Sara's Game Part 7

"Sh.e.l.ley would be your best bet. She's only been here a couple of months, but I'd say she knows Sara better than anyone in the office. Except for me."

DJ thanked him again, and moved for the door. Opened it, then stopped before he left. "One last thing, Mr. Rutherford. I'm sure you've heard it thousands of times, given your profession, but does the phrase, 'Are you ready to play the game?' have any special meaning around here?"

Rutherford's eyes popped open. "How'd you know about that?"

The reaction surprised DJ so much that he didn't have an adequate response ready. He'd tossed the question out almost as an afterthought, never intending to fully discuss that particular aspect of the case. He said, "It's a-it's a lead we're following."

"A lead? Is Teddy a suspect?"

"Your son? No. Why?"

"Did you two talk before you came in to see me?"

"I didn't. Mr. Rutherford, if you know anything-"

"I'm sure he has nothing to do with Sara's kids."

"Does that phrase have anything to do with him?"

"He wanted it on the t.i.tle sequence in Juggernaut 3. The staff shot him down, told him it was too mundane. He came crying to me and then pitched a fit when I agreed with them."

DJ took a single step back inside Rutherford's office. He said, "If that's the case, I have some questions for him. Where's his office?"

"He left early this morning, around ten o'clock. Said something about a golf tournament."

"Any idea which one?"

"If I did know, Detective, I'm not sure I'd be willing to offer that information, given the circ.u.mstances."

DJ said, "And you know that impeding an investigation is a serious offense?"

"Young man, there are a lot of things I do know that I'm sure you don't. Unfortunately for both of us, I have no idea where Teddy might be, golfing or not."

"I'll still be asking around before I go."

Rutherford shooed him away with a dismissive hand. "Good luck."

CHAPTER 10.

SARA.

...I didn't know they could bleed so easily.

The words clanged around inside her head. Sara bent over the hand railing and vomited a mixture of bile and breakfast into the Willamette. She retched and dry-heaved until nothing was left. Coughing and spitting, she wiped her mouth with her sweaty forearm, and cursed into the phone. "You son of a b.i.t.c.h. If I ever find you, if you touch my children again, I will-"

"You'll what, Sara?"

"-do whatever you've done to them a thousand times over. Do you understand me?"

"But you're there, and I'm here, and you have a game to play."

It came out before she could stop herself, but the anger, the fury inside her had reached the internal temperature of the sun. Reason, and the result of the consequences that would come, provided a gauzy barrier and her words ripped through unhindered. "You can shove this G.o.dd.a.m.n game up your a.s.s."

"Now, now, Sara. We mustn't let things get out of hand. And by the way-" Another yelp of pain from one of her children-Lacey, this time. "-I told you not to defy me again."

"Stop!" she screamed. If it'd been an option, if it'd been offered as an end to the game, an end to her children's torture, she would've backed up, climbed over the railing, and flung herself into the river. "You win, okay? You win."

"We'll find out who wins when the game is over."

"I have the key, just tell me what to do and I'll do it."

"Do you want to ask your question for this round now, or later?"

She wanted to ask now. She wanted to ask Teddy why he had chosen her. Why he had picked her instead of one of the other senior managers that constantly teased him and made fun of his height and called him 'Little One'.

Why did he get her children involved? Why did he have to bind them and torture them? Why not kidnap her? Why not take her, by herself, to some abandoned warehouse where he could do whatever unmentionable things he wanted to do? If he really wanted to get revenge for whatever offenses she had committed, why drag it out with this elaborate game that had so much room for error?

Because he's a cat playing with a mouse right before it eats it. He wants me to ask now. To make the game harder.

"Later," she said. "I'll save it."

The disappointed answer of, "Fine," and the long silence that followed confirmed her guess.

She said, "I'm waiting."

"I'm sorry, Sara. I took a moment to feel how soft your son's hair is. It's like gossamer, isn't it?"

Her stomach churned again. She imagined Teddy standing over her son, running his sausage fingers through Jacob's hair. Saw Jacob's tear-streaked face, cringing, trying to move away but unable to because of the tight ropes or rough chains. Rather than screaming more poisonous threats, she rolled her head from side to side, stretching her neck, trying to maintain control. Made a fist, punched the lamppost hard enough for a knuckle to pop.

Think, Sara, think. He's testing you. What's he want? Obedience? Submission?

She clenched her jaw and said, "You're right."

"Soft, blonde gossamer. You may get to feel it again one day."

"Please just tell me what the next level is."

"Such impatience. I expected you to be eager, but this fire in your belly is encouraging. It should serve you well during the first half of Level Two. I like to call it...Confusion. Are you ready to play the game?"

"I'm ready."

And you'd better be ready, because if I ever get the chance- The voice said, "Keep the phone. Keep the key. Continue to the eastern side of the bridge. Take the bike path exit, down to the parking lot under the bridge. Your transportation will be waiting. I'm sure you'll recognize the car. You will be given further instructions. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Wunderbar! This next level will provide quite the challenge."

Wunderbar? Doesn't Sh.e.l.ley say that all the time? What did she say that meant? Something in German. Wonderful?

"Oh, and Sara?"

"What?"

"You're doing great...Little One."

Little One. It was more than a hint. It was a taunt, saying, 'I want you to know, come and get me.'

Such a deliberate admission. It was enough, so obvious. She could go to the police, tell them precisely who had her children. But why, why be so blatant?

Because he has your kids. And you have no idea where. He knows you won't risk it. He's in complete control.

Sara paced back and forth as a woman approached, riding a bicycle. She looked like one of the many environmentally conscious commuters around Portland who biked to and from work every day in an attempt to reduce their carbon footprint, even if it was the size of a baby's shoe. Dressed well in a pants-suit, blue backpack clinging to her shoulders, listening to something on her iPod.

I have to fight back. This might be my only chance.

Are you insane? Don't do it, don't do it, don't do it.

Sara made an impulse decision in the few remaining feet before the biker was upon her. She ran, looking back, trying to match the woman's speed.

When they were side by side, the woman flicked at look at her, then refocused on the bike path ahead.

Sara said, "Can you help me?"

The biker removed her right ear bud. "I'm sorry?"

"Can you slow down a little?"

"What's up?" she asked, easing up her pace.

"My phone is dead," Sara said, wheezing, plodding along the hard concrete. "Would you mind making a call for me? Or can I use your phone? It'll only take me a second."

The woman shook her head. "I'm sorry. I can't."

"If you could call for me-I really need help-you don't have to do it now, just when you get a chance."

"That's not-"

"All I need you to do is call Detective Johnson at the police department. Tell him the game is real, and it's Teddy Rutherford at LightPulse."

"I can't do that, Sara."

Sara ran into an invisible wall, screeching to a halt.

Oh no.

The biker pedaled faster, shouting over her shoulder, "That's not how the game is played."

d.a.m.n it.

How many rules had she broken? How many offenses had she committed with that ridiculous, ill-conceived stunt? How long would it take before the woman told Teddy what she'd done? And what would he do to the kids as a result?

Sara sprinted, chasing after the woman for the remaining half of the bridge, but it was a useless waste of energy. She was on a bike, moving too fast, and had gone out of sight by the time Sara reached the opposite sh.o.r.e. She stopped under the overpa.s.s.

So stupid. What did I just do? Who else is watching? It could be anyone.

An older couple strolled past, holding hands, laughing. They smiled at her, said h.e.l.lo. Or were they checking on her, making sure she was playing the game as she should? They kept walking. Sara waited on them to reverse their course, follow her. Check in with Teddy, report that she was on schedule. Paranoia billowed in her mind like a gathering thundercloud. Dark and threatening, voluminous, ready to pour down and soak her last remaining sense of composure.

They never looked back.

She wrapped her arms around her body, doubled over, and cried. Wind blew at her back, scattering the teardrops before they reached the concrete. She thought about Brian and the way he had pulled her in close whenever she was sad or having a bad day. Thought about how she used to lay her head on his shoulder, listening to the ba.s.s reverberate in his chest as he told her she'd be fine, that he was there for her, and that she had nothing to worry about. If he was still here, would any of this be happening? Would she be at the office right now, answering emails, making calls, reviewing Sh.e.l.ley's latest copywriting masterwork?

Tell me it'll be okay, Brian. Tell me it'll be okay.

She heard the squeal of brakes as a car slowed to a stop beside her.

The driver called out, "Hey, you need some help?"

Sara stood and waved him off. "I'm fine," she lied. "Bad knee. Hurts to run."

"Go see a doctor," he said, pulling away as a honk from another car urged him on.

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 b.i.t.c.h 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.