Sara's Game (6 page)

It was almost childish.  Whiny.  Infantile.  Just like Teddy.  Sara said, “Tell me what to do.”

“Oh, goodie.  This will be fun.  Here is your objective for the first level, Humiliation.  I’ll admit that it’s the easiest, but aren’t all first levels?  I don’t want to break you before you get started.  Now, you must strip where you stand.  Remove every last bit of clothing.  Walk to the center of the Shakespeare Garden and stand perfectly still for five minutes.  No matter who approaches, you must not speak to them.  In that time, you must solve this riddle, which will lead you to your next destination.  The riddle is this:
The scarlet trusses contain the key where East meets West
.  Take the phone with you.  I’ll call when your five minutes are up.”

The call disconnected, and the voice was gone.  Sara had never felt such rage against another human being.  She felt like screaming at the sky and smashing the phone under her heel.  She felt like tearing down the brick wall with her bare hands.  She felt like ripping the head off each rose one by one, crushing their beauty within her fists.

She was under surveillance, however, and destroying the world around her wasn’t an option.

Humiliation.
 
For the kids, for the kids, for the kids.  Okay.  Okay, I can do this.  I can do this. 

She recited the riddle slowly.
 
“The scarlet trusses contain the key where East Meets West.”

Okay, figure it out later.  They’re watching.  Five minutes.  What’s the worst that could happen?  I get taken down by park security?  Do they have security here?  They could call the cops on me.  Then what?  Stop analyzing!  You don’t have time for this!

Sara took a look around her.  Some of the browsers had moved on.  Some were gawking at the flowers.  Others had been replaced with a new gaggle of tourists.

Do it, do it, do it.  You don’t have a choice.

She reached up and unbuttoned her blouse.  Her fingers that were once quick and nimble from a decade of clicking away on a game controller were now fumbling and clumsy.  The buttons resisted escaping their slots and she grew so impatient that she ripped her shirt open and sent the last two flying into the grass.  She slipped off her flats, and then took another look.  No one was watching, but they would be soon enough.  She took off her pants, then her bra and panties.

The warmth of the sun did nothing to save her from full-body gooseflesh as a cool breeze rushed past.  She tried to cover herself, but it was about as effective as using a necktie for a blanket.  One arm crossed her breasts, the other went down to the spot between her thighs.

She wasn’t sure how much time had passed since the call had ended, but she was certain that it hadn’t counted toward her five minutes.

Move, Sara.  Go.  Go now.  Do it!

She stepped out onto the walkway, naked, and in no way free.

***

Sara tiptoed over to the center of the Shakespeare Garden and stopped in the middle of the path.  The men close by began to sense that something was amiss, heads swiveling in her direction.  Furtive glances crawled over her skin, violating and scrutinizing her body, getting a good look at the birthmark on her left thigh, the dimple on her right butt cheek, the ever so slight pudginess of her middle that would never go away, no matter how much she ran.  She felt like she was being judged.  Critiqued over every tiny flaw like livestock at an auction. 

At least until their wives or girlfriends noticed her, too, and began urging them to look away or move on.  One man tripped and fell over his dog.  A woman scolded her from a distance, yelling at her to put some clothes on.

If you only knew, lady
.

The only eyes that had seen her naked body in the past two years had been her own.  And before that, before the twins came along, she and Brian had taken one adventurous trip down to the Cougar Reservoir where they had skinny-dipped in the hot springs that were buried amongst the waterfalls and evergreens.  That was different.  That was intentional.  And it didn’t matter so much, because everyone else lounged around naked, too, burning incense and warming themselves in the man-made pools.

But this—this was pure, unadulterated
humiliation
.

They must think I escaped from an asylum. 
 
What did I ever do to you, Teddy, to deserve this?

Sara felt the hot bricks burning the soles of her feet and shifted to remove a piece of gravel digging into her skin.  How much time had passed?  How much longer did she have to wait?  Thirty seconds?  A minute?  She wondered how long it would take someone to locate an employee and tell him about the nude crackhead over by Shakespeare.

A couple of minutes tops, then another couple of minutes to call the police.  I can get through this.  Quit glaring at me, asshole.  Take a damn picture.  Lady, I
know
I need to put some clothes on!  Stop yelling.  You’re going to attract more attention!  Seriously, I will punch you in your fat hamburger face if you get close enough.

A younger guy wearing a bandana, showing off tattooed arms that stuck out of his basketball jersey, turned to see what the commotion was about.  “Woohoo!” he shouted, and then his girlfriend slapped his shoulder.

If humiliation is the easiest level, I don’t want to know what the rest of this game is going to be like.  Game.  Game.  Damn it, the riddle!  What was it again?  Scarlet trusses.  The key.  East meets West.  Trusses.  Okay, some kind of bridge.  Right?  A bridge?  Is there a scarlet bridge around here?  It has to be somewhere close, somewhere here in Portland.

Sara ran down the list of bridges that crossed the Willamette River.  The Fremont.  The Hawthorne.  The Steel Bridge and the Morrison.  Broadway and Burnside.

Scarlet.  Scarlet is red.  Are any of those bridges red?  The Broadway Bridge is kind of red...could that be it?  Yeah, but it wouldn’t be that easy.  He specifically said scarlet.  What does scarlet have to do with any of the bridges?

Sara thought.  And thought.  And shifted her weight from one foot to the other as people glared and stared at her body.  It was difficult to concentrate with all the turmoil going on around her.  People would enter the Shakespeare Garden and pause long enough to take in the spectacle and either stand with their arms crossed and watch or rush away, covering their children’s eyes.

At least you have your kids with you.  You’d do the same thing.  Ugh, how much time do I have left?  Two minutes?  Three? 

A man walked up to her and stopped no more than four feet away.  He smiled, and then clapped five beats.  He put his hands on his hips and looked down.  Sara could feel him examining her feet, looking at her chipped toenail polish.  Regardless of the fact that she was completely naked, she was embarrassed by the neon pink color she had chosen over a month ago.  Such a small decision to do something
fun
had resulted in a sense of self-consciousness that momentarily outweighed her nudity, even in such a public place.

I know, I know.  I haven’t had time to get them fixed.  Now get away from me.  I need to concentrate.  Please.  Please leave.

His gaze worked his way up her legs, over her covered crotch, across her tummy and breasts, then he looked her in the eyes.  Sara didn’t know whether or not he could sense her pain and unease, but his words brought on an odd sense of muted comfort.  In a deep, southern drawl, he said, “I don’t know what you’re doing, lady, if you’re plumb crazy or brave as hell, but we need more people like you in this world.  This takes some balls.  Bigger than mine, that’s for sure.” 

He walked away.

Sara watched him go, wanted to beg him not to leave. 

Crazy
and
brave.  And I’d give you a million bucks just to be wearing your baseball cap right now.  What’s that on the back of your hat?  Is that an ‘A’?  Who is that?  Atlanta?  A big red ‘A,’ just like the scarlet letter.  How appropriate would that be?  Shame.  Humiliation.  I hated The Scarlet Letter.  What Hawthorne put that poor woman through—oh my God. 

The Scarlet Letter.  Nathaniel Hawthorne.  The Hawthorne Bridge. 

Wait, the bridge is green, but the railing is red.  And the Hawthorne Bridge was named after some doctor...doesn’t matter.  That
has
to be it.  It’s too much of a coincidence.  The humiliation factor.  Scarlet.  That’s what he had in mind.  The scarlet trusses contain the key where East meets West.  The key he was talking about has to be in the middle, where the bridge is raised.  Where East meets West.

She was so relieved she would’ve clapped too if it wouldn’t have revealed her more intimate parts.

Now I just have to make it through the rest of the five minutes—

“Ma’am?  Ma’am?!” 

Sara saw a woman, a park employee carrying a walkie-talkie, striding toward her, stomping so hard she could’ve left footprints in the bricks.

Here we go
. 
That didn’t take long.  Jesus, what’ll happen to the kids if I’m in jail?

Lacey, Callie, and Jacob, hidden away somewhere, suffering at the hands of a madman.  Begging for their mother.  Wrists bound with rough rope on little arms.  What would happen to them?  What would he do to them if she got arrested, if she weren’t able to finish the game?  Surely Teddy had planned for something like this, had contingencies set up in case something went wrong.  The game was his, and he wanted it played.  It wouldn’t be any fun if it was over before it started.

Twenty feet away, the park employee said, “I’m gonna have to ask you—”

The phone rang in Sara’s hand.  She flipped it open, held it up to her ear.

The voice said, “My contact tells me you’re about to get in trouble.  Laugh.  Apologize.  Tell her you lost a bet.  Stay on the line.”

Sara did as she was told.  Forced a laugh and apologized to the approaching employee.  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to cause a scene.  I lost a bet.”

“Leave.  Now.” 

The woman reached for Sara’s arm, but she twisted away and said, “I’m going, don’t worry,” and then dashed down the walkway toward her clothes.  Into the phone, she said, “Okay, I’m clear.”

“I heard.  And I enjoyed that very much, Sara.  You played well.  Good game.”

“Are the kids okay?”

“
Tsk, tsk, tsk
, Sara.  Only one question per round.  But I will let this one slide.  It’s a natural reaction, of course.”

Sara approached the spot where she had taken off her work clothes, but instead, they had been replaced by a running outfit. 
Her
running clothes and
her
running shoes.

He’s been inside my house.  How did he get past all the alarms?

The ultra-expensive security system had been installed after Brian’s disappearance, in case whoever had taken him wasn’t satisfied with just a single Winthrop in their collection.  Aside from her and the children, who never remembered it anyway, the only other two people that she trusted with the code were Miss Willow and Shelley, who were allowed to drop by for extra sets of clothes for the kids or to pick up things she needed for the office.

Did you torture one of them to get the code, Teddy?  Make them play your stupid game, too?

Sara couldn’t imagine what it would’ve taken for one of her two closest confidantes to reveal that secret.

Shelley was fine this morning.  Oh no, Willow! 

The voice asked, “Did you solve the riddle?”

“Yes.  The Hawthorne Bridge.  In the center.  Where East meets West.”

“I knew you could do it.  See?  I told you this level would be easy.  In front of you are your running clothes.  You have forty-five minutes to reach your destination.  When you find the key, the first level will be complete.  Keep the phone.  Await further instructions.”

Sara dressed. 

And then she ran.

CHAPTER 7

DJ

Detective Johnson, DJ, sat hunched over his desk, reading through Brian Winthrop’s file.  He tried to tune out the noise around him and focus, but the rustling papers and ringing phones and near constant foot traffic between the desks hindered his attempts at complete attention.  He lifted his coffee cup and swallowed the last dregs of oil refinery leftovers.

Barker, a.k.a.
Bloodhound
, peered at him from over the top of his bifocals.  “You could peel paint with that stuff, JonJon.  Imagine what it’s doing to your insides.”

DJ looked up from the file.  “Again?”

“Again what?”

“Again with the JonJon.”

“It’s your fault, cowboy.  I don’t know what life’s like down yonder in Texas, but ‘round these here parts, you don’t offer a man the noose that’s gonna hang you.”

“You need to work on that accent.  A real Texan would whip your ass just for trying.”

“You’re saying you’re not a real Texan?”

DJ shook his head and grinned.  Similar exchanges happened at least once a day, and he’d taken the ribbing as a sign that Barker was warming up to him five years later.  Up until about six months ago, the most that could be said about their relationship was ‘same car, same job.’  But once DJ had solved a case that had perplexed even the great and mighty Bloodhound, a microscopic seam had opened in the older detective’s armor.  They weren’t friends, yet, but at least DJ got to see what respect looked like when viewed through a pair of binoculars.

And in truth, ‘respect’ wasn’t the right word.  He felt like he deserved it, but the way Barker treated him suggested he’d yet to earn it.  Not from Barker, not from the other detectives.  One day, though, they’d be looking up to him.  One day.

Their three-hour window had closed thirty minutes earlier.  Barker had insisted that they return to the office and review the missing husband’s file because his instinct said that Brian Winthrop was the catalyst.  DJ had complied without question, partly out of deference to the senior detective, and partly because he’d witnessed the accuracy of Barker’s initial reactions so many times that he knew that it was as reliable as the sun rising.