The Never Game. Jeffery Deaver

had a gun on him.

      “You can lower your arms.”

      He did so. Slowly.

      “Did you see that car parked on the ridge?”

      “What ridge?”

      Shaw pointed to the access road.

      “No, man. I didn’t. Really.”

      Shaw looked him over, recalling: surfer dude. The boy had frothy blond hair, a navy-blue T-shirt under the black hoodie, black nylon workout pants. A handsome young man, though his eyes were a bit blank.

      “Did Frank Mulliner tell you I was here?”

      Another pause. What to say, what not to say? Finally: “Yeah. I called him after I got your message. He said you said you found her phone in the park.”

      The excess of verbs in the last sentence explained a lot to Shaw. So, the lovesick boy had conjured up the idea that Shaw had kidnapped his former girlfriend to get the reward. He remembered that Butler’s job was bolting big speakers into Subarus and Civics and his passion was riding a piece of waxed wood on rollicking water. Shaw decided that the percentage likelihood of Kyle Butler being the kidnapper had dropped to nil.

      But there was that related hypothesis. “Was Sophie ever with you when you scored weed, or coke, or whatever you do?”

      “What’re you talking about?”

      First things first.

      “Kyle, does it make sense that I’d kidnap somebody hoping her father would post a reward? Wouldn’t I just ask for a ransom?”

      He looked away. “I guess. Okay, man.”

      The sound of the motorbikes rose and fell, buzz-sawing in the distance.

      Butler continued: “I’m just … It’s all I can think about: Where is she? What’s happening to her? Will I ever see her again?” His voice choked.

      “At any time was she with you when you scored?”

      “I don’t know. Maybe. Why?”

      He explained that a dealer might have been concerned that Sophie was a witness who could identify him.

      “Oh God, no. The dudes I buy from? They’re not players. Just, like, students or board heads. You know, surfers. Not bangers from East Palo or Oakland.”

      This seemed credible.

      Shaw asked, “You have any idea who might’ve taken her? Her dad didn’t think she had any stalkers.”

      “No …” The young man’s voice faded. His head was down, slowly shaking now. Shaw saw a glistening in his eyes. “It’s all my fault. Fuck.”

      “Your fault?”

      “Yeah, man. See, Wednesdays we always did things together. They were like our weekend, ’cause I had to work Saturday and Sunday. I’d go out and new-school—you know, trick surf at Half Moon or Maverick. Then I’d pick her up and we’d hang with friends or do dinner, a movie. If I hadn’t … If I hadn’t fucked up so bad, that’s what we would’ve done last Wednesday. And this never would’ve happened. All the weed. I got mean, I was a son of a bitch. I didn’t want to; it just happened. She’d had enough. She didn’t want to be with a loser.” He wiped his face angrily. “But I’m clean. Thirty-four days. And I’m switching majors. Engineering. Computers.”

      So Kyle Butler was the knight coming to San Miguel Park with a BB gun to confront the dragon and rescue the damsel. He’d win her back.

      Shaw looked toward the shoulder of Tamyen Road. Still no cops. He called the Task Force. Wiley was out. Standish was out.

      “Find me a bag,” Shaw said to Butler.

      “Bag?”

      “Paper, plastic, anything. Look on the shoulder. I’ll look here.”

      Butler climbed the hill to Tamyen Road and Shaw walked the trails, hoping for a trash can. He found none. Then he heard: “Got one!” Butler trotted down the hill. “By the side of the road.” He held up the white bag. “From Walgreens. Is that okay?”

      Colter Shaw was a man who smiled rarely. This drew a faint grin. “Perfect.”

      Sticking to the grass once more, he walked to the bloodstained rock and picked it up with the bag.

      “What’re you going to do with it?”

      “Find a private lab to do a DNA test—I’m sure it’s Sophie’s blood.”

      “Oh, Jesus.”

      “No, it’s just from a scrape. Nothing serious.”

      “Why’re you doing that? Because the cops aren’t?”

      “That’s right.”

      Butler’s eyes flashed wide. “Yo, man, let’s look for her together! If the cops aren’t doing shit.”

      “It’s a good idea. But I need your help first.”

      “Yeah, man. Anything.”

      “Her father’s on his way home from work.”

      “His weekend job’s over in the East Bay.” Butler’s face showed pity. “Two hours each way. Got another job during the week. And he still couldn’t afford to keep their house, you know?”

      “When he gets back, I need you to find out something.”

      “Sure.”

      “Sorry, Kyle. Might be kind of tough. I need to find out if she’s been dating anybody. Go through her room, talk to friends.”

      “You think that’s who it is?”

      “I don’t know. We have to look at every possibility.”

      Butler gave a wan smile. “Sure. I’ll do it. It’s just a stupid dream I had anyway, us getting back together. It’s not going to happen.” The young man turned and started up the hill. Then he stopped and returned. He shook Shaw’s hand. “I’m sorry, man. I didn’t mean to go all Narcos on you. You know?”

      “Not a worry.”

      He watched Butler hike back toward the far entrance.

      On his mission.

      His futile mission.

      From his interview with her father and examination of her room, Shaw didn’t believe that Sophie was seeing anyone, not seriously, much less anyone who might have kidnapped her. But it was important for the poor kid to be elsewhere when Shaw discovered what he was now sure he’d find: Sophie Mulliner’s body.

       15.

      Shaw was driving along winding Tamyen Road, having left San Miguel Park behind.

      A serial kidnapper stashing his victims in a dungeon for any length of time wasn’t an impossible likelihood. It did seem rare enough, though, that he focused on a more realistic fate: that Sophie’d been the victim of a sexual sociopath. In Shaw’s experience, the majority of rapists might be serial actors, but almost always with multiple victims. The rapist’s inclination was to kill and move on.

      This meant Sophie’s corpse lay somewhere nearby. X was clearly not stupid—the tracker on her bike, the obscuring clothing, the selection of a good attack zone. He wouldn’t drive any distance with a body in his trunk. There might be an accident or traffic violation or a checkpoint. He’d do what he wanted, near San Miguel Park, and flee. In this southwest portion of San Francisco Bay were acres and acres of wet, sandy earth soft enough to dig a quick, shallow grave. But the area was open, with good visibility for hundreds and hundreds of yards; X would want his privacy.

      Shaw