The Never Game

“There was a little light but I couldn’t see much.” Her eyes now flared. “It was just so fucking weird. I thought, in the movies, somebody’s kidnapped and there’s a bed and a blanket and a bucket to pee in, or whatever. There was a bottle of water. But no food. Just a big empty glass bottle, this wad of cloth, a spool of fishing line and matches. The room was really old. Moldy and everything. The bottle, the rag — that stuff was new.”

Shaw told her again how smart she was, breaking the bottle to make a glass blade and cutting through the Sheetrock.

“I started looking for a way out. The only windows that weren’t boarded up were on the top floor. I couldn’t just break one and climb out. I started looking for a door. They were locked or nailed shut.”

Screwed shut, actually, Shaw recalled. Recently. He told them that he too had looked and found only one open — in the front.

“Didn’t get that far.” She swallowed. “I heard the gunshots and... Kyle...” She sobbed quietly. Her father approached and put his arm around her and she cried against his chest for a moment.

Shaw explained to him how Sophie had made a trap from the fishing line and had used another piece to tie it to her jacket and made it move back and forth so there’d be a shadow on the floor. To lure the kidnapper closer. And nail him with an oil drum.

Mulliner was wide-eyed. “Really?”

In a soft voice she said, “I was going to kill you... him. Stab him. But I just panicked and ran. I’m sorry if you got hurt.”

“I should’ve figured it out,” Shaw said. “I knew you’d be a fighter.”

At this she smiled.

Shaw asked, “Did he touch you?”

Her father stirred, but this was a question that needed to be asked.

“I don’t think so. All he took off was my shoes and socks. My windbreaker was still zipped up. Your handwriting’s really small. Why don’t you just write on a computer or tablet? It’d be faster.”

Shaw answered the young woman. “When you write something by hand, slowly, you own the words. You type them, less so. You read them, even less. And you listen, hardly at all.”

The idea seemed to intrigue her.

“Anybody at the Quick Byte try to pick you up recently?”

“Guys flirt, you know. Ask, ‘Oh, what’re you reading?’ Or ‘How’re the tamales?’ What guys always do. Nobody weird.”

“This was in the Quick Byte.” On his phone Shaw displayed a photo of the sheet that had been left in place of her MISSING poster. The stenciled image of the eerie face, the hat, the tie. “There was also a version on the outside wall of the room where you were held.”

“I don’t remember it. The place was so dark. It’s creepy.”

“Does it mean anything to either of you?”

They both said it did not. Mulliner asked, “What’s it supposed to be?”

“I don’t know.” He’d searched for images of men’s faces in hats and ties. Nothing close to this showed up.

“Detective Standish didn’t ask you about it?”

“No,” Sophie said. “I would have remembered.”

A ringtone sounded from inside her robe pocket. It was the default. She hadn’t had time to change it on her new phone. The old was in Evidence and would probably die a silent death there. She looked at the screen and answered. “Mom?”

She glanced toward Shaw, who said, “I have enough for now, Fee.”

Sophie embraced him and whispered, “Thank you, thank you...” The young woman shivered briefly and, with a deep inhalation, walked away, lifting the phone. “Mom.” She picked up the glass of orange juice in her other hand and walked back to her room, Luka following. “I’m fine, really... He’s being great...”

The corner of Mulliner’s mouth twitched. He glanced at Shaw’s naked ring finger. “You married?”

“No. Never.” And, as happened occasionally when the topic was tapped, images of Margot Keller’s long, Greek goddess face appeared, framed by soft dark blond curls. In this particular slideshow she was looking up from a map of an archaeological dig. A map that Shaw himself had drawn.

Then Mulliner was offering an envelope to him. “Here.”

Shaw didn’t take it. “Sometimes I work out payment arrangements. No interest.”

“Well...” Mulliner looked down at the envelope. His face was red.

Shaw said, “A thousand a month for ten months. Can you swing that?”

“I will. Whatever it takes. I will.”

Shaw made this arrangement with some frequency and it drove business manager Velma Bruin to distraction. She’d delivered many variations on the theme: “You do the job, Colt. You deserve the money when it’s due.”

Velma was right, but there was nothing wrong with flexibility. And that was particularly true on this job. He’d gotten the lesson about the financial stresses of Silicon Valley.

The Land of Promise, where so very many people struggled.

27

Halfway to Henry Thompson’s address, Colter Shaw noted that his pursuer was back. Maybe.

He’d twice seen a car behind him making the same turns he’d made. A gray sedan, like the one outside Salvadoran coffee heaven. The grille logo was indiscernible six or seven car lengths back. Nissan? Maybe, maybe not.

He believed, to his surprise, that the driver was a woman.