The Never Game

Someone had driven sharp, black Sheetrock screws into the jamb. He checked the door at the opposite end of the dock. The same. At the back of the dock was a window of mesh-impregnated glass and that too was sealed. The screws appeared new, just like the lock.

This gave Shaw a likely scenario: X had raped and killed Sophie and left the body inside, screwed the doors and windows shut to keep trespassers from finding her.

Now, time to call the police.

He was reaching for his phone when he was startled by a male voice: “Mr. Shaw!”

He climbed off the loading dock and walked along the back of the building.

Kyle Butler was approaching. “Mr. Shaw. There you are!”

What the hell was he doing here?

Shaw was thinking of the open gate, the likelihood that the kidnapper was still here. He held his finger to his lips and then gestured for the boy to crouch.

Kyle paused, confused. He said, “There’s somebody else here. I saw his car in a parking lot back over there.”

He was pointing to the line of trees on the other side of which was one of the outlier structures.

“Kyle! Get down!”

“Do you think Sophie’s—” Before he finished his sentence, a pistol shot resounded. Butler’s head jerked back and a mist of red popped into the air. He dropped straight to the ground, a bundle of dark clothing and limp flesh.

Two shots followed — make-sure bullets — striking Butler’s leg and chest, tugging at his clothing.

Think. Fast. The shooter would’ve heard Butler calling him and would know basically where Shaw was. And to make the headshot, he would have been close.

But the shooter — most likely X — would also be cautious. He would have seen Shaw at San Miguel Park and suspected he wasn’t the law but he couldn’t be sure. And would be assuming Shaw was armed.

Shaw glanced at Kyle Butler.

Dead, glazed eyes and shattered temple. Much blood.

And then, for the moment, Shaw forced himself to forget about him entirely.

He backed away, crouching, heading for the drive where he’d spotted the bent grass. As he did, he punched in 911 and reported an “active shooter” at the old AGW plant off Tamyen Road.

He whispered to the dispatcher, “Do you know where that is?”

“Yessir, we’ll have units responding. Stay on the line, please, and give me your—”

He disconnected.

All Shaw had to do now was find cover and avoid getting shot. He guessed that X would figure that he, whether civilian or cop, would have called for help. The kidnapper would flee.

Except, apparently, X hadn’t done that at all.

Above Shaw came a crash of shattering glass and around him shards fell to the ground as he crouched and covered his head with his arm.

X wasn’t finished yet. He’d gotten into the factory and climbed to an upper floor where he’d have a clearer shot at Shaw. He was now about to stick his head and arm out the window he’d just smashed and pepper Shaw with rounds.

There was no cover here, not for fifty feet.

Shaw turned and began sprinting toward the closest warehouse, waiting for the pop, then the slam of the slug in his back.

That didn’t happen.

Instead, he heard from inside a woman’s fierce scream. He stopped and looked back.

It was Sophie Mulliner who stood at the shattered window, her face turned toward the bloody body of Kyle Butler.

Then she looked at Shaw. A look of pure rage filled her face. “What’ve you done? What’ve you done?”

She vanished inside.

16

Colter Shaw stood on a mesh catwalk inside the dim, cavernous manufacturing space. He crouched, listening.

Sounds, echoing from everywhere. Footsteps? Dripping water? The ancient structure settling? And then the roar of jet engines overhead. The factory was along the final approach path to San Francisco Airport. The gassy howl made it momentarily impossible to hear anything else.

Like someone coming up behind you.

Shaw had found one door that had not been secured with Sheetrock screws. He’d opened it and quickly stepped inside, closing it after him. He climbed to the third-floor catwalk so he could get an overview of the space below.

He saw no sign of Sophie or of X. Was the kidnapper still here? He would’ve guessed Shaw called for help. But he also might risk remaining for some minutes to find and murder Shaw, who might have some incriminating information, like his license tag number. Sophie Mulliner, of course, would die too.

He climbed down metal staircases to the ground floor, the labyrinth he’d surveyed from above, a network of offices, workstations, concrete slabs and machinery, presumably still here because technology had made the equipment obsolete, not even worth parts.

AGW Industries — Ground Floor

1 — K.B.

2 — Loading Dock

3 — Room with Five Objects

4 — Open Door

5 — Furnace Room/Smokestack

All surreal, in the gloom. Shaw was dizzy too; this, he guessed, was from air infused with the astringent fumes of diesel oil, grease and vast colonies of mold.