Sara's Game Read online

  A couple of minutes tops, then another couple of minutes to call the police. I can get through this. Quit glaring at me, asshole. Take a damn picture. Lady, I know I need to put some clothes on! Stop yelling. You’re going to attract more attention! Seriously, I will punch you in your fat hamburger face if you get close enough.

  A younger guy wearing a bandana, showing off tattooed arms that stuck out of his basketball jersey, turned to see what the commotion was about. “Woohoo!” he shouted, and then his girlfriend slapped his shoulder.

  If humiliation is the easiest level, I don’t want to know what the rest of this game is going to be like. Game. Game. Damn it, the riddle! What was it again? Scarlet trusses. The key. East meets West. Trusses. Okay, some kind of bridge. Right? A bridge? Is there a scarlet bridge around here? It has to be somewhere close, somewhere here in Portland.

  Sara ran down the list of bridges that crossed the Willamette River. The Fremont. The Hawthorne. The Steel Bridge and the Morrison. Broadway and Burnside.

  Scarlet. Scarlet is red. Are any of those bridges red? The Broadway Bridge is kind of red...could that be it? Yeah, but it wouldn’t be that easy. He specifically said scarlet. What does scarlet have to do with any of the bridges?

  Sara thought. And thought. And shifted her weight from one foot to the other as people glared and stared at her body. It was difficult to concentrate with all the turmoil going on around her. People would enter the Shakespeare Garden and pause long enough to take in the spectacle and either stand with their arms crossed and watch or rush away, covering their children’s eyes.

  At least you have your kids with you. You’d do the same thing. Ugh, how much time do I have left? Two minutes? Three?

  A man walked up to her and stopped no more than four feet away. He smiled, and then clapped five beats. He put his hands on his hips and looked down. Sara could feel him examining her feet, looking at her chipped toenail polish. Regardless of the fact that she was completely naked, she was embarrassed by the neon pink color she had chosen over a month ago. Such a small decision to do something fun had resulted in a sense of self-consciousness that momentarily outweighed her nudity, even in such a public place.

  I know, I know. I haven’t had time to get them fixed. Now get away from me. I need to concentrate. Please. Please leave.

  His gaze worked his way up her legs, over her covered crotch, across her tummy and breasts, then he looked her in the eyes. Sara didn’t know whether or not he could sense her pain and unease, but his words brought on an odd sense of muted comfort. In a deep, southern drawl, he said, “I don’t know what you’re doing, lady, if you’re plumb crazy or brave as hell, but we need more people like you in this world. This takes some balls. Bigger than mine, that’s for sure.”

  He walked away.

  Sara watched him go, wanted to beg him not to leave.

  Crazy and brave. And I’d give you a million bucks just to be wearing your baseball cap right now. What’s that on the back of your hat? Is that an ‘A’? Who is that? Atlanta? A big red ‘A,’ just like the scarlet letter. How appropriate would that be? Shame. Humiliation. I hated The Scarlet Letter. What Hawthorne put that poor woman through—oh my God.

  The Scarlet Letter. Nathaniel Hawthorne. The Hawthorne Bridge.

  Wait, the bridge is green, but the railing is red. And the Hawthorne Bridge was named after some doctor...doesn’t matter. That has to be it. It’s too much of a coincidence. The humiliation factor. Scarlet. That’s what he had in mind. The scarlet trusses contain the key where East meets West. The key he was talking about has to be in the middle, where the bridge is raised. Where East meets West.

  She was so relieved she would’ve clapped too if it wouldn’t have revealed her more intimate parts.

  Now I just have to make it through the rest of the five minutes—

  “Ma’am? Ma’am?!”

  Sara saw a woman, a park employee carrying a walkie-talkie, striding toward her, stomping so hard she could’ve left footprints in the bricks.

  Here we go. That didn’t take long. Jesus, what’ll happen to the kids if I’m in jail?

  Lacey, Callie, and Jacob, hidden away somewhere, suffering at the hands of a madman. Begging for their mother. Wrists bound with rough rope on little arms. What would happen to them? What would he do to them if she got arrested, if she weren’t able to finish the game? Surely Teddy had planned for something like this, had contingencies set up in case something went wrong. The game was his, and he wanted it played. It wouldn’t be any fun if it was over before it started.

  Twenty feet away, the park employee said, “I’m gonna have to ask you—”

  The phone rang in Sara’s hand. She flipped it open, held it up to her ear.

  The voice said, “My contact tells me you’re about to get in trouble. Laugh. Apologize. Tell her you lost a bet. Stay on the line.”

  Sara did as she was told. Forced a laugh and apologized to the approaching employee. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause a scene. I lost a bet.”

  “Leave. Now.”

  The woman reached for Sara’s arm, but she twisted away and said, “I’m going, don’t worry,” and then dashed down the walkway toward her clothes. Into the phone, she said, “Okay, I’m clear.”

  “I heard. And I enjoyed that very much, Sara. You played well. Good game.”

  “Are the kids okay?”

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk, Sara. Only one question per round. But I will let this one slide. It’s a natural reaction, of course.”

  Sara approached the spot where she had taken off her work clothes, but instead, they had been replaced by a running outfit. Her running clothes and her running shoes.

  He’s been inside my house. How did he get past all the alarms?

  The ultra-expensive security system had been installed after Brian’s disappearance, in case whoever had taken him wasn’t satisfied with just a single Winthrop in their collection. Aside from her and the children, who never remembered it anyway, the only other two people that she trusted with the code were Miss Willow and Shelley, who were allowed to drop by for extra sets of clothes for the kids or to pick up things she needed for the office.

  Did you torture one of them to get the code, Teddy? Make them play your stupid game, too?

  Sara couldn’t imagine what it would’ve taken for one of her two closest confidantes to reveal that secret.

  Shelley was fine this morning. Oh no, Willow!

  The voice asked, “Did you solve the riddle?”

  “Yes. The Hawthorne Bridge. In the center. Where East meets West.”

  “I knew you could do it. See? I told you this level would be easy. In front of you are your running clothes. You have forty-five minutes to reach your destination. When you find the key, the first level will be complete. Keep the phone. Await further instructions.”

  Sara dressed.

  And then she ran.

  Chapter 7

  DJ

  Detective Johnson, DJ, sat hunched over his desk, reading through Brian Winthrop’s file. He tried to tune out the noise around him and focus, but the rustling papers and ringing phones and near constant foot traffic between the desks hindered his attempts at complete attention. He lifted his coffee cup and swallowed the last dregs of oil refinery leftovers.

  Barker, a.k.a. Bloodhound, peered at him from over the top of his bifocals. “You could peel paint with that stuff, JonJon. Imagine what it’s doing to your insides.”

  DJ looked up from the file. “Again?”

  “Again what?”

  “Again with the JonJon.”

  “It’s your fault, cowboy. I don’t know what life’s like down yonder in Texas, but ‘round these here parts, you don’t offer a man the noose that’s gonna hang you.”

  “You need to work on that accent. A real Texan would whip your ass just for trying.”

  “You’re saying you’re not a real Texan?”

  DJ shook his head and grinned. Similar exchanges happened at least once a day,
and he’d taken the ribbing as a sign that Barker was warming up to him five years later. Up until about six months ago, the most that could be said about their relationship was ‘same car, same job.’ But once DJ had solved a case that had perplexed even the great and mighty Bloodhound, a microscopic seam had opened in the older detective’s armor. They weren’t friends, yet, but at least DJ got to see what respect looked like when viewed through a pair of binoculars.

  And in truth, ‘respect’ wasn’t the right word. He felt like he deserved it, but the way Barker treated him suggested he’d yet to earn it. Not from Barker, not from the other detectives. One day, though, they’d be looking up to him. One day.

  Their three-hour window had closed thirty minutes earlier. Barker had insisted that they return to the office and review the missing husband’s file because his instinct said that Brian Winthrop was the catalyst. DJ had complied without question, partly out of deference to the senior detective, and partly because he’d witnessed the accuracy of Barker’s initial reactions so many times that he knew that it was as reliable as the sun rising.

  Barker’s main mantra—the one that had resulted in so many solved cases—was simple: Nature gave us the tools, but not all of us know how to use them properly.

  But now, with a short file and no new leads, DJ wished he’d pressed harder to get out into the field and start looking and asking questions. Rather than digging through one of the most confounding cases the department had seen in the past ten years, according to the notes, they needed to be focusing on the present. Detective Wallace, who’d retired a year ago, was so dumbfounded by the complete disappearance of Brian Winthrop that he had left the following in his records: “Better chance of finding Amelia Earhart.”

  Barker said, “Quit looking at the clock, DJ. I know what time it is,” with the tolerance of a bemused grandfather. “If you hadn’t let Mrs. Winthrop go, we might have a little more to guide us.”

  “I told you already, she handed me the note and ran out. What was I supposed to do, tackle her in the parking lot?”

  “You could’ve tailed her. Less chance of a lawsuit.”

  They had been through this at least three times already. “Like I said, she asked me not to follow her.” He didn’t mention that she had ordered him not to follow her.

  “Since when do you listen to somebody who could be a suspect?”

  “Since you taught me to trust my instincts. And she’s not a suspect.”

  “People lie, DJ—”

  “‘Even when they think they’re telling the truth.’ I know that, Barker, but whatever it was, it had to do with that note and her kids. No question.”

  “She could be dead by now.”

  DJ didn’t have a response for that, but he hoped it wasn’t true. He looked down at his desk, at the note Sara had found on her windshield, safely contained in a plastic evidence bag.

  Are you ready to play the game?

  He held it up and asked, “So what do we have here? What is this?”

  Barker took off his glasses, and began chewing on the earpiece. “Conundrum,” he said. “It’s a sign that we’re dealing with something other than a run-of-the-mill kidnapper who’s looking for some kind of ransom. What we have is a sociopath who’s looking to toy with this woman. He’s playing a game—for lack of a better word—and if it means what I think it means, he’s smarter than your average wannabe who’ll make mistakes.”

  “What do you think it means?”

  “He created the game, he can change the rules. That, cowboy,” he said, “does not bode well for us, nor for Mrs. Winthrop, I’m afraid.”

  “You think it’s the husband? Is that why we’re sitting here going through this useless report?”

  “Patience, Speed Racer. What I know is that when it comes to cases like this—”

  “‘Coincidences put the bad guys behind bars and keep the paychecks coming.’” DJ huffed, and then laid the note back down on the desk. He stared at it, thinking about the interview with Sara, and the call that came for her. “One question.”

  “One answer.”

  “You keep saying he, but how do we know it’s not a she? The receptionist at the school said a woman was calling for Sara.”

  “Mrs. Winthrop. Don’t get too close. Could’ve been an accomplice. You should know that. And besides, the statistics say the ratio is something like eight-to-one, male to female. Numbers don’t—”

  “‘Numbers don’t lie, people do.’”

  “And the sooner you learn that, the easier my job will get. Get back to Mr. Winthrop’s file. We’re missing something.” He leaned back, repositioned his glasses, and resumed reading. The only way he could’ve looked more relaxed would be with the addition of a pipe, a smoking jacket, and a pair of expensive slippers. Throw in a roaring fireplace and a mahogany bookshelf for good measure.

  Sniffing down the wrong path, Bloodhound. We’re wasting time.

  But he let it go. With zero solid leads and an absent mother who wouldn’t answer her phone, they had nowhere to rush off to. He and Barker both complained about how unhelpful the interviews were with the staff at both schools. And the babysitter, Willow Bluesong, wasn’t answering his calls, either, and hadn’t been home when they’d stopped by on their way back to the station.

  DJ resigned himself to giving the file one more pass and decided that when he was done, he was going to LightPulse. With or without Barker.

  Brian Jacob Winthrop had just turned 38 at the time of his disappearance on a Friday morning in May. He was two years older than his wife Sara, and a father to twin girls and one boy. He’d worked reasonable hours as a financial analyst for a small investment company, operating his own storefront out of the east side of Portland, which was open from 8 to 5, every weekday. He ate lunch at the sub shop next door and played softball on the weekends, when the absence of familial obligations allowed for it. Athletic center records indicated that he swam for an hour each Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and he hadn’t missed a workout on those days in five months. The week he’d missed before that was the result of a conference in San Diego, according to his wife.

  He had no prior record, except for two speeding tickets. Had no outstanding debts, no mortgage, and they were financially comfortable, if not well to do, in some respects. He’d struggled to gain new customers during the recession, but invested his existing clients’ money wisely. No lost money, no bad blood to be found there, either.

  No gambling addictions, no transaction records from strip clubs. No reason to be involved in the shadier side of society. His wife, Sara, had admitted that they’d smoked marijuana once, on their honeymoon, and hadn’t touched anything since. Drugs weren’t a factor, and they rarely drank, so alcoholism and its detrimental effects weren’t a likely culprit. They had disagreements over finances and obligations like most couples, but none had been recent, and nothing that would’ve created the need to skip town.

  From what DJ gathered, the guy had been a normal husband and father, completely clean.

  He remembered another one of Barker’s refrains. ‘Nobody’s a whistle, DJ,’ which he took to mean that nobody was as clean as a whistle. Sometimes his partner’s attempts at being a wise old sage got in the way of the actual message.

  Could that be it? Was he too clean? Is that what Barker’s looking at? I’m not seeing a damn thing.

  DJ flipped to another page.

  Winthrop had packed up his workout gear that morning, kissed his wife goodbye, and then left for the gym. That was the last time Sara had seen him, and three days later, his BMW hatchback had been located in a grocery store parking lot. There were no odd fingerprints: only his, his wife’s, and those of their three children. No secondary DNA traces, no blood, no out of the ordinary hair samples. No signs of forced entry on the car. No signs of foul play whatsoever.

  The only strange thing that Detective Wallace had noted was the fact that the car was so clean on the inside, and it looked like it’d been washed as recently as that day.
He’d reasoned that the car of a father with three young children should be filled with cracker crumbs, errant french fries, and enough dirt to cover a baseball diamond. Wallace had checked credit card transactions for any car wash visits in an effort to set up a timeline of his whereabouts, but came up empty.

  No money was ever removed from their bank accounts, and no additional pings on credit card usage had ever turned up. His side of the closet contained every bit of clothing he owned. Wherever Brian had gone, the only things that went with him were his keys, his wallet, his gym bag, and the sweat suit he was wearing when he walked out the door.

  Except for a number of unreliable sightings, Brian Winthrop had evaporated.

  “Barker,” he said.

  His partner looked up from his copy of the report.

  “I got nothing. The guy’s a ghost, man. Poof...gone.”

  Barker said, “You’re partly right.”

  “How so?”

  “He’s gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  “Anything in those reported sightings look fishy to you?”

  “Other than the fact that they’re unreliable?”

  “Take another look.”

  DJ hated it when Barker made a point of testing him, but he played along. He checked the list again. “Outskirts of Portland, the day after they found his car. Somebody thought they saw him in Eugene after that. Grants Pass. Eureka. The last one was in San Francisco, three weeks after he disappeared. Who’d remember to be looking for some guy three weeks later?”

  “And?”

  “And what, Barker? Six feet tall, brown hair, brown eyes. Great, we just narrowed our options down to half the male population in the US. It could’ve been anybody. You say it all the time—what people see and what they think they see are two completely different things.”

  “We’re supposed to question their reliability, JonJon. That’s what we’re here for, but you gotta understand that the mind makes connections,” Barker said, pointing at his temple. “It’s a dang complex computer. What sticks out to me—and what you should be seeing, too—is that if these sightings were real, he might’ve been heading south. Why was he hightailing it south? That means something.”