The Never Game

Standish and Shaw had sped to Moffett Field, an old military air base north of Sunnyvale and Mountain View — only ten minutes from Destiny Entertainment. At least, ten minutes the way Standish had been driving. Shaw had held on to the armrest and enjoyed the NASCAR ride.

The military air functions of the field, Standish had explained, were shrinking, though an air-rescue operation remained. Google leased much of the field and the internet company was involved in the restoration of Hangar 1, which was one of the largest wooden structures in the world, built in the ’30s to house dirigibles and other lighter-than-air craft.

There they had climbed into the Task Force’s Bell chopper, which was now — after only a twenty-minute flight — closing in on the spot where the fire had been tagged. Four other tac officers were in an Air National Guard Huey, old and olive-drab, presently thumping away fifty yards to the starboard.

Through his headphone, Shaw heard Standish’s throat making tiny retching sounds and he pulled the unit off. It helped.

The hazy suburban sprawl of the valley became hills and trees, then the landscape turned tough, with lush, spiky redwoods giving way to rocky terrain, skeletal trees, dry riverbeds. This was the heart of Big Basin. Shaw had thought the rugged land would send updrafts skyward, making the ride worse. Oddly, though, the air was smooth; the bumpiness had been severe when they were over suburbia.

Standish’s head tilted slightly. She must have heard the pilot say something. Shaw put his headset back on and entered the conversation.

“Negative,” Standish called.

The pilot: “Copy. I’ll find an LZ.”

Shaw looked at Standish, who said, “Pilot asked if I wanted a flyby of the site. I told him no. Don’t imagine the perp’s here after all these hours, but he came back to the first site with a weapon. He’ll hear us land, but I don’t want him to see us.”

The odds he was back at this particular time? Shaw figured them to be low. Yet still vivid in his memory was the horrible collapse of Kyle Butler as the bullet struck him.

Two craft hovered over a clearing atop a plateau, two hundred feet from the valley floor, then touched down in tandem. Shaw was out fast, ducking his head unnecessarily — even though the rotors were high, you did it anyway. Almost immediately his gut felt better. And he didn’t react when Standish jumped out the other side and bent over, vomiting. She then stood up, spitting. She rinsed her mouth with water from a bottle the pilot handed her, as if he kept them on hand for that very purpose.

She joined Shaw. “At least there’s nothing left for the ride home.”

They and the two officers with them jogged to the edge of the clearing, where they were joined by the four-man team from the Huey, also in tactical gear. They nodded to Standish and Shaw, who was examined with glancing side looks. The detective didn’t introduce him. The Bell pilot joined them and unfurled a map of the area. He’d been given the coordinates of the site of the fire and had marked it in red pen. He looked around, trying to judge where exactly they were in relation to it. Shaw glanced at the map, then the surrounding hills. He’d done orienteering on the Compound and, in college, had competed in the sport, a timed trek through the wilderness, following a route using only a compass and a map.

Shaw pointed. “The fire was there, about five hundred yards. Over that ridge. Straight line.”

Everyone was staring at him. He in turn looked to Standish. This was, after all, her hunt.

“Your supervisors brief you?” She was talking to the four men from the other helicopter. They weren’t Task Force, Shaw could see, different uniforms. Maybe county, maybe state. Their equipment was shiny, their boots polished, their guns hardly dinged.

One of these officers, a man with bulbous, dumbbell-lifting arms, said, “No, ma’am. Other than a hostage sit, possible HT on the scene.”

“At the last taking — the Mulliner girl — the unsub came back to the scene with a weapon. That ended up a homicide.” Two of the men nodded, recalling. “Weapon’s a nine-millimeter handgun. Glock. Long barrel probably — the accuracy. He knows how to shoot. It’s not likely he’s here — we’ve done sat and drone surveillance and didn’t see any vehicles — but, well, you can see the canopy. Lots of places to hide. Watch for shooters.”

Standish turned to Shaw. “Best routes?”

He borrowed the pilot’s red pen and drew lines, like parentheses, from where they stood to the ridge where the fire had been. “The north one? You’ll have to be careful.”

A SWAT officer asked, “Umm, which one’s north?”

Shaw touched it. “When you get to the cedar, there’ll be a drop-off.”

A pause. “What’s a cedar look like?”

Shaw pointed one out.

“A drop-off you won’t see until you’re almost on it. And once you crest the ridge, you’ll have exposure to shooters from the high ground here and here. The sun’s in a good spot. It’ll be in his eyes. And if he’s got binoculars or a scope, there’ll be lens flare.”