Sara's Game Part 6

"Careful," the voice shot back. "Remember the rules."

"You can take your rules and-I mean, d.a.m.n it. Okay, your game, your rules. I'll play."

"That's a good girl. I trust you won't get any ideas?"

"No. No ideas. I'm going, I'm going."

"Good. But as a penalty for this minor infraction, I'm reducing your time. Twenty minutes remain. The clock is ticking."

Sara slammed the phone shut.

a.s.shole! Okay, move. Go, go, go.

Down the hill of King street, up to Main, running, running, running hard, forcing her tired legs to get one foot in front of the other, cutting through the neighborhood, making her way back to Jefferson, and then straight ahead toward the Hawthorne Bridge.

The slight decline of Jefferson increased her momentum, but it also made for an awkward running position and caused more painful heel strikes that sent shockwaves up through her s.h.i.+ns and into her lower back.

Pain is temporary, pain is temporary. You have no choice. For the kids, for the kids.

Sara worked her way back through her past interactions with Teddy and tried to remember what she'd done to him. All the times she had called him 'Little One'. All the times they had sat in meetings together and she'd proved him wrong. All the times she had removed his hand from some part of her body with a cautioning tone.

The number of instances where he could've taken offense were endless, but was it enough? People killed for less, didn't they?

But Teddy? He's not...he's not smart enough for something like this.

Sara's lungs felt like they were turning themselves inside out. Her quads and calves were melting into mush, but the adrenaline allowed her to keep pus.h.i.+ng, pus.h.i.+ng. Pus.h.i.+ng past the light rail stop and across intersections. Past apartment complexes and empty office buildings.

Sweat ran into her eyes and soaked her s.h.i.+rt so much that it hugged her skin like a wetsuit. Feet swelling, muscles straining, but she kept putting one leg in front of the other.

No, it has to be Teddy. Has to.

Was that why he'd kept her in the meeting so long that morning? So his plan would have time to work? And he mentioned the breakaway. His baby. His idea. His big contribution. One of the rare times he'd contributed something useful to a project. One of the rare times the senior staff had given him credit instead of chiding him. He had to be throwing it back in her face. Enough of a hint to say, 'See what happens? See what happens when you push too far?'

All of it was there. The admonishments, the chiding, the years of subtle insults to pop his inflated ego.

But the more she thought about it, the longer she a.n.a.lyzed their past, and as she sprinted toward her destination, she couldn't shake the sensation that no matter what their history might be, Teddy Rutherford was just too lazy and self-absorbed to bother with something like this.

She played an impromptu, live version of Frogger crossing Naito, and then made a left at Riverfront Park, angling her way up the entrance ramp to the Hawthorne. Her body ached and she was so thirsty she could've buried her head into the Willamette and chugged until she regurgitated the less-than-pristine river water.

I was so sure it was Teddy, but now- It has to be him. He's the only one with the slightest bit of motive.

But it doesn't feel right.

When would anything like this ever seem right?

I don't know, but if it is him, I'm gonna show him what 'flick, boom, done' really feels like.

She pa.s.sed the line of cars waiting for their turn. The exhaust fumes polluted the air around her, leaving a thick, burnt-fuel taste on her tongue. She coughed and spat, wiped the dangling saliva from her lower lip. She looked south, toward the Marquam Bridge. and saw that a number of small, private yachts and boats were parked at the marina.

Teddy has his own boat. Good place to hide your children.

Too obvious.

Sara approached the center of the Hawthorne Bridge. Cars zipped past her on the rattling, clanging steel-grated deck of the bridge's center. The sound blasted its way into the side of her head, beating against her eardrums. The red paint of the hand railing hadn't been touched in years, worn away by the elements and the pa.s.sage of time.

Time that slipped faster and faster away as she ran, though it had crawled like mola.s.ses back in the Shakespeare Garden.

She stopped at the middle. Doubled over, inhaling through the coffee straws her lungs had become. The breeze was cool and penetrating out over the water as it whipped past, heightening the chill of the soaked running s.h.i.+rt molding itself around her skin. She felt the sun on her back, then straightened up and put her hands behind her head.

Breathe. Breathe. Don't puke. I'm here, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Where East meets West. What am I supposed to be looking for? Some kind of key?

She looked at the phone in her hand, waiting for it to ring.

Are you supposed to call me? What am I supposed to do?

Sara spun in desperate circles, searching the area around her feet, across the bridge to the other side, up at the towering green trusses. She heard the roar of a hulking metal beast as a TriMet bus slouched its way by, lumbering along, kicking up dust that pelted her skin.

All the other instructions were on a piece of paper.

She twirled, hoping to see a flash of white. Some bit of guidance. Something to point her way to the next level.

I don't see anything. Nothing there. Nothing on the sidewalk. Anything wrapped around the railing? s.h.i.+t. No. Empty. Is it on me somewhere? Has it been with me this whole time? No pockets in the s.h.i.+rt...no pockets in the shorts...nothing in the key pocket...Shoes? Shoes? d.a.m.n. No. Where in the h.e.l.l is the key?

She walked to the railing and leaned across it, looking for anything below, feeling the sun-warmed metal on her palms. The deep green water of the Willamette swirled along some fifty feet down. The height, coupled with dehydration and exhaustion, caused an overpowering feeling of vertigo. Sara backed away, afraid that she might topple over the edge and plunge into the river. This world, the real one, wasn't like the landscape inside the realm of Juggernaut, where you could b.u.mp into the outer limits of the backdrop and be stopped from going further. A trip over this ledge meant something she didn't want to think about.

Sara looked to her left. A streetlamp reached into the sky and she walked over to it, intending to use the metal post as a support, something to lean against while the dizzy spell pa.s.sed.

Before she flopped back against it, she saw a small bulge protruding from the front side. She looked closer, and then she gasped. Right at eye level, underneath a wide, clear strip of tape, was a bronze-colored key stuck to the lamppost.

She peeled it away with harried, scrabbling fingers. Ripped the key from the tape's sticky grasp.

The phone rang.

She answered, "I found it, found the key."

"Good for you, Sara. My apologies for the delay. I was having a bit of fun with your children. Who knew they could...bleed so easily?"

CHAPTER 9.

DJ.

DJ sat in a plush leather chair across from Jim Rutherford, the CEO and President of LightPulse Productions. The private office had one gla.s.s wall that offered a view of the interior machinations of the company, another was populated with promotional posters of their past releases, and, behind him, a shelved wall held a number of awards and family photographs. The windows to his right were covered with drawn shades, allowing parallel strips of sunlight to penetrate into the room. No overhead lights illuminated the area, and no desk lamps were present to give off a soft glow.

The cave-like atmosphere reminded DJ of some super villain's secret lair.

The desk was as big as a full-sized mattress and oddly empty, except for a single notepad, one pen, and a laptop. DJ expected mountains of paperwork and a ringing phone. At least a nameplate and some kitschy knickknack, like a Newton's Cradle. Instead, the spa.r.s.eness of the desk gave DJ the impression that this was a man who had little time for distractions. Or, a man who made it a point to eliminate the near-constant interruptions that invariably came with running a busy, growing company like LightPulse. It was an admirable quality-one that DJ wished he had, as well.

Jim wasn't dressed like the average CEO. At least, not the ones that DJ had interacted with before. His buzz-cut salt and pepper hair complimented the plain black t-s.h.i.+rt he was wearing, along with jeans and sneakers that suggested he was a man who dressed however he wanted because he was in charge.

DJ thought, Dude looks like a poor man's version of Steve Jobs.

Jim said, "I hope you don't mind sitting in the dark, Detective. It's easier on my eyes. Too many years of working under these d.a.m.n office lights. They give me headaches."

"How long have you been involved with video games, Mr. Rutherford? I was a huge fan of Shotgun Shooter back in the day." DJ knew he should be jumping right into his questions about Sara-he was already way behind on their timeline, after all-but b.u.t.tering up the man with a miniature ego boost couldn't hurt. Like Barker said, 'Bees with honey, DJ. More bees with honey.'

"About thirty years. I was on some of the original Atari teams, if you can believe it. So you liked Shooter, huh? Wow. Memories. That was back when this was a tiny shop and I was still involved in the actual programming. Blocky pixels, left to right scrolling, 2D worlds. I miss those days. Now we create these 3D masterpieces with nearly the square mileage of Portland for our players to run around in. But h.e.l.l, it's what they want." Jim crossed his legs, tented his fingertips. "I've been toying with the idea of releasing a 2D throwback for nostalgia's sake, but since Sara lit the fuse under the Juggernaut series, we'd get creamed by the media for a stunt like that."

Eh, sounds like regret, but not enough of a motive for kidnapping. "Have you spoken to her today?"

"Not a word. I've been trying to get in touch with her since she left this morning, but she won't answer her phone."

"And you're aware that her children are missing?"

"That's the report I got from her a.s.sistant, Sh.e.l.ley. Such a shame. They're sweet kids, and I hope I can help. Do you have any leads yet?"

"We're working on it. How well do you know Sara-I mean, Mrs. Winthrop?"

"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 h.e.l.l 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, s.h.i.+ts 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 a.s.skicker, but around here," he said, motioning toward the gla.s.s 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 h.e.l.l 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 s.h.i.+t 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 p.i.s.sed 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, h.e.l.l, 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 a.s.s."

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, ma.s.saging 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 c.h.i.n.k. "-should be used with some discretion," Jim said. He leaned against his ma.s.sive 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 s.h.i.+fted on the desk. Flashed a look at the ceiling, then down at the floor. His bouncing foot moved faster. "Ah, h.e.l.l, 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, d.a.m.n 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 an invading alien army 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?"