“It’s a hypothesis,” Shaw corrected. “A theory is a hypothesis that’s been verified.”
Standish glanced at him, then turned back to the screen. “I don’t know, Mr. Shaw. Most crime’s simple. This’s complicated.”
“It’s happened before. With the same game.” He handed Standish another sheet, an article from a Dayton newspaper. “Eight years ago, two boys in high school got obsessed with the game.”
“This game? The Whispering Man?”
“Right. They played it in real life and kidnapped a girl classmate. A seventeen-year-old. They hid her in a barn, tied up. She was badly injured trying to escape. Then they decided they’d better kill her. They tried to but she got away. One of the boys went to a mental hospital, the other was sentenced to twenty-five years in prison.”
This got her attention. She asked, “And are they...?”
“They’re both still in the system.”
She looked at the printouts and folded them.
“Worth looking into. ’Preciate it. And I appreciate what you did for Sophie Mulliner, Mr. Shaw. You saved her life. Dan Wiley didn’t. I didn’t. My experience is, though, that civilians can... muddy an investigation. So, with all respect, I’ll ask you to fire up this nifty camper of yours and get on with that visit to your mother. Or see the sequoias, see Yosemite. Go anywhere else you want. As long as it isn’t here.”
32
Colter Shaw was not on his way to the Compound to see his mother, nor en route to marvel at millennia-old trees nor planning a climb up towering El Capitan in Yosemite.
Nor anywhere else.
He was still smack in the middle of Silicon Valley — at the Quick Byte Café, to be specific. He was sipping coffee that was perfectly fine, though it didn’t approach the Salvadoran beans from Potrero Grande, wherever that was.
He glanced at the bulletin board; the picture of Sophie he had pinned up yesterday was still there. Shaw wondered if that was because of the video camera now aimed at the board. He returned to yet more printouts — material that private eye Mack had just sent him in response to his request. He looked for Tiffany to thank her for the help, but she and her daughter were not in at the moment.
A woman’s sultry voice from nearby: “I rarely get calls from men after I kill them. I’m glad you don’t wear grudges, son.”
Maddie Poole was approaching. Her pretty, appealing face, sprinkled with those charming freckles, was smiling. She dropped into the chair opposite him. The green eyes sparkled.
Son...
Shaw thought of Dan Wiley’s reference to him as “Chief” and reflected that one’s tolerance for endearments depends largely on the person doing the endearing.
“Get you something?” he asked.
She glanced at a neighboring table. Two young men in baggy sweats and jackets were sitting with Red Bulls and coffees. They were bleary-eyed. Shaw remembered that this was a hub of the computing and gaming world. The hour — 10:30 a.m. — was probably savagely early for them. Maddie’s eyes too were red-rimmed. “That,” Maddie said. “RB and coffee. Not mixed together, of course. That would be strange. And no milk or anything that might upset the caffeine. Oh, and something sweet maybe? You mind?”
“Not a worry.”
“You like sweet stuff, Colt?”
“No.”
“Pity poor.”
At the counter he perused the pastries, under plastic domes. He called, “Cinnamon roll?”
“You read my mind.”
These choices didn’t require a numbered card. The kid heated the half-pound roll, dripping with icing, for thirty seconds, then placed it and the beverages on a tray. A second cup of coffee for Shaw too.
He carried the tray to the table.
Maddie thanked him and drank down the entire Red Bull and took a fast slug of coffee. The giddiness vanished. “Look. Yesterday — at the Hong-Sung game, Immersion? It’s hard to explain. The thing is, I get sort of possessed when I play. Any game. I can’t control myself. Or sports. I used to downhill-ski, and race mountain bikes too. You ever race?”
“Motocross. AMA. Too much work to pedal. I’ve got a gas engine.”
“Then maybe you know: you just have to win. No other option.”
He did know. No further explanation necessary.
“Thanks,” she said. Now the tense, troubled mood was jettisoned. “Sure you don’t want a bite?”
“No.”
She tore off a hunk of the excessive roll with a fork. It sped to her mouth and, as she chewed, she closed her eyes and exhaled extravagantly.
“Do I look like a commercial? Those restaurant ads where somebody takes a bite of steak or shrimp and they get all orgasmic.”
Shaw didn’t see many commercials. And he’d definitely seen no commercials like that.
“You’ve been back to the conference?” he asked.
“I go back and forth. There, then my rental, where my rig’s set up. GrindrGirl’s gotta make a living.” She took another bite and on its heels another slug of coffee. “Sugar rush. I’ve never done coke. No need when you’ve got icing. You agree?”
Was she asking about his interest in drugs? He had none, never had. Other than the occasional painkiller when there was a need. This was a question on the road to Relationship. Now was not the time.
“There’s been another kidnapping.”
Her fork went to the plate. The smile vanished. “Shit. By the same guy?”
“Probably.”
“Have they found this victim?”
“No. He’s still missing.”
“He? So it’s not a pervert?” Maddie asked.
“Nobody knows.”
“There a reward again?”
“No, I’m just helping the police. And I could use some help from you.”
“Nancy Drew.”
“Who?”
“You have a sister, Colt?”
“Three years younger.”
“She didn’t read Nancy Drew?”
“A kid’s book?”
“A series, yeah. Girl detective.”
“I don’t think so.” The Shaw children had read a great deal yet children’s fiction was not to be found in the substantial library in the cabin at the Compound.
“I read them all growing up... We’ll save the date talk for another time... You don’t smile much, do you?”
“No, but I don’t mind date talk.”
She liked that. “Ask away.”
“The kidnapper might’ve based the crimes on a video game. The Whispering Man. Do you know it?”
Another bite of roll. She chewed, thoughtful. “Heard of it. Been around for a long time.”
“You ever played it?”
“No. It’s an action-adventure. NMS.” She noted his blank reaction. “Sorry. ‘Not my style.’ I’m a first-person shooter, remember? I think the gameplay for that one is you’re trapped somewhere and you have to escape. Something like that. It’s the Survival subcategory of action-adventures. You think some psycho dude’s acting out the game in real life for kicks?”
“One possibility. He’s smart, calculating, plans everything out ahead of time. He knows forensics and how not to leave evidence. My mother’s a psychiatrist. I’ve talked to her about some of the jobs I’ve worked. She told me that sociopaths — serial killers — are very rare and even the organized ones aren’t usually this organized. Sure, he could be one. I’m guessing that’s only a ten percent option. Somebody this smart might be acting crazy, to cover up what he’s really doing.”
“Which is what?”
Shaw sipped coffee. “Not many ideas there. One possibility? Drive the manufacturer of The Whispering Man out of business.”