Sara's Game Read online

  DJ shoved himself up from the desk, grabbing his badge and gun. “This is pathetic,” he said. “When the real Barker shows up, the one that doesn’t make assumptions based on complete nonsense, let me know. I’m going to look for this woman’s children that are missing right now, not some guy who vanished two years ago.”

  “The signs are there, DJ. It’s connected somehow. Why? Why would he be going south?”

  “Because that’s how the news traveled, Barker. People saw his picture on television, it created an image in their brain, and then they thought they saw him at a gas station the next day, when in reality it was some random guy on his way to work. You keep chasing your tail. I’m going to LightPulse.”

  The approaching Sergeant Davis blocked DJ’s dramatic exit. He said, “Barker, you and the cowboy here need to get up to the Rose Gardens. Report just came in about some crazy naked woman there that fit Sara Winthrop’s description.”

  DJ thanked him, then said to Barker, “Well?”

  “Sounds like the game's already started. Okay, you head over to her office, I’ll go check out the Gardens. But this doesn’t mean the mister is off the table, got it? And drop that note off at the lab on your way out, see if they can find some prints.”

  He nodded, and offered a curt salute.

  Naked at the Rose Gardens? What kind of game are you playing, Sara?

  Chapter 8

  Sara

  Sara’s feet pounded the pavement. She ran as fast as she dared down the hill, away from the Rose Gardens, away from her humiliation, cutting through the trees. The shortcut was more dangerous than taking the winding, looping road all the way to the bottom, but it would save her valuable time as long as she managed to keep from rolling an ankle. A sprain would be disastrous, but it was a risk she had to take.

  She reached Sherwood Boulevard and found the opposite side blocked by a chain link fence, topped with barbed wire. “Shit,” she said. “Son of a bitch.”

  She turned left and sprinted down Sherwood, controlling her breathing on a 3-2 count. Inhale on three steps, exhale on two. Inhale on three steps, exhale on two. Cars crept past and she examined each one, looking for someone that might be watching her, keeping an eye on her progress. Not a single driver gave her more than a passing glance. She risked a look over her shoulder, examining the road behind her for the white sedan with tinted windows. Her only tail was the Gray Line trolley with wooden seats and pink trim.

  If the goons in the white sedan were trying to track her, they probably hadn’t expected her to cut straight down the hill, and thus they hadn’t been able to catch up yet.

  She passed a parked, City of Portland work truck and then the chain link fence to her right melded into a wrought iron one, painted black. Below it, and on the other side, was one of the many reservoirs stationed around the hill. Once she reached Washington Way, she turned right onto the sidewalk and picked up her pace.

  A paved walkway carved a path through the trees to her right. She wasn’t sure where it went, and rather than risk an avoidable delay, she held her course through the mossy pines.

  The rhythm of her breathing began to deteriorate as her lungs burned and her quads strained to keep up. A stitch crawled its way into her left side. She backed off her pace, enough to get her breathing under control fifty yards later.

  I should ease up. Can’t crash so soon.

  No, no whining. Think about what the kids are going through. Push harder, damn it, push harder.

  She increased her speed and thought about a video that Brian had shown her about a year before he had gone missing. She’d been suffering through a bout of depression for at least two months. Work wasn’t going well, Jacob was going through his Terrible Twos, she wasn’t sleeping, and many, many more things that she couldn’t remember. A variety of factors had lined up to take their shot at pounding on her and then everything had coalesced at once after a good reaming from Jim when her team didn’t make a hard deadline.

  The video itself, the one Brian had dug up on YouTube, was Jim Valvano’s speech from the ESPY awards, back in the early ‘90s. She couldn’t remember all of it, other than the fact that he was dying from cancer and the message he wanted to convey. “Don’t give up. Don’t ever give up.”

  Those words carved themselves into her memory like a commandment on a stone tablet, and they would resurface whenever she needed them the most, just as they were doing right then. Sara could see the images of Valvano being helped up the stairs to the podium. His smile. His tuxedo. His slicked back hair. Pleading to the crowd.

  Don’t give up. Don’t ever give up, Sara.

  She picked up her pace another notch, and figured she had to be somewhere around an eight-minute mile. Her usual speed on the treadmill was around nine and a half or ten minutes, but she had always known she could do more.

  Sara took another look over her shoulder.

  No white car. Maybe they weren’t following. Maybe she’d lost them.

  She reached a junction in the road and crossed over to read the street signs. Straight ahead, the road wound back up into the trees on Lewis Clark Way, so she turned right and ran down Park Place until she reached an intersection she recognized. She made another right on Vista and headed toward Jefferson, which would lead her directly down to the park beside the Hawthorne Bridge.

  I could stop, call the police. Tell Johnson where I am.

  She looked down at the phone in her hand, now slippery from her sweaty palm.

  Teddy said it was being monitored. I could leave it somewhere, run into a store. Should I risk it? If I’m caught...the kids...

  Sara passed parked cars and shrubbery. Staircases leading up to nice homes and hand-laid rock walls. When she reached an intersection that had Kings Court on her left and Madison to her right, she realized she’d made a costly mistake.

  The Vista Bridge crossed over Jefferson below, where she needed to be.

  She stopped and looked up the incline of the bridge, dreading the uphill trudge that would lead her across it. She tried to slow her ragged breathing, wiped the sweat from her face. Cursed herself for forgetting. Every wasted second costing her, keeping her from Lacey, Callie, and Jacob.

  She sprinted to the bridge’s edge and looked down the hillside.

  I’ll break my ankle.

  The phone rang in her hand, startling her so much that she almost dropped it.

  “What?” she answered, and almost added, ‘Teddy,’ to the end of it.

  The voice said, “Why are you stopping?”

  “Stopping?”

  “Yes, you are stopped at the bridge on Vista, Sara, and I want to know why. You wouldn’t be trying to inform someone of your...situation...would you?”

  The creepy sensation of being watched hovered around her. She scanned the area and saw no white sedan, nor anyone that looked like they might be keeping tabs on her position. Looked up into the trees nearby, half expecting to see someone perched on a limb holding a camera. Instead, a squirrel twitched its tail and then scampered further up the trunk as a cyclist zipped by.

  “Answer me, Sara.”

  “I’m just trying to figure out the quickest way. That’s all.”

  “I sense some tension in your voice,” it said. “You wouldn’t be lying to me, would you?”

  “No, no, I’m not. I swear.”

  “Because if you are, I have some pliers in my hand that haven’t pinched anything in a while.”

  “Don’t!” she screamed, scaring another passing cyclist so much she almost ran into the curb. “If you put one more motherf—”

  “Careful,” the voice shot back. “Remember the rules.”

  “You can take your rules and—I mean, damn 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.

  Asshole! Okay, move. Go.

  Down the hill of King street, up to Main, 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 shins and into her lower back.

  Pain is temporary. You have no choice. 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 pushing, pushing. Pushing past the light rail stop and across intersections. Past apartment complexes and empty office buildings.

  Sweat ran into her eyes and soaked her shirt 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 analyzed 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 passed 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 passage of time.

  Time that slipped faster and faster away as she ran, though it had crawled like molasses 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 shirt 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 bastard. 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? Shit. No. Empty. Is it on me somewhere? Has it been with me this whole time? No pockets in the shirt...no pockets in the shorts...nothing in the key pocket...shoes? Shoes? Damn. No. Where in the hell 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 bump 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 passed.

  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 glass 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 sparseness 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-shirt 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 damn 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 buttering 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 hell, 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 assistant, Shelley. 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?”