The Never Game

She gave her own mean growl. “I’m a human with a gun.”

Keeping his eyes locked onto the animal’s, Shaw slowly crouched and, after a brief glance down, picked up a rock about the size of a grapefruit. He rose, an inch at a time. Confident, calm. Not aggressive.

Never display fear.

“You can fight. Just have to keep them away from your face and neck. That’s what they go for.”

“You’re not going to...?” Her voice sounded astonished.

“Rather not, but...” Then Shaw said, “Open your mouth.”

“You want me to...?”

“You’re breathing fast and loud. Open mouths’re quieter. You sound scared.”

“That can’t come as a surprise.” She did as he’d instructed.

Shaw continued: “They’re not used to anything fighting back. He’s debating now. Is this dinner going to be worth it? He sees two. The size difference — he might be thinking you’re my young. You’d be vulnerable and tasty, yet he’d have to go through me and he knows that I’d fight till the end to save you. He’s already eaten so he’s not driven by hunger. And we’re not running, we’re defiant, so he’s uneasy.”

“He’s uneasy?” She scoffed. “Is my jacket big enough?”

“You’re doing fine. By the way, if he does come after us and I can’t stop him, then you can shoot him.”

The creature’s head lowered.

Shaw gripped the rock, kept his eyes on the predator, and arched his shoulders. The black feline pupils surrounded by yellow remained fixed on Shaw. He really was a magnificent creature. His legs were like flexing metal. The face gave off what seemed to be an evil glare; of course, it was nothing of the kind. It was no more evil than Shaw’s when he was about to tuck into a bowl of stew for dinner.

Assessing. Odds that he’d attack: fifty percent.

He really hoped it wouldn’t come to shooting. He didn’t want the beautiful creature to die.

For food or the hide, for defense, for mercy...

Gripping the stone.

Decision made. The animal backed away, then turned and vanished. Shaw was aware of the faint crackling of underbrush once more, like the sound of distant fire, muted in humid air. It lasted only a second or two. For all their size, mountain lions had perfected the art of entering and leaving the stage quietly.

“Jesus.” Standish slumped, eyes closed. Her hands were shaking. “He going to come back?”

“Not likely.”

“But that doesn’t mean no.”

“Correct,” he said.

“Shot at by punks and junkies, Shaw.” She paused. “Sorry, Colter.”

“Know what? ‘Shaw’ and ‘Standish’ are fine. I think we’ve graduated. Mountain lions can do that.”

Margot had called him by his last name. He’d always liked it.

She continued: “Had an informant turn, halfway through a set, and come at me with a razor. That was a day’s work, I’m saying. Mountain lions’re not a day’s work.”

Depends on the day and depends on the work, Shaw supposed.

Standish had brought a roll of yellow tape and now spent a few minutes running it from tree to tree, encircling the crime scene.

“So, the blood?” she asked.

“Thompson’s?” Shaw replied. “A possibility.” He walked in the general direction the animal had vanished — cautiously. He climbed a rock formation and examined the tableau before him.

He returned.

Standish glanced his way. “You found something?”

“A deer carcass. He’d eaten most of it. That’s why he wasn’t so interested in us.”

She finished stringing the tape. Then rose.

Shaw studied the ground. “I can’t tell if Henry walked that way or not. I think so.” He was looking at a limestone shelf that led to a line of trees. On the other side there seemed to be a deep valley.

Shaw climbed onto the rock and helped Standish up. Together they walked toward the edge of the cliff.

There, they paused.

A hundred feet below lay Henry Thompson’s crumpled, bloody body.

44

Ten minutes later two tactical officers were on the floor of the canyon, having rappelled down the sheer face — and doing a smart job of it.

“Detective?” one of them radioed.

“Go ahead, K,” Standish said.

“Have to tell you. Cause of death wasn’t the fall. He’s been shot.”

She paused. “Roger.”

Shaw was not surprised. He muttered, “Explains it.”

“What?”

“Why the Gamer comes back to the scenes. The Whispering Man — the game — it isn’t only about escaping. It’s also about fighting.” He reminded Standish about the gameplay: the players might form alliances or they might try to kill one another. And the Whispering Man himself, in his funereal suit and dapper hat, roams the game, ready to murder for the fun of it.

Shaw remembered that the character would come up behind you and whisper advice — which might be real or might be a trick. He might also attack, shooting you with an old-time flintlock pistol or slicing your throat or plunging a blade into your heart, whispering a poem as your screen went black and eerie music played.