The Never Game

She’d certainly come on to him, charming and flirtatious, called him to congratulate him on saving Sophie and invite him to the conference. To work her way into his life.

He reflected: the two victims had been taken by surprise, slammed to the ground and injected with the drug, then dragged to a car. Maddie was strong enough for that — he knew this for a fact from their time in bed a few hours ago. He thought of the ruthlessness he’d seen on her face when they’d played Immersion in the Hong-Sung booth. Her wolf eyes, triumphant in the act of killing him. And as a hunter, she’d know firearms.

This hypothesis he put at twenty-five percent.

That number didn’t last long. It rose to thirty, then more, when he thought of a motive. He’d recalled her scars and how she’d tried to hide them from him. Was this from modesty or because she didn’t want Shaw to suspect who she really was?

The high school girl kidnapped eight years ago by those teens who’d grown obsessed with The Whispering Man and tried to kill her. The news stories hadn’t said how. It was possible they’d used knives — another of the Whispering Man’s weapons.

Perhaps Maddie had come here to destroy the company that had published the game, drive it out of business. Of course, she wouldn’t have known what Tony Knight had told him: that the attack had had no effect on sales.

He went online and searched for the earlier incident once more; the first time had been a cursory examination. There were many references to the crime. Because the girl was then seventeen, though, her name and photo had been redacted. He doubted that even Mack could get juvie reports. LaDonna Standish could, of course, and he’d have to tell her as soon as possible.

Shaw told himself to slow down.

Thirty-five percent isn’t one hundred.

Never move faster than the facts...

He’d spent time with Maddie — in and out of bed. She simply didn’t seem to be a murderer.

Then, scanning one article, Shaw learned that the teenager — Jane Doe — had suffered serious PTSD as a result of the attack. There’d been breaks with reality, a condition Shaw was more than familiar with thanks to his father. She’d been committed to a mental hospital. Maybe Maddie decided that the victims, Sophie Mulliner and Henry Thompson, were no more than avatars, easily sacrificed on her mission to destroy the Whispering Man himself, Marty Avon.

He swiped her mouse and the screen saver vanished. The password window came up. Shaw didn’t bother to try. He rose and conducted a fast search of the house, looking for the gun, bloody knives, any maps or references to the locations where the victims had been taken. None. Maddie was smart. She’d have them hidden somewhere nearby.

If she was the perp.

Now the number edged up to sixty percent. Because Shaw was in Maddie’s bathroom and looking at the bottles of opioid painkillers. Possibly the sort that had been used to knock out the Whispering Man’s victims. Forensics would tell. He took a picture of the labels with his phone.

Just as he was slipping his phone away, it hummed.

Standish.

He answered and said, “I was about to call you.”

Silence. But only for a brief moment. “Shaw, where are you?”

He paused. “Out. I’m not at my camper.”

“I know. I’m standing next to it. There’s been a shooting. Could you get over here as soon as possible?”

51

A full-fledged crime scene.

Shaw accelerated fast along Google Way within the Westwinds RV park, aiming for the yellow tape, noting two uniformed officers turning toward him. One lowered her hand toward her service weapon. Braking, he kept his hands on the steering wheel, statue-still, until Standish called to the cops nearby, “His camper. It’s okay.”

The JMCTF forensic van was parked within the yellow tape and robed and masked technicians were paying attention to the wall of a small shower/restroom in the middle of the park. They were digging at a black dot — extracting a slug, he guessed. Others were packing up evidence bags, concluding the search.

One uniform was rolling up the yellow tape. No press, Shaw noted. Maybe a shot or two didn’t warrant a cam crew. Residents of the park, though, were present, standing well back from the scene as instructed.

The detective, in her ubiquitous combat jacket and cargo pants, gestured him to where she stood by the door to the Winnebago. She was wearing latex gloves.

“Camper and the ground here’ve been released. They’re still mining for slugs.” A nod to the restrooms and tree. Shaw noticed that another team of gowned officers was at a maple, cutting into the trunk with a wicked-looking saw. How had they found the slug there? Metal detectors, he supposed. Or a really sharp eye.