Sara's Game Page 8

  She remembered Teddy was tracking her with the phone. He’d be able to see that she’d sprinted to the far edge of the Hawthorne and stopped.

  Move, Sara. Move before he calls. Move before the son of a bitch hurts the kids again.

  She walked, exhausted from the run, exhausted from the spent emotional energy, up to the bike path exit, and then down toward the Eastbank Esplanade.

  The white sedan waited for her in the parking lot. The sight of it gave her a foreboding sense of dread as black as its tinted windows. What waited inside? Who waited inside? The woman from the bicycle? The man who had driven away in her minivan? The person who had dropped him off back at the gardens?

  How many are involved? Three? Three at the least?

  She scrambled over the fence, stepped around the bushes, and then walked over to the white sedan. Hesitated at the rear door, yanked it open. Climbed inside. The soft shunk of rubber on rubber as the door sealed shut was as loud as a prison cell clanging shut.

  The interior of the car was dark from the window tint. Front and rear seats separated by a metal grating, like a police cruiser. The air was thick and difficult to breathe, permeated by the scent of stale cigarette smoke and the lemon-shaped air freshener that dangled from the rear view mirror.

  The driver, a male, wore a baseball cap pulled low, wraparound shades, and a jacket with the collar up, revealing nothing more than a sliver of his tanned cheek and the pointy tip of his nose.

  To her left sat a small, brown paper bag. “Is that for me?”

  The driver offered one slow nod.

  Sara placed the bag in her lap, almost afraid to open it, but she relented. Inside was a bottle of water, an apple, a small box, and a familiar white slip of paper. She pulled it out and read:

  KEYS OPEN LOCKS. LOCKS OPEN CAGES.

  24 HOURS. IF YOU THINK HARD,

  THE ANSWER WILL COME.

  Confusion. I’m supposed to lock myself up for twenty-four hours. What am I supposed to think about for twenty-four hours? And the kids? Just sitting there waiting for me. I’m so sorry, guys. So sorry that Mommy got you into this.

  The driver started the car. Drove out of the lot.

  Sara reached into the bag and removed the small, square container, examining it as they pulled onto the street, heading east. Charcoal gray, hinged on the back side. A jewelry box. She held it up to her ear and shook. Something rattled inside.

  She held her fingers to the lid, waiting, not knowing what to expect. Perhaps some clue, something to help her remember, something to remind her of what she was supposed to think about for the next twenty-four hours.

  Twenty-four hours. It seemed impossible. Undoable. But that was what he wanted. The torture of being helpless. The torture of making her sit idly, locked in a cage, unable to do anything. Waiting while he controlled the game, controlled her fate, controlled her children’s fates. How afraid they must be without their mother, hoping she would save them soon, not knowing why they were trapped in a room with a stranger, not knowing why she hadn’t come yet.

  The guilt was settling in already, and she wasn’t even inside the cage yet.

  She looked down at the box, her hands poised, ready to open it.

  Did you take this from my house, too, Teddy? What did you find in there to torture me with?

  She squeezed, pried the lid back, then slammed it shut when she saw the object inside.

  Chapter 11

  DJ

  DJ marched out of Jim Rutherford’s office.

  What had started out as a pleasant, helpful conversation had disintegrated into a muddled mess, turning his mood foul. But it left him with two leads. The husband theory had its structure built on sand and speculation, while Rutherford’s son, Teddy, had just become the prime suspect. The exact phrase match, coupled with his convenient disappearance to an unknown golf tournament, was enough to pursue.

  Yet it wasn’t as concrete as he would’ve liked, because it was missing motive, and he wanted a measure of reassurance before he issued an APB for the guy and brought him in for questioning. He didn’t want to risk a lawsuit if Teddy Rutherford were standing on the 18th fairway over at Riverside or Heron Lakes.

  He called the station, asked them to check up on golf tournaments in the area. “Call me if you find any. Call me faster if you don’t.”

  DJ approached the nearest employee, a scrappy looking kid with a greasy, unwashed mop and pimpled skin. He went into Barker’s version of ‘steamroller mode’: a tactic he used to overpower and intimidate someone that might offer more information when confronted with a bigger presence. Bees with honey, DJ, but piss and vinegar when necessary.

  DJ said, “Name and rank, soldier.”

  The kid looked up from his laptop. “I’m sorry?”

  “I said name and rank, soldier.”

  “My rank?”

  Doesn’t work on the clueless, Barker. He said, “Forget it. What’s your name?”

  “Jeremy. And you’re…?”

  “Detective Johnson,” he said, flashing his badge. “Where can I find Sara Winthrop’s assistant?”

  Jeremy recoiled. He gave a simple, “Whoa,” and added, “Not sure. I think she’s gone for the day.”

  “Gone?”

  “Yeah. Pretty sure.”

  “How sure is pretty sure?”

  “Well, I mean, very, I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  He pointed toward the front door. “I heard her tell somebody over there that she’d see them tomorrow.”

  “You heard? Did you actually see her leave?”

  “Kinda.”

  “Kinda?” What’s he hiding? “Come on, you either did or you didn’t—which is it?”

  “I did.”

  “And you’re positive?”

  “Positive,” Jeremy said, and then added with some reluctance, “She’s got a tight body. I checked out her ass when she left. So yes, I saw her leave. You got me. Guilty as charged.”

  Jesus. He’s just embarrassed. “Not exactly a crime, Skippy. When was this?”

  “Ten-ish,” he said, pausing to think. “Wait, yeah, ten o’clock. She and Teddy both left right before the group meeting.”

  DJ put his hands on his hips, examined him for any signs of malfeasance. No twitching, no avoided eye contact, no hint of deception in his body language. He seemed legit. A goofy dork who happened to be admiring an untouchable ass from a distance. Right place, right time.

  So the girl who knows the most about Sara and the guy who has a connection to the note are both gone, and they left around the same time. Coincidence?

  Jeremy said, “Anything else? I’m kinda behind here, dude.”

  “You said you heard her say she’d see somebody tomorrow? Any idea who she was talking to?”

  “There’s like, forty-five people here. Best guess would be Sara.”

  DJ sighed. “Not likely.” Dead end. Not that observant when he wasn’t checking out somebody’s ass. “What do you know about Mrs. Winthrop?”

  “Is she in trouble?”

  “Not with us. How would you describe her?”

  Jeremy thought for a second, said, “About five-eight. Brown hair, brown eyes—”

  “Not physically. Her personality. She get along with people here? Any reason to think someone might hold a grudge?”

  “Not that I know of. She’s kinda like a bowl of ice cream. Cold but sweet at the same time.”

  “A bowl of ice cream, huh? You come up with that all by yourself?”

  “I write some of the creative storylines for our games. Keeps me thinking in metaphors.”

  “Sounds like a fun job. And Teddy Rutherford? What kind of dessert is he?”

  “Um...a sugar cookie?”

  “How so?”

  Jeremy looked around, wary of prying ears. “Promise you won’t tell him I said this?”

  “Promise.”

  With a hint of a smile, he said, “He thinks he’s delicious, but in reality, he’s just small and boring.�
�

  DJ drove away from LightPulse, wondering where he should go next. Maybe catch up with Barker, see if he had gotten anything solid from the witnesses at the Rose Gardens, let him know about Teddy Rutherford and the absent assistant. Question Sara’s friends and neighbors, which they should’ve been doing hours ago, instead of wasting precious minutes on half-cocked theories about Brian Winthrop.

  Damn. We’re blowing this one. Big time.

  The remainder of his conversations with some of the other employees proved to be as insignificant as Jeremy’s sugar cookie. The general impression of Sara around the office was exactly as Jim Rutherford had described. She was fierce but encouraging, down to earth but revered. They had witnessed her heated encounters with Teddy, but it was nothing more than putting him in his place, like the rest of their management did on a daily basis.

  The ones that had interacted with her outside the office talked about how great she was with her children and how well she’d coped when her husband disappeared. DJ sensed that the hat she wore at LightPulse was completely different than the one she wore at home, which wasn’t unusual for anyone juggling a high-profile career and family life.

  And from what he got based on their answers, Teddy was universally disliked around the office but either knew and didn’t care, or floated along in this oblivious state of being God’s gift to humanity. A Napoleon complex wasn’t enough to make the guy a suspect, but his connection to Sara’s note and the timing of his absence was, and it was close enough to make DJ suspicious.

  But what about his dad? He knew where the phrase came from. Is he involved?

  Jim Rutherford was a remote possibility, but he had too much to lose and too little to gain from kidnapping the children of his shining star.

  “Don’t chase, DJ,” he said. “Stay focused.”

  His cell rang. He whipped into the nearest parking lot, stopped and answered. “Johnson.”

  “Got some info on those golf tournaments, JonJon.”

  “Seriously, Davis? You, too?”

  A chuckle, followed by, “Too easy, DJ. Couldn’t resist.”

  “Whatever. The tournaments?”

  “Bupkis. None scheduled until the weekend.”

  That’s a game-changer. “What do you have on Teddy Rutherford?” he asked, then spelled out the last name for clarification.

  “Hold on a sec.”

  DJ heard the clacking of a keyboard as Sergeant Davis pulled up the information. While he waited, he asked, “Barker check in yet?”

  “Yep. Said he tried your cell. Wants you to call him ASAP. Okay...Theodore Alan Rutherford, last known address...1848 Graystone. Wow. Guy must have a gold-plated toilet seat.”

  “Any priors?”

  “Two. Nothing major. One speeding ticket and one assault, six years ago. Looks like it might’ve been a bar fight.”

  “Send a car over to his house.”

  “Want us to bring him in?”

  The phrase match, no golf tournaments. It was the best he had. “If he’s there. If not, start looking.”

  He called Barker next.

  Barker answered with a perturbed, “Where the hell have you been?”

  “LightPulse. Asking around. I think we may have something.”

  “Good. I didn’t come up with much here. Some of the witnesses said they saw a naked woman. Said she threw on some clothes and hightailed it down the hill.”

  “On foot?”

  “Like she was in a big damn hurry to get somewhere. But hell, who wouldn’t be if they’d been standing around naked in front of a hundred strangers?”

  “Right. Sara left the school in a hybrid Sienna. Beige, I think. Any sign of it?”

  “Damn, cowboy, you might’ve mentioned that. Had a lady tell me she recognized the naked woman from the parking lot. Light brown minivan, she said, but it ain’t there now. Not where she said it was.”

  "If she left on foot and didn’t come back to get it, where’d it go?”

  “Better yet, who took it?”

  “Get somebody on it, then meet me at 1848 Graystone. Davis has somebody on the way, but I think you and I need to go have a look.”

  “Residential? You got a possible?”

  “Heavy on the possible, but no motive yet.”

  “Anything to do with the husband?”

  No, Barker. Jesus, would you give it up?

  “Negative. Teddy Rutherford, son of the LightPulse CEO. See you in fifteen. I’ll explain later.”

  By the time DJ got to Teddy Rutherford’s home near Portland Heights, Barker was already waiting on him, leaning on the side of his car, admiring the house from a distance. DJ parked behind him.

  Barker whistled as he walked up. “What do you think? Million five? How do people afford this shit?”

  “Spending his daddy’s dollars certainly doesn’t hurt.” DJ looked up to the house, taking in the spectacle. His shoebox-sized home could easily fit inside three times. Modern design with lots of straight lines and boxy edges. Gray exterior with white trim. A cobblestone walkway led up to a sky blue door. Lush, vibrant landscaping made it look like the house was hiding within a jungle rather than being a place where a person might lay his head down at night. A huge, three-paneled picture window took up a good portion of the left side of the facing wall, and on the opposite side of the front door, a smattering of rectangular windows formed a wavelike pattern.

  Barker said, “I get dizzy looking at it. Makes me think of those flashing cartoons that give kids seizures. Would you live in something like this?”

  “If I had your salary, I might.”

  “My salary couldn’t rent a room in that thing, cowboy.” He angled sideways to face DJ. “What’s the deal here? Uniforms left about five minutes ago. Nobody home.”

  “Damn. It’s never easy, is it?”

  “You’ll learn one of these days.”

  “And I’m sure you’ll take credit for it when I do.”

  DJ recounted the details of his LightPulse visit. The shitty meeting with Jim Rutherford. The connection to Teddy and the note. The golf tournament. The lack of golf tournaments. The unaccounted for assistant and her coincidental departure. The teasing that Teddy Rutherford may or may not have taken offense to. “The lead is there,” he said, “but I don’t feel like it’s enough for motive.”

  Barker said, “What we feel and what we can reason—”

  “‘Do not sleep in the same bed together.’ I know, Barker. I know.”

  “I wish you’d stop interrupting me.”

  “I don’t need to. Your ramblings are ground into my brain.”

  “One of these days I might surprise you with something you’ve never heard before.”

  “When you do, I’ll be all ears.”

  Barker tapped a cigarette out of his soft pack. Lit it with a one-handed click and strike of his Zippo, then took a long drag, slowly exhaling, letting the billowing smoke get lost in the breeze. “What now, cowboy? We’ve got a missing woman, her missing children, a missing husband, a missing suspect, a missing assistant.”

  “Don’t forget the missing babysitter. The Bluesong woman.”

  “Seems to me like we’re doing the exact opposite of our jobs. Losing people instead of finding them. I’m not sure I’ve ever gone this far in the wrong direction.”

  DJ decided against reminding his partner of all the time they’d wasted that morning chasing puffs of smoke that dissipated faster than the filth coming out of his lungs. “We’re here. We might as well take a look around.”

  Barker stood quietly, smoking his cigarette, staring at the house.

  “Well?” DJ said.

  “Hold your horses. I’m pondering.”

  “Pondering what, Barker? We have to do—” DJ stopped mid-sentence as the front door swung open.

  The young woman that stumbled out of the doorway and lurched toward them was naked from the waist down, with one strap of white cloth around her left wrist and one on her right ankle. Ripped purple t-shirt. What looked
to be a ball gag dangled like a sadistic necklace. Her legs were covered in cuts and bruises that were so prominent, DJ could see them and her black eye from fifteen yards away.

  Barker choked on his cigarette smoke, coughed hard.

  DJ said, “Holy shit.” He sprinted toward her, shouting back, “Call 9-1-1, Barker. Now!”

  “Help me,” she said, and then collapsed on the walkway.

  Chapter 12

  Sara

  Sara opened the small box again as the driver headed east in the direction of Gresham and Powell Valley. She had to be sure that what she saw wasn’t a trick of her imagination. Could it be the exhaustion? Was she hallucinating? It was possible. She was empty. Physically to the point of collapsing. Mentally to the point of seeing things that just couldn’t be.

  The object inside was a relic of history come to life. It was a memory that had manifested itself into a tangible form. It was the dead rising.

  Sara peered inside and immediately regretted looking. It sat motionless, right where it was thirty seconds earlier, daring her to pick it up and feel what was really there.

  Brian’s wedding ring. It’s not possible.

  She reached into the box and pinched the ring, pulled it out and examined it in the light. The thick band of hammered tungsten felt cool on her fingertips. The tinted windows made it harder to see, but it looked like Brian’s. She held it by the outside, tilting it this way and that until she was able to get a better glimpse of the interior. She didn’t want it to be true, but it was.

  The inscription read:

  Forever Yours – SLW

  A storm surge of emotions—anger and frustration and hope—rushed over her body, plowing their way through like a ten-foot-high wall of water over shoreline streets. It tore what remained of her stability to splinters, ripping it from the foundation, grinding it into shards of unrecognizable flotsam before it retreated and dragged her sanity with it.

  She inhaled as deep as her constricted lungs would allow and let loose a banshee scream toward the front of the car. The driver ducked and swerved. She pounded the metal grating between them with her fists, rattling the cage. She wrapped her fingers through the holes and shook and shook and shook, pulling and pulling, trying to rip it free so she could claw at the driver’s eyes, wrap her fingers around his neck until he couldn’t breathe, or reach inside his chest and rip out his beating heart.