Shaw read Maddie Poole’s margin notes: In the chapter on Level 3, The Sinking Ship, she’d written: More stabbings on this level than the others. Knives, razors? Gasoline too. Look out for flares.

He spotted a passage in the front:

You game.

I game.

We both game...

Xo,

Standish asked, “Shaw?”

He set the booklet down.

She continued: “Got a question. Your impression? Brad Hendricks’s homelife? His parents?”

“Bad, A to Z. A stepfather happy to sell the boy out even before he knew the facts. Mom, all but comatose in an armchair, watching TV. Smell of pot in the air. The way she looked at her husband, you couldn’t help seeing bad choice written in her eyes. Couldn’t tell about physical abuse. Probably not. The house was a mess.”

“That’s why he gets lost in the games. His social life is make-believe.”

The Turtle...

The route was taking them through increasingly deserted hills and forest. The road was serpentine, working to their advantage. They were hidden from view by trees and brush but were able to follow glints of chrome and glass ahead of them.

“You have your weapon?”

“I do.”

“Don’t shoot him, okay?” Standish said. “The paperwork for something like that...” She clicked her tongue.

“You’ve got a sense of humor too.”

“I wasn’t being funny.”

Ahead of them, the car turned onto a dirt road.

Standish braked and they consulted the GPS. The unnamed road ended about two miles ahead, at the ocean. There was no other exit. She drove on, remaining some distance behind now yet not too far. It was a balance. They couldn’t take him too early; he had to lead them to Chabelle. They couldn’t lag too much either, because he was here to kill the woman and they’d have to move in fast.

At ten miles per hour, they rocked along the unsteady road.

“I’m going to see about starting a new division.”

“In the Task Force?”

She nodded. “It’s a different kind of street in SV, different from EPA and Oakland. But it’s still street. Look at Brad. I want to get to kids like him early. So they have a chance. I can do just what I did back in the ’hood. Talk to the parents, teachers. It puts a frame around the kids, people see them differently, for the first time.”

“Were you in a crew, Standish?” Shaw asked.

A smile on her face as she tugged on the heart earring. “A mascot. I was a mascot.” A laugh. “My daddy, badass. Frankie Williamson. You can look him up. Oh, Lord, that man was a tough one. At home, he was the best father you could want. All of us kids, he took care of us. I’ll show you pictures sometime. His crew’d come around and bring us stuff.” She shook her head, nostalgic. “In the den they’d do their business, exchange the envelopes — you know what I’m saying? With us, they brought us Legos and board games. Cabbage Patch dolls! I was thirteen and had a crush on Devon Brown you wouldn’t believe and Daddy’s crew was giving me dolls! They were all so proud, though, so of course I made a fuss. Why, I’ve got pictures of me sitting on the knee of Dayan Cabel. The hitman? That boy’ll never see the outside of San Quentin in twenty lifetimes.

“I’m going to start that program. It’s in the works. Street Welfare Education and Excellence Program. SWEEP.”

“Like it.”

She watched the dust trail of the car ahead of them settle. “This is weird crime, Shaw, fantasy crime. Like the Zodiac, Son of Sam. I don’t want fantasy anymore. Helping kids stay alive. That’s real. How about you, Shaw? You run with a crew? I could see you in a blackleather jacket, smoking behind the gym.”

“Homeschooled with my brother and sister.”

“You’re kidding.” She then nodded out the windshield. “Road ends up there. We can’t go any farther; he’ll see us.” Standish steered into a stand of trees and cut the engine.

They climbed out and, without communicating, both left the doors open for the silence. They started forward on ground that Shaw pointed toward: pine needles. They moved about thirty feet into the dunes and crouched not far from the car they’d been pursuing.

A moment later the driver climbed out, the man Shaw and Standish had concluded two hours ago at the Quick Byte was the Gamer: not Brad Hendricks at all but the brilliant if shy game designer Jimmy Foyle.

63

Silhouetted against a haze-dulled sun, Foyle turned toward the ocean and stretched.

Shaw and Standish eased lower into the congregation of brush and yellow grass. The man would undoubtedly be armed with the Glock with which he’d killed Kyle Butler and Henry Thompson, though at the moment he held only his key fob in one hand and, in the other, a small bag. Inside the sack would be some of the items from the backpack Shaw had given him — the detritus from Brad’s gaming station desk in the family’s pungent, dank basement. Pens, batteries, Post-it notes.