The Never Game

Suddenly, Shaw lifted a hand and they stopped. He scanned the dense forest. Where they stood was particularly congested, a soupy tangle of pine, oak, vines. A good place for a shooter to hide.

Standish’s hand dropped to her holster. “You see something?”

“Heard something. Gone now.” He scanned the trees and shrubbery, the rocks. Motion everywhere but no threat. You learn the difference early.

They continued toward the logging road, looking for where Henry Thompson had been abandoned. Had to be here somewhere. Shaw was searching for marks left by shoes, either walking or being dragged.

She asked, “You married?”

“No.”

“Sounds like you prefer I don’t ask if there’s anybody you’re with.”

“No preference. But there isn’t. Not at the moment.”

Another image of Margot began to form. It remained silent and opaque. Then, fortunately, disappeared.

“How ’bout kids?”

“No.”

They continued on for another fifty yards. Standish cocked her head — she’d gotten a transmission and was listening through her earbud. She lifted the Motorola mic and said, “Roger. Join up with the other teams.”

She hooked the radio back on her belt. “They’re at the clearing where the fire was. No sign of the unsub. Or Thompson.”

He crouched. Crushed grass. Caused by animal hooves and paws, not leather soles. Rising, he scanned the terrain. His head dipped and he said, “There. He walked that way.”

It was a faint trail that led toward the logging road. They started along it.

Standish said, “You know, we need a name for him.”

“Who?”

“The unsub. We sometimes do that. We get a lot of unsubs and it helps keep ’em separate. A nickname. Any ideas?”

With a reward, you usually knew the name of the missing person or fugitive you were after. Even if you didn’t, you didn’t give them a nickname. At least, Shaw didn’t. He told her, “No.”

Standish said, “The Gamer. How’s that?”

It seemed self-conscious. Then again, it wasn’t his case and he wasn’t a cop with a lot of unsubs that needed telling apart. “Why not?”

Ten feet farther along the logging road, Standish stopped. “There,” she said.

Shaw looked down at a circular indentation in the pine needles, right beside the old logging road. Within the circle were a plastic bag of marbles like children play with, a coil of laundry line, a box of double-edged razor blades and a large package of beef jerky.

Big Basin Redwoods State Park

1 — Fire

2 — Landing Zone

3 — Logging Road

4 — Five Objects

5 — H.T.

“Look.” Shaw was pointing at a flat surface of rock a few feet above where the Gamer had left the five items. Those, and the matches or lighter he’d used to start the fire, were this victim’s infamous five items from The Whispering Man.

“Is that...?”

It was. A version of the face on the sheet at the Quick Byte and graffitied on the wall near the room where Sophie Mulliner had been left.

The stark image of the Whispering Man.

She took a step forward, when Shaw stopped and closed his hand around her muscular biceps. “Don’t move. And quiet.”

Standish had good training. Or instinct. She didn’t look at Shaw. But as she crouched to make herself a smaller target, she scanned for a threat.

It wasn’t the kidnapper that Shaw had heard. The slow crackling of branches and a low vibration — a sound unlike any other on Earth — told him exactly who the visitor was.

Thirty feet away, a mountain lion — a big male, one hundred and thirty pounds — stepped into view and looked them over with fastidious eyes.

43

“Oh, man,” LaDonna Standish whispered. She stood straight and reached for her weapon.

“No,” Shaw said.

“We got a protocol in Santa Clara. They’re not endangered. We can shoot.”

“We don’t know if the Gamer’s nearby. Do you really want to tell him where we are?”

She hadn’t thought about this and withdrew her hand. Then said, “It is a fucking mountain lion.”

The creature’s muzzle was red with blood. Was it Henry Thompson’s?

“Look him in the eyes. And stand as tall as you can.”

“This’s as tall as I get,” she whispered.

“Don’t bend over. The more you look four-legged, the more you seem like prey to him.”

“It’s a boy?”

“Male, yeah. And open your jacket.”

“Showing him my weapon’s not going to make him go away, Colter. I’m just saying.”

“Makes you look bigger.”

“I shouldn’t have to be worried about this shit.” She opened the windbreaker slowly and held the zipper ends outward. She resembled one of those young folks Shaw occasionally saw when rock-climbing, wearing wingsuits, leaping into the void and arcing through the air like diving falcons.

He added, “And don’t run. Whatever happens, even if he approaches, don’t run.”

The animal, with perfect muscles and a rich tan coat, sniffed the air. His ears were low — a bad sign — and his long fangs, yellow and bloody and three times the length of his other teeth, were prominently displayed. Another mean growl emanated from his throat.

“What exactly does that purr mean?”

“He’s getting information. He wants to know our story. Are we strong or weak? Are we predators?”

“Who the hell’d mess with him?”

“Bear. Wolves. Humans with guns.”