The Never Game

Say good-bye to the life you’ve known,
to your friends and lovers and family home.
Run and hide as best you can.
There’s no escaping the Whispering Man.
Now, die with dignity...

The Gamer was simply following the storyline as written. He’d returned to the scene of Sophie Mulliner’s captivity to pursue her. He’d done the same here. He’d left Henry Thompson alone for a time, let him build the signal fire — the way he’d given Sophie a chance to escape. Then it was time to return and finish the game.

Standish said nothing but walked along the rocky ground to the clutch of tactical officers who’d joined them here. Shaw sat on a rocky ledge. He received a text from Maddie Poole.

So, you de-looped me?? Is Knight in jail? Are you still alive?

Shaw’s inclination was not to reply. But he did, texting that he was with the police. He’d be in touch.

The forensic officers weren’t here yet. There was no such thing as a Crime Scene Unit helicopter, so the vans would be driving up the logging trail the long way around to avoid contaminating the shorter way to the highway on the assumption that the kidnapper had taken that route. Yet finding helpful tire tracks seemed an impossible task; the trail was largely covered with a thick carpet of leaves and where it was bare it was baked dry. Why would the Gamer turn careless now?

Standish and the tactical officers were staying clear of the immediate scenes — here and in the nest of pine needles where the Gamer had originally left Thompson. They were visually perusing the site and gauging where the kidnapper might have stalked Thompson. Everyone was a pro now; whatever resentments lingered, they weren’t interfering with the mission of solving this crime to prevent others.

“This boy’s enjoying himself,” one of the officers muttered grimly. “He ain’t going to stop.”

A SWAT cop suggested Shaw go back to the chopper, not wanting a civilian on the scene. But Standish pointed out that he wasn’t armed and that there was at least one hostile in the vicinity — the mountain lion. It also wasn’t absolutely certain that the killer was gone. There was some logic to this, though scant; a tac cop, armed for big game, could have accompanied him. Shaw sensed that Standish wanted him here, perhaps to offer insights. Unfortunately, at the moment, he had none.

He gazed down at Thompson’s body. There was no blessing in it but at least the man had died quickly, not thanks to the ripping teeth and claws of a wild animal. The shot was to his forehead. Thompson would have returned from setting the fire and made his way back to the nest, for the beef jerky and to rest, awaiting rescue. There, the Gamer would have been waiting. Thompson would have run. His bare feet would have slowed his escape.

Shaw stepped away from the crime scene and walked farther along the stone ridge. He stopped a few feet from the edge. Eyeing the rock face, he noted that it would be a good climb. Lots of cracks and outcroppings. Challenging, with its nearly ninety-degree surfaces, but doable. An overhang that would take quite some strategy to surmount.

Looking down, he didn’t plot out, as usual, a route to the bottom.

Nor did he think about poor Henry Thompson.

No, seeing the cliff and the creek bed below, he thought of one thing only.

Echo Ridge.

45

Colter’s eyes instantly open when the cabin floor creaks.

He sometimes thinks his father has taught him to sleep light, though that doesn’t seem possible. Must’ve been born with the skill.

The sixteen-year-old’s hand dips to the box beneath the bed where his revolver rests. Hand around the grip. Thumb on the trigger to cock it to single action.

Then he sees his mother’s silhouette. Mary Dove Shaw, a lean woman, hair always braided, standing in his doorway. No religion in the Shaw household. When he’s older, Colter will come to think of his mother in saintly terms, a woman taking comfort in her husband’s good moments and sheltering her children from the bad. Protecting Ashton for himself too.

Her nature was clothed in kindness. Underneath was iron.

“Colter. Ash is missing. I need you.”

Everyone awakes early on the Compound, but this hour is closer to night. Not quite 5 a.m. That it’s his mother in the doorway doesn’t stay his hand from touching the cold steel and rough grip of the .357 Python. Intruders?

Then, swimming closer to wakefulness, he sees in her face concern, not alarm. He rises, leaving the weapon under the bed.

“Ash went out after I fell asleep, about ten. He hasn’t come back. The Benelli’s gone.”

His father’s favorite shotgun.

Camping and expeditions in the Compound are always planned and, in any event, there is no reason for Ashton to go out at that hour, much less to stay out all night.