Sara's Game Page 9

  When he didn’t turn around, when he didn’t acknowledge her, when he did nothing more than click on his blinker to make a left turn, it unleashed a level of fury so deep that Sara began to feel cramps forming in the arches of her feet. She screamed. She raged. She pounded the metal grating until her knuckles bled. She shouted, “Who are you? Why are you doing this? Where did you get my husband’s ring?”

  On and on she went, screaming every question she could think of, every question that had plagued her since early that morning. She knew her temper tantrum that had escalated into a full-bore Hiroshima explosion was against whatever rules Teddy had dreamed up, but she was past containing herself. All the emotions she’d swallowed and hidden away for the past two years, all the anxiety and stress and fear that she’d kept buried so the kids wouldn’t see, everything, all of it, detonated there in that car, leveling the walls she’d built around her psyche.

  Sara screamed until her throat was raw and her vocal chords burned. Every muscle in her body ached from the vehement expulsion of her wrath and she went limp, flopping back onto the seat when no more words would come.

  She looked down at Brian’s ring in her open palm. The aftershocks of pain sent tremors vibrating through her hand and she could feel her pulse throbbing through the fluid in her swollen knuckles.

  What did you do to him?

  She tried one last time with the driver, this stoic courier delivering his pathetic, distraught package. “Where did Teddy find this?”

  Nothing.

  So many questions. No answers. Did the ring mean that Brian was still alive? Or worse, did it mean the opposite? What possible link could there be between Teddy and Brian?

  Her chauffeur, the stone statue in the front seat, pulled over to the side. Sara sat up straight, tried to figure out where they were, but didn’t recognize the area. Somewhere east of Portland proper, but not quite to Gresham yet. The driver reached up and worked a green strip of cloth through one of the openings in the grate.

  “What’s that for?”

  His one word response was, “Blindfold.”

  Indignant, she said, “I’m not wearing that.”

  “Blindfold.”

  “No.”

  “Blindfold.”

  She clenched her jaws. “I said no.”

  The driver reached down, grabbed something from the seat beside him. He held up what was left of Jacob’s Tyrannosaurus Rex t-shirt, the one he’d worn to school that morning. The one he’d worn so much the color had begun to fade. “Blindfold.”

  “If you hurt him—”

  “Blindfold.”

  She ripped the green strip of fabric from its metal grasp. “If you’ve done something to him or my girls...if I get out of this goddamn game alive, and if I ever, ever find out who you are, you better pray to God there’s another wall between us, because I’ll be coming for you. Do you understand me?”

  “Blindfold.”

  Sara wrapped the cloth around her head, covering her eyes, turning out the lights on a world that was already dark. She shifted the material around until she found a thinning spot on the old t-shirt, allowing her just enough sight to make out shapes in the sunlight.

  What good will it do me? “Done,” she said.

  She heard him shuffling around, heard the familiar clicking of fingers on a keypad. Silence. More clicking.

  “What’re you doing? Did you hear me? I said I’m done.”

  The car began to move again. The driver turned on the radio. Classical music blared from the speakers, drowning out every other sound.

  I can’t hear where we’re going, asshole. The blindfold is enough.

  But with limited sight, her other senses took over, amplified themselves. She felt the rough material of the car’s seat on the back of her legs. The throbbing in her swollen hands. The weight of the key in one, and the ring in the other. She felt the vibration of the tires rolling across decaying roads. Every pothole felt like they were falling. Every incline, a roller coaster climbing toward its apex. Tasted the remnants of vomit. She remembered the apple and bottle of water.

  Save it. Might be all you’ll get.

  I hope they’re feeding the kids. They didn’t eat much this morning. Oh God, why didn’t I make them finish their breakfast?

  Breathe...breathe...breathe...

  Everything will be fine.

  Sara repeated the mantra in her mind, even said it aloud a number of times, but it didn’t help. No matter how much she tried to convince herself that the ending of the game would be a happy one, no matter how many alternate ending scenarios that she came up with, the feeling that something bad would happen wouldn’t go away.

  Sliding into depression was an understatement. She careened downward, headlong, toward the awaiting and inevitable bottom. Thought about how rare truly happy endings were out in the real world. You got handed the results and you had to acknowledge them and move on, regardless of the outcome or circumstances.

  She had no idea how long they’d been driving. Twenty minutes? Half an hour? Surely they were out of the city, but for all she knew, they could’ve doubled back. It was too hard to make out where they’d gone with the fleeting glimpses through the material, but it wasn’t worth risking a peek. If the driver saw her do it, one call to Teddy might result in more pain for her children.

  As the car rattled and bounced along, Sara got the feeling that they were no longer on a paved road. The vibrations were different. More rugged and unforgiving. Wherever he was taking her, and however long it had been, it was far from where she wanted to be.

  Which was on her porch, in her rocking chair, watching the kids play a game of freeze tag in their postage stamp of a backyard. Or in their living room, putting together a puzzle after dinner. Lying between the twins, reading them a bedtime story as her little boy dozed across the hall, mouth open, slobbering on his favorite pillow.

  We just did that yesterday. Seems like a year ago. I miss them so much.

  She slipped Brian’s ring over her left thumb.

  I miss you too, sweetheart. What happened that day? Where did you go? How did Teddy get your ring?

  The radio went silent. The driver made a lurching left turn that slung Sara sideways and then he slammed on the brakes, pitching her forward into the grating. Without the benefit of vision, it was impossible to tell when she needed to brace herself.

  “Ouch,” she said, rubbing the impact spot on her forehead. “How about a little warning, asshole?”

  “Sorry,” he said, shutting off the car.

  “Did you just apologize to me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  Five seconds passed. Ten. He shifted in the front seat. Fingers tapped on the steering wheel. Not being able to see his reaction unnerved her.

  He said, “Guilt.”

  “Guilt? Guilt for the knot on my head or guilt for what you’re doing?”

  “Both.”

  “So you are human.”

  Another long silence, then a dejected, “Sometimes.”

  With her heightened sense of hearing, Sara picked up on the regret in his tone. She wondered if nudging it along would help. She needed an ally. “Why’re you doing this?”

  “Because.”

  “Because? Because? What kind of answer is that? What if it were your children? Do you have kids?”

  Tap, tap, tapping on the steering wheel. “One.”

  “Honestly? And you’re doing this to me?”

  “Sorry,” he said. It came out laced with frustration, and she didn’t want to push him too far in the wrong direction.

  “Boy or girl?” she asked.

  “Boy.”

  “How old?”

  “Eight.”

  “It’s a good age. I remember when my girls were eight. We had so much fun together playing dress up and watching Disney together. They’re twins, though. Quite a handful. My son, he’s five. Typical boy, you know? Dirt and lizards and monster trucks. What’s your son’s na—”


  “Quiet.”

  She was getting through. She could feel it.

  Delicate, Sara. Don’t go too far. Push too hard and he’ll turn on you.

  She said, “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me. I don’t need to know.” She leaned forward, softened her voice. “Aren’t little boys the best? What’s your favorite thing about him?”

  “Smile.”

  “Don’t you love that mischievous grin they get? Mine has the cutest dimples. And he has this thing he does—”

  “Enough,” the driver said.

  Sara heard his car door open and the warning chime of the keys in the ignition. “Wait,” she said. “I’m sorry. Don’t—”

  Her door opened and then a rough, gloved hand wrapped around her upper arm. He squeezed, hard, dragging her out of the car. He was strong, and for an instant she was airborne before she hit the ground, face-first, getting a mouthful of dirt, busting her bottom lip on a rock. She spat out a mixture of earth and blood. She tried to get to her feet, felt a foot on her ribs, shoving her back down.

  “Stay,” he said.

  She complied, rolled onto her back, hands up in submission.

  She listened to him walk away, heard both car doors slam shut, and then receding footsteps.

  I can run.

  You have no idea where you are. He has a car. You’ll never make it.

  And Teddy might punish the kids.

  Might?

  Sara ran her tongue across her lip, felt the swelling. More blood leaked into her mouth. She swallowed, afraid to move. Afraid he would hurt her if she disobeyed.

  The sun warmed her face, and from above came the sounds of rustling leaves as the trees creaked and swayed in the wind. Somewhere nearby, a stream crawled its way across some rocks. A bird chirped.

  You went too far. You had him.

  He said he felt guilty.

  Guilt can turn on you.

  She heard the approaching sounds of heavy boots on gravel. She lay still.

  What if I surprised him? Kicked the bastard in the nuts?

  Then what? What if he has a gun? If you’re dead, what happens then?

  What if I got the gun from him? Forced him to take me to the kids?

  He may not know where they are. Bad, bad idea. Too many things could go wrong.

  I can do it. I’m sure I—

  Her scheming ended when felt a hand in her hair, tugging her up from the ground. It hurt, but she refused to scream, refused to show any more signs of pain.

  Sara heard what sounded like the crackling of a paper bag, then felt him shove it into her hand.

  “Go,” he said, whipping her around, shoving at her back.

  He led her along, tightening the grip on her upper arm. She tripped over something, felt like a root, and he lifted her upright. They trudged downhill, then up again, tree limbs scraping her skin. A ragged, broken limb gouged a chunk out of her thigh. Blood trickled down her leg.

  “Faster,” he said.

  The voice rained down from above, miles and miles above her head. She tried to remember how tall the guy was at the Rose Gardens, the one who had taken her van. She had no way of knowing until he removed the blindfold, but her sixth sense felt that he was the same man.

  Tall. Dark hair. Blue eyes.

  The thought sparked a memory from earlier in the day.

  The guy. The tall one in the grocery store? Was he following me? Was that why he was checking me out?

  Should I ask if that was him? Throw him off? He won’t expect me to remember.

  He pulled her to the right, leading her in a different direction. She took a chance, saying, “It’s such a shame.”

  “What?”

  “You seemed nice in the grocery store.”

  He didn’t respond, but the faint, halting hitch in his step was enough.

  Chapter 13

  DJ

  DJ and Barker stood in front of the Rutherford home, watching the paramedics load the young woman into the back of the ambulance. They drove away with instructions for the doctor to call as soon as she was stable and coherent. DJ had tried to talk to her while Barker was inside, tried to ask her what had happened, but her delusional ramblings had made no sense.

  He said, “I don’t know, Barker. She was out of it. Kept saying something about how this woman told her she’d be okay.”

  “A woman?”

  “She kept repeating, ‘She said I’d be okay.’ Over and over. She said she’d be okay. Nothing about a he. Nothing about Rutherford.”

  “And?”

  “And what, Barker? You don’t find that strange?”

  “That I do, cowboy, but from the looks of her, I doubt that girl could tell you what day it is.”

  “Doesn’t make any sense, that’s all I’m saying. You find anything in the house?”

  “Possible signs of forced entry on the back door. Single chair down in the basement. I figure that’s where she was being kept. Managed to get herself loose. Other than that, the place is clean. Nothing like a weird torture room or crazy sex toys. From the looks of it, dude has more money to spend than he has sense. You should’ve seen the size of the boob tube.”

  “Forced entry on the back door, you said?”

  “Wasn’t much. Closed. Not locked, but it didn’t look like somebody beat it in with a sledgehammer. More like it’d been pried open with a screwdriver. Figured Dumbo locked himself out at some point.”

  DJ looked at the house. Something didn’t feel right. “What’re we missing here? Where’s the disconnect?”

  “The disconnect?”

  “We got a suspect in one kidnapping keeping another vic in his basement,” DJ said. He pinched his earlobe, thinking. “But then there’s a possible forced entry and the girl mentioning a she.”

  Barker studied him. “I ain’t following.”

  “What if she was planted here?”

  Barker laughed. “God almighty, DJ. And you say I come up with some cockamamie ideas.”

  “I’m assuming you’ve heard of the word ‘hypothetical’ before.”

  “Look here, cowboy, when I say explore the possibilities, I don’t mean for you to put Elmore Leonard to shame with your plotlines.”

  “Then what’s your theory?”

  “Whoever she is,” Barker said, “she partnered up with Rutherford. Conned our vic with some sweet words, brought her back here.”

  “Still doesn’t feel right.”

  “Occam’s Razor. Simplest explanation.”

  DJ put his hands behind his head. “Say we disregard my left field idea, make it a non-factor for now...if Rutherford and this mystery woman are working together, there has to be at least a third person, maybe more, right? He was at the LightPulse office until ten o’clock, and the Winthrop kids went missing around nine at separate locations. So while he was at the office, the rest of his team was out doing his dirty work.”

  “Now you’re getting somewhere. And who knows how long that poor gal was down in the basement.”

  “But why, though? We don’t have a ransom note. We’ve got a random woman in her twenties and three kids of a coworker. What’re they doing?”

  “I told you earlier we were dealing with a sociopath. Now it might be two. And if they ain’t trying to ransom, what they’re doing,” Barker said, “is collecting trophies.”

  Trophies, DJ thought. That would tie in with the idea of making Sara play a game.

  “Horseshoes and hand grenades, but it’s all we’ve got,” he said. “And I hate to ask, but where’s the husband in all this? You give up on him?”

  Barker shook his head. “Not yet. If he ain’t the main course, he’s a side dish.”

  “You think he could be the third?”

  “Hell, I’ve seen stranger things. C’mon, let’s get back to the station, see if that young lady was reported. Hospital might have an ID on her by the time we get back, and if there’s a connection between her and Mrs. Winthrop or Captain Ugly House here, we’ll get a better lead on the
kids.”

  DJ found Barker coming out of the bathroom, tucking in his shirt. He said, “Hospital got an ID on the girl. Anna Townsend,” and handed over her thin file. “Woke up long enough to give a name and then passed back out.”

  “Can we go talk to her?”

  “Doc said to give it a couple of hours.”

  “What’s her story?”

  “Anna Townsend...also known as Stardust.”

  “Stardust?” Barker asked, flipping the folder open. “She a stripper?”

  “Works the poles at this new club called Ladyfingers.”

  “Heard of it. Never been.”

  “Sure,” DJ said, dragging the word out.

  Barker ignored him. “What do we got here...one prior...driving under the influence. Twenty-one years old. Let me guess, paying for college?”

  “Nope. Not your average stereotype. Get this...according to her husband, they’re happily married with a one-year-old son.”

  “No shit? They got an open relationship or something?”

  “Sounded as secure as Fort Knox. High school sweethearts. Said she started stripping to help pay the bills once he lost his job. Money is too good for her to quit, so he’s a stay-at-home dad.”

  “I’ll be damned. So why didn’t he report her missing?”

  “I had to pry it out, but he said that she doesn’t get off work until around three in the morning. Once in a while, if some guy flashes big dollars, she’ll go home with him for a private show. No sex, just extra money, and she’ll get back around six or seven. He was worried because she wasn’t answering her cell, but knew we wouldn’t do anything until she’d been gone for twenty-four hours.”

  Barker pushed his glasses up to his forehead, rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I’m spitballing here, but I doubt there’ll be a link between a stripper and Mrs. Winthrop.”