“Well, that’s a relief.” She could hear the grin in his voice. “Not very often I get calls like this.”
“I know. But I thought, if we do see him, we could call you and not have to explain it all then. You could respond right away.”
“Yeah, I got you. Okay, Lace. What’s the name of the video place?”
“It’s Night Train, just a few blocks from the school.”
“Night Train. Okay, got it. So you’ll let me know?”
“Sure. If we see anything at all, we’ll call you.”
“Okay. I know you will, but just… be careful, okay?”
“Oh, yeah. You can count on that.”
“All right. I’ll talk to you later. And Lace?”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks.”
She grinned. “You’re welcome.”
~~~
TWELVE
Wednesday morning, Sam went to his studio to set up while Lacey worked at home. In the last several weeks, she’d gotten used to having him around, so now losing him to his new project was going to seem odd again. But she knew how much he was going to enjoy this.
In between background checks, she looked at Bret Russell’s Facebook page. Nothing new there; at least no new threats to Daniel or anyone else. He seemed to be using the bulk of his suspension time improving his video game skills.
One other thing she wanted to do was see a picture of Theodora. Since she was the only one in the family that couldn’t sense the artist, she wanted to see what she was missing. She did a search on images of the woman, and got quite a few.
Tall and voluptuous, with waist-length curly red hair, she looked the part of a bohemian groundbreaker. She certainly looked at home in her body, Lacey thought. There were a couple pictures of Theodora that looked like boudoir shots: lounging on a divan with a deep blue satin sheet draped around her; another portrait shot from the waist up with only her long hair covering her breasts. Lacey felt sure the woman had given many good churchgoing people fits, especially during the more conservative decades before World War II.
For the first time, Lacey thought it was a good thing Theodora was dead. She wouldn’t put it past the woman to seduce Sam, or even Daniel. In this case, dead was good.
Sam didn’t come home until early afternoon again.
“We got anything to eat?” he asked, head in the fridge.
“I’m going to have to start packing you a lunch,” Lacey muttered.
“I got it.” He pulled out a piece of leftover pizza and a banana.
“Yum,” Lacey said. “Get a lot done?”
He nodded, mouth full of cold pizza. “Got my cleaning station set up so all the clay doesn’t go down the drain. Also started my first coil pot.”
“Oh, yeah?” She grinned at him. “Fun. How’s it look?”
“Lopsided.” He shrugged. “But it’s a start.”
She laughed. “Baby steps,” she said. “We just won’t take any orders for a while.”
“I’ve already got three,” he said. “One for Kenzie, one for Sharon Belvedere and one for your great-great-grandmother’s grave.”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot about all those. But a little bit of lopsidedness won’t hurt. They’ll be unique.”
“I figure that’s just the spirit line,” Sam said.
Lacey tipped her head at him. “Spirit line?”
Sam nodded, chasing his pizza with a gulp of iced tea. “It’s from Navajo weaving. Any time you see an authentic Navajo rug, you’ll see a thread hanging off the upper right corner. It looks like a mistake, but it’s not. It’s a way to finish the rug, to close it out, without closing in the weaver’s creativity. The creative spirit leaves the rug on the spirit line so it can go on to create something new. For my pots, that lopsided flaw can be their spirit line.”
Lacey smiled. “I like it. It has meaning.”
“Everything has meaning,” he said.
Yeah, she was starting to understand that.
~~~
They left for the video arcade about three-thirty. Lacey thought about wearing her gun, but dismissed that as silly. All they were going to do was look around. And anyway, it was too hot to wear a jacket over her shoulder holster.
They parked in the back lot behind the arcade. There were a few beater cars there already, plus a motorcycle. In a bike rack in front, there were half a dozen bikes.
“Looks like more than a few kids come right from school,” Sam said.
“Better than doing drugs,” Lacey noted.
Bits of sound leaked through the closed door, but as Sam and Lacey pushed inside, the beeps and boops and ringing bells increased alarmingly. The place was dim, kept that way to enhance the bright lights and colors of the video consoles that lined the walls and crowded the open floor in long rows.
“Holy cow,” Lacey said. “This would drive me crazy.” Some of the consoles flashed out color-changing strobe lights or played tinny little snatches of music. Several kids moved among the consoles or stood at the controls, some gyrating in response to the action of the game or cursing the results.
The far left wall was devoid of loud bangs and crashes, but made up for it with the colorful light of a menu board that touted pizza, hot dogs and ice cream. A few small tables crouched in the semi-darkness, and the aroma of stale cooking grease permeated the air.
A portion of the right wall was taken up by a rounded counter where a bored older teenager sat on a stool scanning his phone. Occasionally he’d look up and glance around, but seeing no blood or vandalism, he’d go back to his screen. His eyes slid over Sam and Lacey with only mild curiosity.
Sam approached the kid and Lacey trailed after. She guessed that Sam had been in the arcade before with Daniel, but it was all new to her. She simply stood and stared around as Sam exchanged a few bills for tokens. The kid behind the counter never said a word during the exchange.
“Come on,” Sam said. He moved into the darker, inner depths of the cavernous building, glancing at the games that flashed or pinged for attention, or more furtively at the teens engrossed in them.
They drew more notice than Lacey would have liked. She saw a few teens cut sideways looks as they walked by. They were by far the oldest people there and Sam, with his long black ponytail and tight t-shirt over solid biceps, was hardly inconspicuous.
“Let’s try this,” he said, leading Lacey to a game. He shoved a token into a slot and the game brightened. She scanned the graphics; it was a flight simulator, flying not just an airplane but the space shuttle.
This should be interesting, she thought.
The array of wheels, levers and flashing buttons was staggering. Sam seemed fairly adept at the mechanics of it, which surprised Lacey. She watched on the screen as his shuttle banked into a wide turn, heading for the landing strip, then straightened up for approach. Sam brought the nose up, but apparently too much, and the shuttle began to shudder, coming close to stalling. Sam dropped the nose, but overcorrected. The shuttle imploded, leaving a smoking crater in the ground in front of the runway.
“That went well,” Lacey murmured.
“I haven’t played in a while,” he said. “A few years ago, I was pretty good at it.”
Lacey glanced around. “They got anything easy? Whac-a-Mole?”
Sam laughed soundlessly. “Yeah, as a matter of fact they do. It’s over by the pizza place.”
They left the simulator and strolled down an avenue of consoles. Lacey saw one kid manipulating a fight game, kick-boxing his computerized opponent into hamburger.
Lovely.
“Try this,” Sam said suddenly. He handed Lacey a token.
“Hey,” she said. “Pinball. I can do this.” She dropped in the token and activated the flippers, watching the steel balls bounce and shimmy down the slope until they disappeared into the chute at the bottom. She got a few extra balls and her score was passable.
“Let me try,” Sam said. He took his place at the controls and put in a token. The machine immediately be
gan to ding and ring.
“Oh, sure,” she said. She knew he was waxing her; she glanced away from his rapidly climbing score and scanned the machines beyond.
And froze.
Half a dozen games away was a kid manhandling the gun-shaped controls of a shooter game. Good-sized kid, tall.
Wearing a leather bomber jacket.
~~~
THIRTEEN
Lacey moved up close to Sam, just off his shoulder, so her face was hidden behind him. She raised her lips to his ear.
“Bomber jacket, about six games down on your left.”
Sam might not have heard. His concentration never faltered, and the pinball machine continued to ring.
Lacey dipped her head just enough so she could see the kid’s legs still gyrating in front of the console. The small blasts of gunfire were almost nonstop.
“Shooting game,” she said. “Wonder if that’s target practice for him.”
She saw Sam dip his head and angle it slightly that way. He looked quickly, then just as quickly back to his game.
“That’s him,” he said in a low voice.
“Keep playing,” she said. “I got him.”
She positioned herself beside Sam so that she could look between his chin and shoulder and keep the kid in view without looking like she was actually watching. She tilted her face toward the pinball game but could still monitor the kid from the corner of her eye. He seemed completely engrossed in his game, and never took his eyes from the screen.
Suddenly another kid stepped up beside him. He watched the game action for a moment, then said something to the shooter. Lacey felt a spark of panic and sucked in a breath as both kids looked their way. The shooter spared only a glance, going back to his game almost immediately. The second kid laughed, then walked away.
“What was that?” Sam asked.
“They looked over here,” she said. “I thought maybe someone recognized us—you—but I guess not.”
“They?”
“Another kid. He said something and they both looked over. Now the other kid moved away.”
Sam continued to rack up points and earn extra balls. The game clamored his success.
Lacey checked his score. Thousands more than she’d had, that’s for sure. She looked back at the shooter.
He was gone. The game was quiet.
“Shit, he’s gone,” she hissed.
“Keep cool,” Sam cautioned. “See if you can look around without being too obvious.”
She tried, but her peripheral vision only went so far without moving her head. She finally shifted slightly away from Sam, closer to the game, to change her angle of view.
Three kids playing at different games, but no bomber jacket.
Where did he go?
“I can’t find him,” she said.
“Okay. I’m almost done. Hang on.” He flipped the last ball and made only half-hearted attempts to guide its path. It dribbled down the slope and disappeared into the chute.
“Beat you,” he said loudly. “Come on. Let’s see what else there is.”
Shoving his hands in his pockets, he ambled down the row of machines. Lacey followed along, looking from one row of consoles to the other. She noticed a couple of kids stealing glances at them. Because they were older? Or did any of them know Daniel—and Sam?
At the shooter game, Sam stopped and casually checked the upper screen that showed stats. The top few scores displayed the screen names of the record-holders: Frogman, HollowPt, RodShootr. The second list showed the most recent players. RodShootr was the last.
“RodShootr,” Sam said under his breath. “Okay, we’ve got a handle. Now we need a name.” He purposely walked on past the game to check out others. Lacey followed, pulling out her phone.
When Sam stopped at a Grand Theft Auto machine, Lacey quickly did a search on RodShootr.
She got several hits.
Sam put a token in the machine and started playing. “What’cha got?”
“Just the handle,” she said. “Stats on games, but no name.”
She blew out a frustrated breath and wondered how else she might search. Racking her brain, she let her eyes drift upward.
Bret Russell stood staring back, just three games down.
Lacey looked away. “Shit. Bret Russell’s here.”
“He see us?”
“Yeah.” She watched the action of the game, afraid to look back down the row of games. From the very edge of her vision, she saw movement. When she chanced a quick look, Bret was gone.
“He’s gone,” she said. “Does he know you? Know what you look like?”
“No clue,” Sam said, “but I’ve picked Daniel up at school enough times.” He kept his concentration on the game, never looking anywhere but at the screen.
Lacey shifted her vision, but not her head, sideways. Try as she might, she couldn’t see the blond kid, the face she recognized from Facebook. This place was too dark for her liking, and had way too many places to hide.
Amid the computerized sounds of car tires squealing and skateboards grinding, she suddenly heard voices—angry voices.
“Shut up, you little dweeb.”
“No, you can’t—”
“Shut up!”
Scuffling sounds came from beyond the row of consoles behind them. Lacey trained her eyes on the darkness there, willing them to adjust quickly to the low light levels between the machines. She saw some movement, dark and jerky.
“Get away,” she heard. The voice was low and feral.
“Rod, no, don’t—”
“Get off, you little—”
The scuffling sounds grew louder, too loud to ignore. Lacey put her hand on Sam’s arm at the same time that he looked back over his shoulder.
Bret Russell burst from behind the consoles, his face ashen.
“Mr. Firecloud! Watch out!”
Gunshots—real ones—popped once, twice, sounding dull compared to the ringing games. Bret spun and fell back, crumpling on the floor.
Lacey reacted. She grabbed Sam’s arm and pulled, dragging him back behind the game. He hesitated and the screen of the console exploded into dozens of pieces of Plexiglas.
Kids yelped and screamed; bodies crouched or ran for the exit, the mad rush of tennis shoes slapping the linoleum floor.
Lacey hung on Sam’s arm and dragged him down beside the console. Another bullet plugged in the side of the machine, jerking it sideways. Lacey sucked in a breath between clenched teeth.
“Stay here,” Sam said quietly. “Call it in.”
“What?”
But he was gone. He slipped away into the darkness—darker now that his game was dead—and disappeared.
“Sam!” she hissed. No response. She scrambled as far back behind the console as she could, wishing to hell she had her gun. She dug her phone out of her pack and called 911.
“Nine-one-one, what is your—?”
“Shots fired!” she whispered hoarsely. “Night Train video arcade. Active shooter on site!”
“Active—? Is anyone hurt?”
“One down. Send cars! Call Tommy Belvedere, Homicide. Now!”
Another shot pierced the softer chatter of unmanned machines. Lacey heard the bullet plug, but didn’t know where.
Her phone still on, she dropped it in her pack and tried to squirm into a position where she could see around the game console yet still be protected by it.
She searched the darkness frantically for Sam. Where had he gone? She tried to peer around the game console so she could see Bret, but her view of him was blocked. Was he dead? She was surprised he had tried to warn them.
From the front area, near the pizza place, she heard frantic talking, a half conversation as someone called 911. It wouldn’t be long before the place was crawling with cops.
Scuffling from across the aisle and behind consoles. Another shot rang out. She heard the bell on the front door ding as the last people ran out of the building.
She couldn’t just sit there. S
omething hard was digging into her butt cheek; a power strip had been set into the floor and ran the length of the two rows of machines set back to back. Plugs stuck up from it every few inches or so. She scooted along the floor through the legs of the game machines, pulling out power plugs as she dragged herself toward Bret, and plunging the area into darkness. It might be too late, but…
A bullet pinged into the front of the console she sat behind.
“I can hear you,” a voice snarled. “I’ll get you, you stinkin’ Indian.”
She sat very still. If Rod thought she was Sam, he had no idea where Sam actually was. That was a good thing. If she could keep his attention, Sam could get closer.
She lowered herself to the floor and crawled, hurrying across the small space between consoles, pulling plug after plug. One knee bumped the leg of one machine and moved it an inch.
A bullet whined over her head and struck metal behind her.
She lay still and worked to calm her breathing. Her heart pounded like a jackhammer, but Rod wouldn’t hear that. She tried again to see through or around the legs of game machines ahead of her, see if she could see Bret.
There. A tennis shoe. White, with blood streaked across the side. Not moving.
Scuffling across the aisle. “Come on, fucker! Come at me! I’ll put a bullet right up your red ass.”
Lacey laid full length on the floor and squirmed forward, pulling plugs, plunging more and more of the arcade into darkness. Little by little, she could make out a bit more of Bret as she inched around the last console. He lay spread on the floor, arms and legs akimbo, although all looked to be bent in normal ways. She could see a smear of blood at his temple, more on his exposed neck. In the flickering light from the closest games, the blood flashed green and red.
She watched his chest, but in the darkness could not be sure if she saw movement or not.
She was just about to move out to him when she heard a noise across the aisle and a shot answered it. Sam? Instead of going to Bret, she pulled herself into a ball behind the game, then braced one foot against the console leg and pushed. The game moved an inch with a loud, complaining screech.
Murder Walk Page 8
