Sara's Game

by Ernie Lindsey

  Sis says: You KNOW what the plan is.

  Sis says: You disgust me.

  Michael says: Sorry. Don’t want to disappoint you.

  Sis says: Too late for that.

  Sis says: But sometimes I worry Mother hit you too hard.

  Sis says: That hammer must have damaged your memory.

  Michael says: It did. I remember some of it.

  Michael says: Traffic moving soon. Please remind.

  Sis says: Jesus, you’re hopeless. Read this, get here fast. DO NOT text and drive.

  Michael says: Ok.

  Sis says: Bring her down to the basement. I’ll be tied up, too.

  Sis says: You and Samson take the kids and leave. DO NOT forget to loosen my knot.

  Sis says: Samson is no longer needed, got it? Kids, your choice.

  Sis says: The rest is up to me. Can’t wait to see the look on her face.

  Sis says: Betrayed by her sweet little assistant. So much fun.

  Sara stared the final text, hands shaking. The butterflies in her stomach thrashed around like they were on fire.

  It had been Shelley all along. She had suspected, guessed, changed her mind, and then back again, but now she had confirmation of the voice’s identity.

  Everything made sense—a woman, someone inside LightPulse—coaxing Teddy out of the office, and even earlier, back further, back to her interview, wooing Sara with all the facts she knew about her, all the research she’d done, her insistence that she only wanted to work with the best. The now-empty compliments of Sara’s skill at her profession. It embarrassed Sara to realize how shallow she’d been. The flattery had worked. She’d hired Shelley a week later.

  Next came the offers to run errands for her, pick up the kids, visit her house, babysit. Work herculean hours to impress her, to win her trust. Every single move made over the past couple of months designed to get as close as she possibly could to Sara, to be involved with her, learn about her, get inside her. To get revenge on the other woman because Brian wanted to leave.

  The betrayer had become the betrayed.

  The level of duplicity was incomprehensible.

  Sara blamed herself for not seeing through it, for allowing Shelley into her life, for welcoming the evil into her home with open arms.

  I couldn’t have known. She was flawless.

  The other phone rang beside her.

  Be careful. You don’t know anything.

  She answered, “Hello?”

  “There you are, Sara. I’ve been told that you misbehaved, that you had a difficult decision to make during the last level.” The familiar, digitized, apathetic voice rolling lazily through the words.

  “Can I talk to them?”

  “When I’m ready. How’d it feel?”

  “How did what feel?”

  “Choosing whether someone lives or dies. You may get to make that choice again when you get here. Welcome to Level Three. I like to call it...Consequences.”

  “You can call it a hot dog eating contest, for all I care. I’m sick of this bullshit.” She was pushing the limits, she knew, but the vitriol was expected, and she hoped she hadn’t pushed too far. Maintaining her façade might not be possible if she heard another yelp of pain.

  “Now, now, Sara. These outbursts will not be tolerated. Don’t forget who’s in control of the situation.”

  If you only knew, Shelley.

  “Can we please get this over with? Just tell me what to do.”

  “Your companion will deliver you to the proper location. Then, and only then, will the rules of the final level be revealed. But, before I go, you do have a question left for this round. Pity you lost your chance during the last level. It may have been helpful, but you’ll never know now, will you? For this round, the same rules apply. You may ask at the beginning or at the end. However, asking at the end may only be possible if you’re still...alive.”

  She pretended to stammer, to think it over. “I’ll—I think I should ask—no, I’ll save it.”

  I don’t know what it’ll be, but you better believe you won’t see it coming.

  “What a shame, Sara. Such a...such a waste. I was prepared to tell you the truth about whatever you might ask. But now that you’ve chosen, we must proceed.”

  She knew it wouldn’t be allowed, but she asked anyway, to keep the ruse going. “Can I talk to them now?”

  “I’m afraid not, Sara. Not part of the rules, but it does remind me that I haven’t heard a scream in a while. I must admit, my ears do miss that beautiful sound. We’ll see you soon enough. Maybe I’ll let you listen along with me, and I hope you’re ready for this,” the voice said, then hung up.

  Sara stood, walked to the nearest trashcan, and slung the phone in with the rest of the garbage.

  I hope you’re ready for me, Shelley.

  While she waited for DJ, a young couple pushed a stroller past Sara on the sidewalk. Early thirties, probably their first child, one happy family on their way to years of laughter and smiles and more babies. Soccer games, gold stars, high school graduation, college diploma, and then bundles of grandchildren they could spoil rotten.

  It reminded her of the early days with Brian. The plans they’d made, all the fun they’d had picking out matching outfits for Lacey and Callie, listening to the same princess cartoon relentlessly playing on repeat until the DVD gave out and stopped working. Brian had joked that the thing waved the white flag on its own and said something about how all DVDs go to heaven, except for that one, because it deserved its own special place in Hell for the hell it’d put them through.

  And then their little baby boy had come along and the cycle started anew. More onesies, thrilled relatives, a fresh coat of blue paint on a study converted into a new bedroom. Brian couldn’t have been happier. He brought home a baseball glove and model trains that wouldn’t be put to use for years. Toy fire engines, plastic swords, and building blocks that had to be put away because the pieces were too small. Brian was still outnumbered, but he’d been thrilled to have another male on his side after living in a home dominated by estrogen.

  Brian.

  Goddamned Brian.

  Two wasted years of pining for him, allowing her emotions to wither, refusing to go on blind dates arranged by her friends, checking the internet every single morning to see if any news had popped up overnight, consoling her babies with repeated refrains of ‘Daddy’s not coming home tonight, he might tomorrow,’ after the bouts of depression and putting on a good face for everyone around her, after surviving on hope and good memories alone, it’d come to this.

  This.

  That one singular moment where she decided to say a silent goodbye to him. She looked up at the sky, grown darker now in the late evening. Sun setting, ready to bring light and life to another spot in the world.

  Brian, if what he told me is true, and you didn’t make it, if you’re—if you’re dead...I’m—I’m sorry. What you did was wrong, but you didn’t deserve to die for it. That’s—I can’t imagine what she did to you and I don’t want to, but you didn’t deserve to die. I waited for you. Waited and waited and waited. It took me six months before I could go to bed without crying myself to sleep. Six months!

  Did you really try to come back? What would you have said if you had come home? Would you have told the truth? Would you? Would the lies have eaten away at you while I went on, clueless and happy that the love of my life had gone through hell to get back to me?

  I was a good wife, I know I was. We had a good family. We were happy, weren’t we? Damn you. Do you know how hard it’s been? Did you think about what I was going through while you were lying in bed beside her? Did you? God. I hate sounding so pathetic. But I have a right to be selfish. After this, after what you did, I have the right. I do. You put us in this spot. You did it. Our babies are in that house with the psycho you left me for. You did it. You did this.

  And you know what? It’s time to move on. I think I’m ready. One of these days, maybe I’ll forgive you. Maybe I’ll p
ut on a black dress and I’ll get you a gravestone and I’ll lay down flowers. I will. But for now, you see that rolling down my cheek? That’s the last one.

  This is your fault...and you don’t get any more of my tears, Brian.

  Chapter 23

  Sara & DJ

  Sara watched the young detective approach from a half a block away. Shirt untucked, tie loosened, sport coat hanging limp over slumped shoulders. He looked like he’d aged ten years since that morning.

  He recognized her, gave a quick wave, and picked up his pace. A mixture of concern and relief in his eyes.

  When he got within a couple of steps, she said, “You’re alone?”

  “I am. Man, you look like—I mean, good to see you’re alive. We thought you were—”

  “Dead? It’s not over yet.”

  “I’ve got a badge and a gun. They’re usually good for something. So whose house are we going into?”

  She gave him the shortened version. The game, the Rose Gardens, the run through the city, the phone calls, Michael and the cabin. She told him about Teddy, but not about sentencing him to die, nor about the remorse.

  DJ said, “Spent half the day looking for him. We thought he did it.”

  “I did, too. She was trying to frame him.”

  “Shelley Sergeant?”

  Sara took a step closer, lowered her voice and said, “You figured it out?”

  “I wasn’t sure. Lots of guesswork, nothing solid. What’s your plan?”

  “Let’s go. I’ll tell you on the way.”

  Sara and DJ trotted up the street. She explained what was going on inside, what she expected, what Shelley expected, and what the final level might hold. They stopped at a neighbor’s hedge fence, ducking behind it.

  DJ whispered, “I’m not letting you go down there by yourself. Not an option.”

  “With all due respect, Detective...my kids, my choice.”

  “At least let me—”

  “Just be ready, okay? Hurry.” Sara darted around the hedge and up to the front porch with DJ trailing, muttering about bad ideas and no respect.

  They climbed the five steps, passing dead plants in cracked pots, avoiding the broken slat in front of the entrance. Sara felt like a criminal, an intruder, sneaking into Michael’s former home.

  She pushed the front door open, stepping into foreign territory. Held up a hand to DJ, whispering, “Step hard. He was huge.”

  DJ mouthed, “How?”

  “Try to sound—I don’t know—try to sound big. Stomp, but don’t be obvious.”

  “This is ridiculous. Let me go in first.”

  Sara stabbed a finger toward the floor. “I said no. You go in with guns blazing and my kids are dead, you hear me? Stay upstairs and let me handle this.”

  “But I’m supposed—” DJ stopped, lifted his hands, let them fall. Hung his head. “I don’t agree with this, not at all, but I’ll stay out of the way. For now, at least.”

  “Good. Now pretend like you’re pushing me. Make it sound real.”

  DJ stomped forward and shoved Sara.

  She stumbled, hit the floor, and whispered, “Do it again,” and then got to her feet.

  DJ stomped another couple of steps, helped her up, shoved again. Harder this time.

  Sara tripped, reached out, and knocked a vase from a table. It crashed and shattered as she fell to her hands and knees. She yelled, “Okay, I’m going,” and gave him a thumbs-up.

  He urged her ahead. Stomped on the shards, heard them crunch under his heel.

  Sara scuttled around the broken ceramic and over to the basement door, looked back at DJ, watched him press his lips together. Waiting, waiting.

  He closed his eyes, tugged hard on his tie. “Go,” he whispered. “Be careful. If anything happens, I’m coming down.”

  She reached for the doorknob, pulled herself up. Took one last look at DJ, mouthed, “Not until I call for you.” Twisted the handle, and let the door swing open, screeching like a coffin lid as it went. Ominous. Foreboding.

  She planted a foot on the creaky first step, paused, and stepped again.

  Heartbeat quickening, ears going dull like her head was veiled in cotton, the temperature change of the chilly, musty basement prickling her skin. She plodded downward.

  Down, down, down, until she reached the final level.

  She smelled the familiar but foreign scent of laundry detergent first, then squinted to temper the sharp light of a single, bare bulb overhead as she moved into the open space. A low ceiling, an arm’s length away, pressed down from above. On her left, an antique china cabinet sat against a naked cinderblock wall. To her right, the washer and dryer crouched in an open alcove, their dingy white paint visible in the shadows. Behind her, three shelves, nearly empty, held a shovel, a tarp, and a spool of rope. Instruments of a quick, secretive disposal.

  I know what those are for, Sara thought.

  Not what, who.

  It’s so quiet in here. Where are the kids?

  Where’s Shelley? Did Michael lie? Damn him, did he lie to me?

  He said she changes things at the last minute.

  He said the only thing that’s certain is the outcome.

  And, finally, three large wooden boxes sat in the middle of the basement floor, painted black—splotchy, like a rush job from a spray can. Sara took a step closer to get a better look as her eyes adjusted to the awkward lighting.

  Each box was a carbon copy of the others, containing an LED display with 05:00 glowing bright red on what appeared to be a door, sealed at the edges by a thin strip of rubber. On their tops, silver cylinders wired to metallic containers, along with clear tubing that coiled around, disappearing inside. In front of that, green buttons the size of a quarter.

  The only difference Sara could see were the stenciled, gray numbers below each LED display.

  The first box: 42

  The second box: 91

  The third box: 18

  Sara stood, frozen, as the hazy confusion melted away. The numbers were meaningless, but with Lacey, Callie and Jacob nowhere in sight, the boxes could only mean one thing:

  Three boxes, three children.

  “No. Please, no.” Sara, nearly frantic, raised her voice and said, “Are you guys in there?”

  She rushed toward the boxes and in the half-second before she reached them, instinct and a sixth sense registered movement coming from the alcove. Before she could look, a wrecking ball slammed into her ribs. Her neck whipped sideways, smashing her ear against her shoulder. Her feet came off the ground, she was airborne, and then her attacker speared her into the unforgiving concrete floor. They rolled together, bodies smashing against the china cabinet, glass doors exploding.

  Sara tried to move, felt a piercing stab in her side. Broken bone? Knife?

  Dizzy, dazed, glass digging into her arms, she lifted her head and saw the behemoth scrambling to his feet.

  She heard Shelley’s voice say, “Upstairs, Samson. Go. Kill whoever it is, then find Michael.”

  She saw a hand extending toward him, the flash of light on metal, and watched his thick fingers closing around the butt of a handgun. He moved fast for his size. He darted across the floor and then thundered up the stairs.

  Sara tried to sit up, but the dizziness and throbbing pain pushed her back down.

  Shelley knelt over her.

  Face to face, Shelley smiled. “Almost, Sara. You almost had me. Something felt off about the way he was texting. He always asks for black lace, and that comment about the hammer? Total lie. Mother never did a thing to him.”

  Sara heard shouting overhead. Two gunshots popped a second apart, followed by a single thud.

  Next came the sounds of unsteady footsteps clunking down the stairs.

  Please be DJ. Oh God, please be DJ.

  And then boom, boom, boom as DJ tumbled down and crashed against the wall. Left arm broken and twisted behind his back, blood pouring out of the bullet hole in his chest, staining his shirt. He spat out a mouthf
ul of blood and saliva, then said, “Police,” and collapsed into a lump.

  His chest rose and fell, rose and fell.

  Shelley smirked. “Everybody dies in the end, huh? Samson. You. Your little angels. Brian. Especially Brian, because he deserved it. You want to know why he left? You were boring, Sara. Exact words. Boring.” Shelley wrapped her hands around Sara’s neck and shook. “And that made it so much worse when he tried to leave me—for you—you, stupid, boring bi—”

  Sara mustered what strength she had left and swung at Shelley’s head.

  Shelley blocked it, grabbed Sara’s arm, used her leverage to pull backward.

  The glass dug into Sara’s back, sliced through shirt and skin as Shelley dragged her across the floor, depositing her in front of the boxes.

  Shelley used her knees to pin down Sara’s arms, slapping her across one cheek and backhanding her across the other. She grabbed Sara’s shirt, twisted the material, and yanked her up, growling into her face, “Where’s my brother? Where’s Michael? What did you do to him? Tell me!” growing louder and louder with each vile word.

  Shelley lifted her hand and balled up her fist.

  Gasping, Sara said, “Dead. He’s dead.”

  Shelley punched hard and fast.

  Sara’s nose shattered with a sharp crack. The room went white, and in a brief pause, she felt Shelley adjust her weight, and through watery eyes, she saw her former assistant reaching for something in her pocket, and then the pressing interrogation resumed.

  “Did you kill him?” Shelley said, jaws clenched, teeth grinding. “Answer me. Did you kill him?”

  Sara gagged on the waterfall of blood in her throat. Tried to swallow it, choking and coughing. She said, “No, he shot—he shot himself.”

  “Liar,” Shelley screamed. She swung at Sara’s head again, leaning into the motion, putting everything she had behind it.

  Sara was ready this time. She squirmed out of the way and felt the blow grazing against her temple.

  Shelley’s fist pounded into the concrete.

  Sara heard the bones crunching next to her ear.