The Timer Game (30 page)

The wrongs you’ve done come back on you.

Grace made a U-turn into oncoming traffic and gunned the car amid a cacophony of furious fists and horns. There was less traffic going that direction. A battered school bus had pulled into the parking lot, and the last of the day laborers was climbing on board. She pulled to a stop and ran, banging on the bus door as it clanged shut. The driver opened it, the snarl on his lips fading when he realized it wasn’t a day laborer he could bully.

He still made his body look as formidable as possible. “What?”

She ran past him up the steps and searched aisle by aisle until she spotted him. She grabbed his shirt collar and yanked him straight up out of his seat. It was so unexpected that the ball hammer clanged to the floor.

“Who hired you?”

“¿Qué?”
The man’s eyes darted. He was in his early thirties, with a skinny face mottled with patches of adult acne.

“Trabajo. ¿Quién es su jefe?”

The driver had lumbered from his seat. “Lady, are you on or off?”

“Policía,”
she said. Immediately the bus began emptying, men running down the aisle in a crush, fighting to get off. She tightened her grip on the migrant’s collar.

“Thanks, thanks a heap,” the bus driver roared.

“I’ll go after I talk to him, but I have to talk to him.”

The driver glared and stomped off the bus. The men clumped under the shade of a wisteria and watched what she’d do. It was just the two of them now.

“¿Quién?”
she repeated.

“No sé.”
He looked scared and said it halting English, “I look, I want work, no work. Work!” He mimed banging a sign into a fence.
“Viente dólares.”
He pulled a grimy twenty out of his pocket.
“Es para mi familia. Necesitamos a comer.”

And then she did let him go, feeling lousy. He’d spent all day looking for work, and finally had found it at the end of the day, a chance to hammer up a couple of signs along the road and get a measly twenty bucks to feed his family.

“Here. You take,” he said, almost crying as he extended the limp bill.

“No. No, lo siento.”
She meant it; she was sorry.

She left him huddled on the bus, feeling his shame and humiliation and pride and wishing she didn’t have so much at stake. Kindness had been the first casualty in this terrible war.

When she got to her car, the cell phone was ringing. She picked it up, watching through her windshield as the day workers scuttled past her and climbed back on board.

She started driving and clicked it on. “You bastard. Where is she?”

“Mommy?”

Grace slammed on the brakes. She’d ridden a roller coaster once that had later bucked somebody off and killed him, and it was like that, her insides hurtling down a long chute, the velocity knocking her head back, her brain slamming against the skull, the friction rolfing the planes of her face, melting her. She was falling.

The shock made her voice calm, her everyday Mommy voice, loving and matter-of-fact. She clenched the phone, sending all the love she could muster shooting across the phone line. “Katie, Mommy’s so glad to hear you. What do you see?”

“Mommy, where are you?” Her voice was strained, little. “I’m scared.”

“I know, honey. I love you and I’m going to find you, I promise. I’m looking hard for you but you have to help me. Do you know where you are?”

“No.” She started to cry and the sound broke Grace in two.

“Are you far away from home or close?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice trembled, rising.

“It’s okay, honey, it’s okay. You’re doing great. Are there cars around where you are?”

“Uh-huh.” Katie sniffed and Grace could hear her wiping her face.

“How about people? Any people?”

“A lady.”

“What does she look like?”

“I don’t know.” Fretful now, anxious.

“You’re doing fine. What do you see?”

“It’s all black.” Snuffling sound. “An’, an’ it feels like it’s shaking. Moving.”

The bastard. He had her somewhere in darkness with an accomplice.

“Honey, put the phone down, hide it if you can, but don’t hang up, sweetie, just—”

“Mommy!” She screamed. The line went dead.

Grace sat staring blindly out the windshield, panting shallowly through her mouth. Her lips felt numb. She put the car in gear and drove.

The gas station was attached to a curio shop and café. Both bays in the garage had cars up on blocks. Grace saw Jeanne immediately standing at the rear of her blue Taurus rental car, her flaming red hair tied up with a green scarf. She was leaning on her walking stick. She’d parked in front of the café, and Grace pulled in next to her, got out of the car, and burst into tears. “Thank you for flying up, renting a car…”

Jeanne let go of the stick and lurched into Grace’s arms, patting her, smoothing her hair as if she were a child, murmuring over and over, “It’s okay, honey. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Grace blindly accepted a tissue and honked into it, allowing Jeanne to take it from her and lead her to the Taurus.

“There’s some fruit in the car. I didn’t know when you’d last eaten. And something to drink. And my cell. It’s yours as long as you need it.”

“I have to make a call on your phone,” Grace said. “And then we’ll talk.”

Jeanne handed her the keys and Grace slid into the Taurus, feeling the relief that came from knowing she was in a space she was certain hadn’t been bugged. She’d had to be so careful for so long. She called Mac.

“Are you okay?” His voice sounded strained.

“I talked to her, Mac. Not more than five minutes ago.”

“Katie?” His voice was thick with emotion. “Oh, my God.”

A station wagon was pulling up to the self-serve bay and a Marine in uniform was getting out. His wife opened the other side and helped the kids out. Three little girls in matching kitty costumes headed with their mother toward the café as their father started gassing up.

“Okay. This is good news. This is good. She’s still alive. Good. Thank God. Okay. That makes sense. She’s in San Diego then,” he said, thinking out loud.

“How do you know that?”

“My contact at the phone company keyed your cell off that last call. The Spikeman’s using a cloned cell to talk to you. Stolen.”

“He’s got an accomplice.” She told him what Katie had said about a woman.

“My contact’s getting a bead using transformer towers.”

“So Katie’s still in San Diego.” It seemed as far away as the moon.

“They’re on the move. My contact’s tracking them directionally.”

“You’re saying Katie is in a car?”

“Some sort of a vehicle, yeah.”

“Where?”

“Driving into La Jolla on 5. I’ve got somebody at the San Diego/Tijuana border, Grace, monitoring that so at least by car, they can’t take her out of the country.”

“It’s not the police? They’re not involved, right?”

“Someone I worked with,” he repeated. “He’s got the cloned cell on a computer grid so if the Spikeman gets in line to take her over the border, he can do a pretty invasive search.”

“Why can’t he just stop a car now?”

“Doesn’t work that way. It’s not that sophisticated. But at least we know she’s still alive. When you get a call again, we’ll get a better read on what’s happening. Try to keep the line open longer, Grace. That’s the important thing.”

“I won’t be using that phone. Or that car. I’m driving Jeanne’s car into Folsom. That’s what I’m using cut three to cover. Even without it, they can still track that cell, right?”

The station wagon was gassed up now, and the Marine got in and drove it to a parking space before going inside and joining his family.

“You mean, can he see the stolen cell on the screen? Yeah, it’s just not as tight a directional radius as it would be otherwise. Look, don’t worry, they won’t take her by car over the border.” Papers rustled. “You asked me to check out if Eric Bettles is using any immune-suppressant drugs. That doesn’t make any sense, Grace. We both know he doesn’t need them, since it’s a heart built from his own cells.”

“Did you check it out anyway?”

“I did. I felt like an idiot, but I did. He absolutely is not taking any drugs to prevent rejection of his heart. Got it confirmed by his cardiac doc and his pediatric nurse. Plus, he doesn’t have any of the hallmarks of taking the meds. No tremors, weight gain, need to pee constantly, bleeding gums, brittle bones, fragile skin or body hair. He’s good,” he repeated.

“And Hekka?”

“Your notes said it looked like she’d gone back for a second procedure that next night but I can’t confirm that. She might have, I don’t know.”

“You didn’t ask?”

“She’s taken a turn, Grace. She might not make it. Even the surgery’s iffy. It just didn’t seem the right thing—”

“You’re getting ready to tape it.”

“Grace, I’ve been doing
this
. I’ve been a little busy.” His voice was short. “Someday we’re going to have to talk. About what the general said to you in Guatemala. I was meeting someone there, it’s true. But I wasn’t using you as a cover. You have to believe me, Grace.”

“Anything else?”

He made a small sound and when he spoke his voice was even. “The global positioning system triangulates the signal and picks up the audio bugs. That means he can hear you as long as you’re carrying the charts or have them in the car where the second audio bug is.”

“You’re saying somebody doesn’t have to be right next to me to pick up sound.”

“Yeah, you were right about that. Whoever it is, they’re here in San Diego, not where you are. They don’t need to be, to track and hear exactly what you’re doing. Just be careful what you say. As long as you’re in the car he gave you, or within range of the audio bug in the Wingers’ chart, he can hear you. Another thing. I talked to Marcie the way you asked me to.”

“And?”

“Marcie said the case that involved the audio bug embedded in the metal brad of a file, it resulted in a hung jury so the defendant walked. Pretty messy, from the sound of things. The defendant was a researcher at Scripps and got fired, tried to countersue but it was tossed out.”

“Have a name?”

“Cecilia O. Perkins. Ring any bells?”

“Not yet.”

“Grace, the minicam found in Eddie Loud’s shirt lapel came from a shipment that was stolen and ended up in a warehouse in Brazil.”

“Brazil. I’m not tracking.”

“The serial number is part of a series of cameras and editing equipment found in the raid of a child abduction ring. They cybertrack the flow of online child pornography and—”

She sat up straighter. “What are you trying to tell me?”

“I’ve been working this story undercover for almost six months.”

“What are you telling me?”

“Thailand. Brazil. The Philippines. They steal children, Grace. And use them—”

“What are you telling me?”

He exhaled. “I promise you.” His voice was heavy. “Grace, I promise.”

A panicky fear surged up her body and she felt her skin wash in sweat. Katie was alive, and with every primitive cell in her body she needed to get back to San Diego, to save her.

“Get me home, Mac. I want to come home.”

“Where are you?”

“Less than an hour out of Folsom. The Spikeman expects me to drive home but there’s no time. I don’t think I’d even get home if I started now, and I’m meeting a warden at Folsom who’s going to tell me about the wrapping paper that covered that bloody doll, maybe give me a lead on who this guy is. But then, oh, God, Mac, you just have to help me get home.”

“That’s not too far from Mather Field,” Mac said. “When can you be ready?”

Grace peered out the window at Jeanne, leaning heavily on her stick. She did the mental calculations. “A little before nine.”

“Mather Field. Got that? I’ll have somebody there. Ask for Jeb Shattuck. Okay?”

“Jeb Shattuck,” she repeated.

“And if I can’t get Jeb, ask for him anyway, and they’ll direct you to whoever’s waiting. Check in at the FBO desk.”

“Got it. Thanks. Is that it?”

He hesitated. “I got a phone call,” Mac said. “Nobody I knew. Just a voice, a woman on my cell, telling me she knew about Katie, and if I called in the cops or the FBI, they’d kill her.”

Grace was having trouble taking a breath. “They know about you? How do they know about you?”

“I don’t know. But I do believe they mean what they say, Grace. Be careful when you’re inside Folsom. What you say. Who you say it to.”

She clicked off slowly. She called Marcie and got her voice mail, and she left Jeanne’s cell number as a callback. She got out of Jeanne’s car. Fifteen minutes had passed. On the timer, Katie’s pigtails had vanished up to her chin. Jeanne waited on an iron bench in front of the café.

“You okay?”

“Oh, Jeanne.” Grace knew she didn’t expect an answer.

Jeanne reached over and gave her knee a brisk squeeze. “What do you need me to do?”

Grace pulled out a yellow legal sheet covered in writing.

“I’ve written everything down but let’s go over it, too. I’m not sure you can read this.”

Jeanne put on her glasses and studied the page. “Okay. In five minutes, I get into your rental and start to drive.”

“Right. The first thing you do when you go to the car, turn off the cell phone the Spikeman gave me. He made me leave mine in a post office parking lot and gave me this one to carry. He doesn’t like it if the cell rings and I don’t pick up, so turn it off.”

Jeanne nodded and glanced at her watch. “At five o’clock exactly I get in the car, turn off your cell and drive. Any particular place?”

“As if I was starting back to San Diego, heading toward the freeway but don’t get on it. This is the tricky part. You get in the car, get settled, at five-oh-six you press
Play.
The Sony’s cued to cut three. You’ll hear the sound of a tire exploding. You must immediately turn the car around and come back slowly, weaving if you can. Park as near to the mechanic’s bay as possible. You leave the charts and cell phone on the seat, along with the Sony, get out, and slam the door closed. Go into the café and wait for me. We’ll be in a hurry when I come back.”