Sara's Game Part 21

DJ reached down, grabbed the cool, bra.s.s metal. Twisted to the left, heard the latch click, followed by the groaning of corroded hinges.

Barker said, "Saved us a grand entrance. Careful, now."

They crossed the threshold. DJ first, Barker following. Hunched over, intent, all senses redlined, waiting for an ambush. The shallow Berber carpet gave them the advantage of silence as they crept.

Backs to walls, shuffling from one spot to the next. Every door open, every room void of any signs of habitation. No toothbrush, no shower curtains. Spotless kitchen counters, spotless refrigerator, two empty ice trays in the freezer.

A single cup sat next to the sink. Blue and plastic. Bone dry.

They relaxed, holstered their weapons. DJ scratched the back of his neck, let out a huff of air.

Hands on his hips, Barker said, "As empty as my cold bed at night, cowboy. Now what? Any more bright ones?"

"I thought for sure..."

"Not your fault. Gotta go with what they give you."

"We should check for prints on the cup."

"Hospitals aren't this clean, but we might as well. I got a couple baggies in the car. Poke around some. I'll be back in a minute."

DJ stepped around the kitchen counter and into the living room. Pockmarks and dings and sc.r.a.pes on the walls. Typical of a rental, like his own place when he and Jessica had moved in together. She said they gave a place character, showed signs of life. He had complained about the previous tenants' lack of respect.

He bent down, examined the carpet closer. No indentations from couch legs or tables.

n.o.body's been here for months. Fake address. Where's she staying?

They could track down the owner, ask if a Sh.e.l.ley Ann Sergeant had ever been here, or had ever signed a rental agreement. But with a fake address given to the DMV, more than likely she would've been smart enough to use a fake name. Fake bank account.

She'd used her real name at LightPulse. They'd have a real address on file, wouldn't they?

She wouldn't be that stupid. That's probably not her real name, either.

So she leaves Sara's husband down south, moves up here, somehow gets a job working for her. Bides her time for a couple months...watches patterns...figures out schedules...s.n.a.t.c.hes the kids...takes them back to San Diego...Winthrop has his kids back...everybody lives happily ever after.

It's missing something.

d.a.m.n it. The note.

He heard the front door open, moved his hand closer to his pistol. "Barker?"

"Hand off the go-boom, JonJon. Just me," Barker said as he popped around the corner, shaking the baggie open. "Got an APB out on our girl. Doubt it'll do any good."

"She hasn't gone anywhere yet."

"What makes you say that?"

"The note, Barker. The one from this morning."

"Meaning what?"

"For starters, I'd say you were right about the husband," DJ said, then went on to explain his theory about what happened to Brian Winthrop, and the possible reason that Sh.e.l.ley Sergeant was in Portland. He watched Barker nod, watched the flickers of comprehension light up his eyes, listened to him grunt his agreement.

When he'd finished, Barker said, "You keep this up, I might be able to retire earlier than I thought."

"Don't buy your plane ticket yet. We've got the who, and the what. The how is shaky, but the where and why...zip, zilch, zero. Can't figure out what this game has to do with anything."

Barker scooped the cup into the baggie, zipped it shut. He said, "Sounds to me like she's out for revenge of some sorts. Maybe our buddy Brian talked too much about the wifey. Miss Sh.e.l.ley can't take it, comes up here to take care of business."

DJ crossed his arms. "Why not go after her directly? Why get the kids involved?"

"She could've knifed her in a parking lot somewhere, but what fun would that be? She's h.e.l.l-bent on revenge, she'd want to make it last, hit her where it hurts the most."

"Sometimes your mind scares me."

Barker tapped the side of his head. "The more you think like them, the easier they are to catch."

"Then where do we go from here?"

"JonJon, I'm afraid I'm done chasing my tail for the night. Sleep on it, and we'll start fresh in the morning."

But DJ knew he wouldn't be able to sleep on it. Sure, he could go home, flop down on the couch, or eat another cold meal while Jessica read or watched another home improvement show. Then, as always, when something about a case was bothering him, the inevitable tossing and turning would lead to an hour on the couch, surfing the internet at 4AM, or checking the refrigerator to see if something new had manifested itself out of the cold ether. He'd crawl back into bed for another round of choppy, broken sleep, then eventually relent and head out to the garage for a quick 5K on the treadmill before the sun came up.

Instead of heading for home, as Barker had done, he made laps up and down Lombard Street, thinking, a.n.a.lyzing, trying to figure out where Sh.e.l.ley could've taken the kids. He read the street signs, the same ones over and over. Stopped for a cup of coffee at 7-11, chatted with the clerk for a couple of minutes about how they thought the Timbers were doing. Got back in his unmarked sedan, resumed the slow march toward more unanswered questions.

What kind of game was she playing? A literal game? Figurative? Back at the school, Sara had taken a phone call, and had rushed out in a panic. Someone matching her description had been spotted naked in the Rose Gardens, and then there were reports of her running away.

This person was toying with Sara. Had to be. Playing with her, testing her, seeing how far she would go to save her children. Humiliating her because she could. Her game, her rules.

If Sara was running away, where was she going? On to the next demeaning episode that Sh.e.l.ley had devised? There were no reports or sightings of Sara since that morning. She could be anywhere. The kids could be anywhere. Tens of thousands of buildings and homes. Hidden away while Sh.e.l.ley got her revenge on a woman who had been nothing more than a victim of an unfaithful husband who couldn't keep his d.i.c.k in his pants.

She could be dead by now. All four of them. They'd be found in the morning by some unlucky janitor making his early rounds, or a hiker who had taken a shortcut through the woods and managed to stumble across their bodies.

Don't think like that. There's still time.

How many cases went unsolved each year? How many times did a child go missing from a playground and never came home?

No matter what the number might be, he refused to add to that total.

Not them. Not this time. Barker will come up with something.

And what happens when Barker's gone? One of these days, you're not going to have the luxury of his intuition. One of these days, you'll have to think for yourself.

His ringing cell phone was a welcome interruption. "Johnson."

"JonJon, got a call for you."

"Davis? What're you still doing at the station?"

"Keeping you in a job. You want me to patch her through or take a message?"

"Who is it?"

"Said she's Sara Winthrop."

She's alive... "Put her through." He waited for the line to click over and said, "Sara? You okay? Find your kids?" Please say yes, please say yes...

"I know where they are, but I could use some help."

"With what? Where are you? What's going on?"

"I'll tell you when you get here. Right now, I need an extra set of footsteps. Come alone, because I think that's the only way it'll work."

CHAPTER 22.

SARA.

Sara sat on a park bench within sight of Michael's home. It was in a neighborhood that she'd never been to before, full of houses in various stages of disrepair. Missing s.h.i.+ngles, sagging porches. Yards that hadn't been mowed in days, if not weeks. Trash littered the sidewalk. Shoes dangled from power lines.

If he'd been telling the truth, her children were inside, bound and gagged, crying, suffering, wondering why their mother hadn't come for them yet, wondering who this horrible stranger was who had been terrorizing them all day.

I'm coming, guys. Mommy's coming, but I have to be careful. Just a little longer.

She had wrestled with the decision to get Detective Johnson involved, but as Michael had said, Sis would be expecting two sets of footsteps if she really were hiding in the bas.e.m.e.nt with Lacey, Callie, and Jacob.

Her heartbeat hammered in her chest. The ache to see their little faces again had grown to an overwhelming urge to move, go, now, but it clashed with the need to stay smart, stay focused, and play the game how Sis wanted it to be played. One wrong move, one subtle slip, and she may never see them again, whether alive, or-G.o.d forbid-dead.

Roughly forty-five minutes had pa.s.sed since their last communication, and Sis would be expecting a call or a text, or something, to let her know that it was time to start the third level.

Misdirection, she thought. That's my only play here. I don't have time to come up with my own game.

She thought about all the times she'd hunkered around the large table in the LightPulse meeting room with a group of their sharpest minds brainstorming, plotting, has.h.i.+ng out ideas, trying to come up with a plethora of hazardous situations to throw at the laser gun-wielding heroes of Juggernaut. Given that luxury and more time, with a notepad full of ideas and a corps of experts guiding her, outsmarting the villainess would've been simpler. Not guaranteed, but manageable. At least she'd have a shot.

But now, alone on the park bench, mind racing, no matter what form of trickery or deception she came up with, it all led to the ultimate consequence that she feared most.

Something terrible that she would be powerless to stop.

The only path that made any sense was playing the final level with advanced knowledge of what she was going into. She had the information Michael had given her, but needed more.

She needed her very own cheat code.

Like back in the glory days of Nintendo games, when you could enter a set of keystrokes on the controller and gain extra lives. Game programmers did it before then, and they were still doing it. The LightPulse guys held contests to see who could come up with the most creative way to hide something within Juggernaut, and to this day, some of the winners had never been found.

That's my advantage. Her game becomes my game.

She opened the text window on Michael's phone.

Be smart, but play dumb.

Michael says: Stupid traffic. Sitting at a dead stop. Accident.

Michael says: Mother Goose tried to convince me to turn on you.

The reply came swiftly.

Sis says: Surprised it took her this long.

Sis says: How far away?

Michael says: Couple of miles. Be there soon. Kids okay?

Sis says: YES, Michael. Don't start that s.h.i.+t again.

Sara stared at the keypad. How do I get her to tell me what's coming? What would he say?

Michael says: Just want to make sure they'll be safe.

Michael says: Tell me about this level again. Did you change anything?

Michael says: Can't call. She's listening.

Sis says: You KNOW what the plan is.

Sis says: You disgust me.

Michael says: Sorry. Don't want to disappoint you.

Sis says: Too late for that.

Sis says: But sometimes I worry Mother hit you too hard.

Sis says: That hammer must have damaged your memory.

Michael says: It did. I remember some of it.

Michael says: Traffic moving soon. Please remind.

Sis says: Jesus, you're hopeless. Read this, get here fast. DO NOT text and drive.

Michael says: Ok.