
“Can you slow down a little?”
“What’s up?” she asked, easing up her pace.
“My phone is dead,” Sara said, wheezing, plodding along the hard concrete. “Would you mind making a call for me? Or can I use your phone? It’ll only take me a second.”
The woman shook her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
“If you could call for me—I really need help—you don’t have to do it now, just when you get a chance.”
“That’s not—”
“All I need you to do is call Detective Johnson at the police department. Tell him the game is real, and it’s Teddy Rutherford at LightPulse.”
“I can’t do that, Sara.”
Sara ran into an invisible wall, screech
ing to a halt.
Oh no.
The biker pedaled faster, shouting over her shoulder, “That’s not how the game is played.”
Damn it.
How many rules had she broken? How many offenses had she committed with that ridiculous, ill-conceived stunt? How long would it take before the woman told Teddy what she’d done? And what would he do to the kids as a result?
Sara sprinted, chasing after the woman for the remaining half of the bridge, but it was a useless waste of energy. She was on a bike, moving too fast, and had gone out of sight by the time Sara reached the opposite shore. She stopped under the overpass.
So stupid. What did I just do? Who else is watching? It could be anyone.
An older couple strolled past, holding hands, laughing. They smiled at her, said hello. Or were they checking on her, making sure she was playing the game as she should? They kept walking. Sara waited on them to reverse their course, follow her. Check in with Teddy, report that she was on schedule. Paranoia billowed in her mind like a gathering thundercloud. Dark and threatening, voluminous, ready to pour down and soak her last remaining sense of composure.
They never looked back.
She wrapped her arms around her body, doubled over, and cried. Wind blew at her back, scattering the teardrops before they reached the concrete. She thought about Brian and the way he had pulled her in close whenever she was sad or having a bad day. Thought about how she used to lay her head on his shoulder, listening to the bass reverberate in his chest as he told her she’d be fine, that he was there for her, and that she had nothing to worry about. If he was still here, would any of this be happening? Would she be at the office right now, answering emails, making calls, reviewing Shelley’s latest copywriting masterwork?
Tell me it’ll be okay, Brian. Tell me it’ll be okay.
She heard the squeal of brakes as a car slowed to a stop beside her.
The driver called out, “Hey, you need some help?”
Sara stood and waved him off. “I’m fine,” she lied. “Bad knee. Hurts to run.”
“Go see a doctor,” he said, pulling away as a honk from another car urged him on.
Sara's Game Page 7