The Never Game

Foyle had returned here, to the place where he’d stashed Elizabeth Chabelle, as Shaw had anticipated, to plant these things as evidence implicating the innocent boy; they’d have his fingerprints and DNA on them.

The kidnapper’s next step, Shaw was sure, would be to head straight to the Hendrickses’ house and hide the murder weapon in the backyard or garage. He’d then call in an anonymous tip as to where Elizabeth Chabelle was, giving a description of Brad, maybe a partial tag number of his car. The police would find her body and the evidence here, which would eventually lead to the family house.

This had been a gamble on Shaw’s part but a rational one, a sixty or seventy percent one. He concluded that Brad Hendricks was innocent and that it was Jimmy Foyle who was the Gamer, so he’d set up the trap, pretending to enlist his help in the decryption, hoping he’d the take the bait: the contents of the backpack.

It was Foyle, whom Shaw and Standish had just been following, texting the man occasionally to make him believe they were elsewhere tailing Brad Hendricks.

And where was the sinking ship?

Foyle walked between two dunes and disappeared.

Shaw nodded in that direction and he and Standish rose and followed. At the crest of a dune they crouched, looking down at an old pier that jutted fifty feet into the choppy Pacific. Midway along it was an ancient fishing boat, half sunk.

1 — Sinking Ship with Five Objects

2 — L.S.

3 — Pier South of Pedro Point

“Your armor snug, Shaw?”

They were both in bulletproof vests. He nodded.

“You know how to cuff somebody?”

“I can. Better with restraints.”

Standish handed him two zip ties. “I’ll cover him. You get his weapon and get his hands.” She drew her Glock, rose and walked forward silently to the sand. Twenty feet from Foyle, she raised her weapon and aimed. “Jimmy Foyle! Police. Don’t move. Hands in the air.”

Foyle jerked to a stop, turning slowly.

“Drop the bag. Hands up.”

Shocked, he stared their way. Dismay flooded his face.

“Drop the bag!”

He did and lifted his hands as he looked from Shaw to Standish and back to Shaw, no doubt understanding how this had come together. The great computer game strategist had been outplayed. Bewilderment morphed to anger.

“Get on your knees. Knees! Now!”

Just then, from behind them, came the blaring sound of a car horn.

Shaw realized then that the key fob was still in Foyle’s hand. He’d hit the panic button.

Instinctively, the detective started to turn at the sound.

“Standish, no!” Shaw shouted.

Foyle crouched and drew his Glock. A series of ragged flashes sprouted from his right hand. Standish gave a high yelp as slugs tore into her body.

64

Shaw dove for her, squinting against the sand spitting into the air from Foyle’s gunshots.

He drew his own Glock, raising the weapon in both hands, steadying it, scanning for a target.

Foyle had circled to the left, sprinting flat out through the trees, and Shaw had no clear shot. Foyle’s car started up and sped away.

Shaw returned to Standish, who was writhing in agony. “Okay, they don’t teach you this shit. Hurt, hurts.”

He assessed the damage: Two slugs had hit the vest. She’d taken one in the forearm, which had nicked the suicide vein, and one low in the belly.

Shaw slipped his gun into his jacket pocket and put pressure on the wounds, saying, “Had to be sensitive, didn’t you, Standish? Couldn’t shoot a man armed with a BMW key fob?”

“Get to the boat, Shaw. If Elizabeth’s still... Go!” A gasp.

“This’s going to hurt.”

He put pressure on Standish’s abdominal wound, pulled her locking knife from its holder and, gripping the blade, used the weight of the handle to flick it open, one-handed. He lifted his bloody palm away from the wound only long enough to cut a strip of his shirttail and tie a tourniquet. This went around her biceps. He used a branch to tighten the cloth. The fierce bleeding in Standish’s shattered lower arm slowed. He closed the blade and slipped the knife into his pocket.

“Hurt, hurts...” Standish repeated, gasping. “Call it in, Shaw. Don’t let him get too far.”

“I will. Almost there.”

There wasn’t much to do with the gut shot, except pressure. He gathered some leaves and placed them on the wound and then found a rock that weighed about five pounds. He set this on top. Standish groaned in pain, arched her back.

“No. Stay still. I know it’s tough, but you’ve got to stay still.”

He wiped his hands on his jacket and slacks so he could use his phone. He dialed.

“Police and fire emergency. What’s—”

“Code 13. Officer shot,” Standish said weakly.

He repeated this, then looked at his GPS and gave the longitude and latitude.

“What’s your name, sir?”

“Colter Shaw. Supervisor Cummings at the JMCTF’ll know me. Armed suspect. Fleeing from location I gave you. Might be headed east in white late-model BMW, California plate, first numbers 9-7-8. Didn’t get the rest. Suspect is Jimmy Foyle, employed by Knight Time Gaming. Wounded officer is Detective LaDonna Standish, also with the Task Force.”