Sara's Game Part 18

"You're dead and your kids are in a foster home. Same thing that happened to us."

"Dead? But she said-"

"You think what she says matters to her? You can't win. Not her game."

"Then what should I do?"

"I told you, play your own game, and that's all I can give you. Go. Go. Go," he shouted.

Sara nodded, aware that she was close to going back in the cage if she didn't get moving.

She used her hips and shoulders to pull Teddy along, shuffling through the cabin, struggling under his limp body. He could manage a step or two, follow it with a stumble. "You can do it," she whispered. "We're free."

They were halfway through the yard before Michael called out to her. "Sara," he said.

She heaved Teddy around.

He stood on the front porch, gun at his side.

Please don't...please don't shoot...

"Whatever you do," he said, "don't tell her I let you go. She wouldn't-she wouldn't like it."

"I promise." Still trying to make her happy. Still her slave, aren't you?

Sara bent and lifted Teddy higher, making her way through the yard, careful not to slip on the bed of pine needles.

The wind was calm. Trees stood tall and motionless overhead. Through the serenity of the peaceful forest, she heard the puff of air escaping a silencer, followed by the thump of a ma.s.s falling on wood.

She didn't look back.

CHAPTER 19.

DJ.

DJ cursed at the rush hour traffic on I-5. He hadn't seen it this bad in ages. Radio reports indicated a three-car pileup. One overturned, serious injuries, paramedics en route.

I should've known better, he thought. It was always a gamble, even when he wasn't in a hurry. Fight the b.u.mper-to-b.u.mper exodus back to the suburbs on the interstate, or march from stoplight to stoplight like all the other zombies on the streets who were trying to get home.

Barker hadn't answered his multiple calls, so he sat in line, creeping ahead, inch by excruciating inch, using the delay to think, to a.n.a.lyze.

At the mention of the necklace, he'd rushed out of Willow Bluesong's house without thought as to where he was going or what he should do next. His first reaction was to be on the move, in a hurry to get somewhere, and now, sitting at a complete standstill, the lapse in judgment had cost him.

Lights and siren. Just get out of this mess. But go where?

Sh.e.l.ley Sergeant's place was the obvious choice, however unlikely it was that she would be home. But was she involved? Really? Her California DMV records had said her eyes were green. Not mismatched. Not brown and blue.

Wait...I didn't check her history...what if it was...

The Mazda in front of him managed to move forward, and DJ eased up on the brakes, coasted along with it. He called the station, got Davis on the line, asked him to check up on Sh.e.l.ley Sergeant with explicit instructions to look for anything out of the ordinary about her eyes.

He waited. He hoped. He crawled another two feet.

His cell rang, caller ID revealing it was Barker. He answered, "It's about time."

"Easy, JonJon, I got enough of that from my ex-wife. Looks like you were tapping that speed dial b.u.t.ton with a jackhammer. You got something?"

"That necklace. The one the bartender mentioned."

"I thought you'd given up on that one."

"It's a stretch, but-"

"We live and die by coincidence, cowboy. What've you got?"

"Sh.e.l.ley Ann Sergeant. Sara Winthrop's a.s.sistant."

"She told you whose it was?"

"No," he said, rolling forward, "I think she was wearing it."

"What? How'd you find that out?"

"The Bluesong woman."

"The babysitter?"

"I figured I'd start the ground-pounding with her. Hit the high spots and then work my way out. Good thing I did. Anyway, you should've seen the look on her face when I mentioned the Sergeant girl."

"Could've chewed through leather, huh?"

"Fireb.a.l.l.s out of her eyes. Here's the thing: she says that Sergeant wears this necklace with the letters 'S.D.' on it. Said she thinks it stands for 'She-Devil'."

"No kidding. She got that eye disease thing you were so h.e.l.l-bent on?"

"Davis is checking up on it. She's from Cali, driver's license says her eyes are green, though."

"Liars lie. Whereabouts down south? You've got him looking for priors, don't you?"

"Yep. Last known address was...holy s.h.i.t."

"What?"

"San Diego...S.D. Too much of a stretch?"

"I've seen less break a case wide open, so let's run with it. Bartender said the letters were-what was the word she used? Intertwined?"

"Right. Could it be a logo?"

"Possible. What has an S.D. on it down there? You know, for a symbol? Sports team?"

"The Chargers?"

"Lightning bolt, JonJon. You don't watch much football, do you?"

DJ ignored the jab. "The Padres? They have an S.D. on their caps, don't they?"

"That they do, but it doesn't give us much to go on. Check the colleges, too. Who's in the area? UCSD?"

"UCSD and San Diego State, that I know of."

"They use an S.D. for anything?"

"Texas, Barker. The only thing I know is orange and horns."

"Have Davis check into it when he gets back to you."

"On my list. Any news from your end?"

"Blood and hair samples off to the lab. Hunch says Rutherford, of course. But get this, cowboy, they dusted and found a full handprint on the window. Clean as fresh underwear. Big one, too."

"Amateur or not, he wouldn't be that stupid, would he?"

"The man walked away from a b.l.o.o.d.y car in broad daylight with a perfect handprint on the inside of the windshield. Either he's a d.a.m.n idiot-"

"Or he wanted to get caught."

"Right as rain. I'm heading back to the station to check on the results. Where are you?"

"Sitting in traffic on I-5."

"What in the h.e.l.l for, son? You're wasting time in the-"

DJ heard a beep over Barker's voice. "Hang on, Davis is on the other line." He clicked over. "Tell me you've got something?"

Davis said, "Did you figure this out, or did Barker?"

"The eye thing? Me-why?"

"Sounds like one of his left field theories. He must be rubbing off on you, JonJon."

Come on, any respect? Ever? "I'll be sure to let him know. What'd you find?"

"Car accident last year. Sh.e.l.ley Ann Sergeant of San Diego cited for reckless driving. Driver indicated that she wasn't wearing her contacts...officer noted a discrepancy between the stated eye color on the license and the actual eye color...doesn't say what kind...no citation for providing false information. Cute girl. He probably took it easy on her."

DJ felt a rush of blood surge through his head as he looked for an opening in the blockade of cars to his right. A rig to his left hauling a load of timber. Trapped. An ambulance screamed by on the shoulder, heading for the accident. He flicked on his lights, his siren, began angling himself to the right, forcing his way between an SUV and a furniture-delivery truck. "Good work, Davis. I need a couple more things. Find out where she went to school-"

"One step ahead of you. Graduated from San Diego State University. Smart cookie. GPA up somewhere around the moon."

"You near a computer?"

"I can be, one sec."

"Look up the symbol for their sports team."

"Their sports team? Which one?"

"Doesn't matter. Football. Look up pictures of the football helmet. Tell me what you see." A horn blared and DJ flicked a look over his shoulder, expecting to see a p.i.s.sed off driver with the gall to honk at a policeman, but instead, an woman had stopped and was waving him over, giving him room to get by.

"Um...looks like...red, black letters...says 'Aztecs'...another one with 'S.D.' on it, sort of wrapped together."

"Bingo. Move, dammit!"

"What're you doing?"

"Sorry. Stuck in traffic. d.a.m.n idiots won't get out of my way. I need an address. Portland current."

"Let's see...121 Blaylock Avenue."

"Thanks, Davis," he said. He made it to the shoulder, clicked over to Barker, hit the gas. The engine roared, pushed him back in his seat. "You there?"

"Thumb-twiddling. Davis got anything?"

"Forget the samples and the prints. Sergeant's place, as quick as you can." He recited the address, shot down the nearest exit ramp, and hung up before Barker had a chance to balk.

He made up time by ducking down side streets. Lights and siren off, but going too fast for the residential area. He almost clipped a cyclist as he barged past a stop sign, swerving around a woman backing out of her driveway. As long as he was careful, the dangers here were minimal compared to navigating the impossible traffic on Lombard Street, over where the pizza shops and bars and laundries kept a steady stream of customers zipping in and out of every gap they could wedge a car into.

DJ took a right onto Blaylock, and cruised to a stop two houses down from the Sergeant residence. Cut off the engine, surveyed the area while he waited on Barker. If his partner managed to fight his way through rush-hour traffic, sirens blazing, it would take him at least twenty to thirty minutes.

That's too long...too long. But I should wait.

What if she has Sara in there right now? The kids, too. Ten minutes, Barker.

Cars were parked up and down either side of the street. A plump jogger lugged her body down the sidewalk, her running clothes soaked through to the skin. Lights illuminated living rooms, dining rooms. He imagined families inside sitting down for dinner or parents leaning over algebra books, trying to help out a teenager, but getting just as confused as their children. It made him think of Jessica and the home-cooked meal he'd be missing. Again. She didn't mind. At least, she said she didn't. She never complained, never asked questions. Simply kissed him and made him promise to come home safe. Every single morning, the same routine.

And so far, he'd kept his promises. The closest he'd come to a body bag was a domestic dispute six weeks in as a patrolman. The pop of a 9mm and the subsequent explosion of a brick, inches above his head. Way too close, and he'd frozen in place, unable to make his body react.

That was the thing. You never knew when it was your turn. Poke your head through a door, find out what a bullet tastes like. He had a recurring nightmare about it being something simple, like a routine stop to ask a couple of questions.

In the dream, he walked into the same building every time: a beat down, rundown, decrepit tire shop. A red Mustang, late '60s model, sat with its hood up and a mechanic's legs sticking out from underneath. He'd think about how the legs looked like the Wicked Witch of the West's after the house had fallen on her. He'd walk up, poke his head under the hood, looking at all the parts, examining how they fit together, worked together, admiring how clean they were, how spotless. Then he'd twist his head around, noticing the grinning face of the mechanic looking up at him. He could see the 9mm pointed at his head and then would watch as the knife-shaped blast of fire escaped the barrel. He'd hear the crack, and then stare at the bullet careening toward him in slow motion.