by Lisa Gardner
His fingers finally touched something, solid, hard, like a rock. His fingers moved along the edges until the shape became unmistakable.
He leaned back on his heels then, plopped down on the wet grass. He had mud on his hands, streaks of moss across his pants. For the first time, he could really feel it—his damp clothes, his wet hair, the endless string of sleepless nights.
His eyes stung. He tried to swipe at them, tried to pull himself together before Kincaid returned, but only succeeded in smearing more dirt across his face.
Kincaid was back, armed with a box, and staring at him with an expression that was hard to read. Quincy cleared his throat. His eyes still smarted; his voice came out gravelly and rough.
“Have you excavated evidence before?”
“Yeah.”
“The trick is to take the whole side of the hole, one spadeful at a time. Then dump the dirt on the plastic, hole side facing up. We’ll cover it with another sheet of plastic, and that will preserve it for the evidence technicians to process. You never know what the UNSUB may have transferred to the site. Soil samples from his own spade, bits of hair, carpet fiber from the trunk of his car—”
“I know.”
“It’s important to do it right,” Quincy whispered.
“I know, man. I know.”
Kincaid took over. Quincy sat there like a lump. He should stand up. He couldn’t summon the energy. Instead, he listened to the rhythmic scrape of spade against dirt while watching the rain clouds gather in the north. He could see the angry gray line forming on the horizon, the wall of rain looking like a dense fog about to sweep across the valley. A rainy day after a rainy night.
He felt the moisture on his face and told himself it was only the clouds that were weeping.
“I got it,” Kincaid said.
Quincy turned. The sergeant stood in front of an arc of plastic sheets piled with dirt. In front of him lay two objects. One was a plastic container. The other was a gun.
Kincaid was pulling on a pair of latex gloves. He pointed to the gun first.
“Hers?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’d have to check the serial number to be certain, but that’s a Glock forty, slightly older model . . .”
“Yeah, okay.” Kincaid worked the container. “GladWare,” he reported. “Watertight, but disposable, cheap. He’s a thoughtful one.”
Quincy merely nodded. He hadn’t realized how much he’d been hoping that Rainie still had her gun until this moment. If it had been a random abduction, if the kidnapper really had been Joe Schmo amateur, unaware of who he’d grabbed . . .
Maybe she’d been tipsy, Quincy had been thinking in the back of his mind. But once she figured out what was going on, got her wits about her . . .
He had been holding fast to his memory of his wife the fighter, his wife the survivor. Of course, since the Astoria case, he wasn’t sure that woman existed anymore.
“It’s another note,” Kincaid said. “Little shit.”
Quincy stood up. He shook the raindrops from his coat and forced himself to cross to Kincaid. “What does it say?”
“Another rendezvous, four p.m. Follow the instructions for the ransom drop.”
“This is how he ensures we’ve taken his first note seriously,” Quincy said quietly. “Without it, we wouldn’t know where to go for the drop.”
“Gets the job done.”
“It’s also getting to be a bit of work for ten thousand dollars.”
“It’s in our favor, though.” Kincaid held up the note triumphantly. “Look—this one’s handwritten. We just got ourselves more evidence.”
Quincy, however, was already shaking his head. “Don’t bother. I can already tell you who wrote the note. It’s his proof of life, after all; the handwriting is Rainie’s.”
12
Tuesday, 11:58 a.m. PST
SHE IS DREAMING. She is walking up the steps, through the door, into the gloom. Water drips from her hood onto the threadbare carpet.
“Stop right there,” a young-faced uniformed officer instructs. “Orders are no shoes, no hair.” The female deputy points to a corner of the small breezeway. There is a long, low shelf that probably holds the homeowner’s boots and sandals and all that dirty outdoor stuff, now covered in tarp. On top of the tarp rests a pile of crime scene smocks, disposable feet booties, and hairnets.
Quincy and Rainie exchange glances. Hazmat gear is generally only worn when there is a high risk of cross-contaminating bodily fluids. It’s their first clue that this scene is going to be a really bad one.
Wordlessly, they fold up the umbrella, strip off their raincoats and shoes. They put on the smocks, the footies, the hairnets. Quincy is done first; Rainie has to work to get the full mass of her long, heavy hair contained beneath the net.
Outside it is still pouring. It’s eleven in the morning, but the summer thunderstorm has rendered the inside of the old duplex nearly pitch black.
Quincy holds the door for Rainie. A habit so ingrained, he never thinks not to do it at a crime scene. She finds it both charming and a little heartbreaking. Kindness doesn’t seem to belong in a place like this.
She walks through the door and the smell hits her first. The rusty scent of blood, underlaid with the foul odor of loose bowels, exposed intestines. Rainie has visited so many crime scenes, her nose can tell her nearly as much as her eyes. So she immediately understands, still standing just one foot inside the door, that this one’s a slasher. Knife, big blade, extensive postmortem mutilation.
The shoe booties, she deduces. The UNSUB made a big mess, then stepped in it, leaving behind bloody footprints. It’s the kind of evidence even the locals know better than to fuck up.
They enter an enlarged space, open kitchen to the right, family room to the left. Still no sign of the body, but now the blood is everywhere. Dark streaks, looking almost like paint, spray across the walls, drip upon the floor. There are stains on the sofa, handprints on the chair.
Rainie has only ever seen one other scene this bad, and memory of that time makes her reach back and squeeze Quincy’s latex-covered hand. His grip is cool and strong within hers. He’s doing okay.
They turn toward the kitchen, where they can now see two detectives huddled in front of the stove.
“Starts here,” one was saying to the other. “She reaches in to get something in the fridge, and bam!”
“But how’d he get in?”
“Slider was forced. It’s a pretty cheap model, so it wasn’t too hard.”
“Breaks in, attacks the woman.”
“Breaks in and waits,” the first detective corrects. “No way she didn’t hear someone forcing that slider. My guess is he did it hours before. When, of course, is the million-dollar question. But the guy saw the place was empty and made his move. Maybe she arrived while he was still in the house, and that forced him to take cover, or maybe an ambush was his plan all along. Don’t know that one yet. But he broke in, then he took cover. That’s the only way you can explain her taking the time to tuck in the child.”
Child? Rainie stops in her tracks without even being aware she has done so. Now she can feel Quincy’s fingers grip her own.
“Okay, so he takes cover, waits for the kid to go to bed, and then . . .”
“Finds her in the kitchen.”
“Rams her head into the refrigerator.”
“And the carnage begins.”
“Probably, she never saw it coming,” said the first detective.
And the second detective said, “It’s more than you can say for the kid.”
Tuesday, 12:08 p.m. PST
JOLT. HARD SEARING PAIN to her hip. Rainie’s eyes flew open, saw only darkness, and she thought, finally, I’m dead.
New jolt. Harder. She could feel the entire vehicle buck beneath her, tires straining for footing. More sensations trickling in now, a jumble of impressions for her sightless eyes. Metal, hard against her cheek. Gasoline, astringen
t in her nostrils. Cotton, wadded into her mouth.
She tried to move her hands, couldn’t. The bindings were too tight. Her fingers tingled with the final death throes of sensation before her hands went totally numb. She checked her feet, found the same results.
The vehicle heaved again, throwing her bound body up toward the hatch. Her head came down first, pounding against something even harder and less giving. Tire jack, tool kit. The possibilities were endless. She didn’t even groan anymore. Just squeezed her eyes shut against the pain.
She was confused, more confused than she ought to be. In the clearer part of her brain she suspected drugs, but even that thought was hard to hold. She’d been in her car. White light. Then black. A sense of movement. A desire to kick her feet, struggle. Gun, she’d thought. Gun. Her hands had been too heavy. Couldn’t lift her arms.
Then for a while, she hadn’t thought of anything at all.
Now, mind straining toward consciousness, eyes frantic to see, the absolute darkness panicked her. She could feel the closed door of the trunk just inches from her face, hear the rain pounding on its lid. She was in a vehicle, being driven to God knows where, bound, gagged, helpless.
She tried to move her hands again. Tried to move her feet. And then all at once, she went a little nuts.
She beat at her steel tomb, whacking her head, smashing her nose. Still she writhed wildly. Carjackers didn’t truss people up like Thanksgiving turkeys. Mere purse snatchers wouldn’t bother drugging a woman unconscious. But she knew the kind of people who did. Rapists, killers, men who fed off a woman’s terror and agony.
Too many thoughts rushed into her head. Photos of women with hacked-off limbs. Audiotapes of poor girls who had accepted the ride with the wrong man, now begging for mercy while he did unspeakable things with pliers.
She needed her gun. She needed her hands. She did not want to die feeling so helpless.
She flailed again, flipping herself over, lashing out with her feet. Her thoughts came faster, clearer: Find the taillights and disable them, maybe get the attention of a nearby patrol officer. Or find the trunk latch and force it open, definitely shocking the driver behind her. There were options, there were always options, she just had to find them.
She could feel moisture trickling down her chin. Blood from her smashed nose. The gas fumes were making her nauseous, the darkness gathering once more on the fringes of her mind.
If she could just find the latch, just wiggle her fingers.
She heard a scraping from her waist. Her cell phone. She had her phone!
One quick twist, her cell phone rattled free. She wriggled after it, her fingers scampering around the tiny space. She could feel it slowing now, hear the squeal of brakes as the vehicle made a hard left.
Her fingers found a button. She held it down, and finally, after an eternity seemed to pass, she was rewarded with a voice. Kimberly.
Help, she tried to say. Help, she tried to scream.
But not a single sound emerged from her throat.
Even when she won, she lost. The connection broke. The car stopped. And Rainie slipped back into the abyss.
Saturday, four months ago, 9:58 a.m. PST
THEY WERE STANDING at the funeral, trying to blend in with the other mourners while their gazes worked the crowd. It was a long shot, but one any trained investigator had to take. Some killers hit and run, but others liked to return to the scene of the crime. So they had detectives working the funeral and a surveillance system set up for the night.
In a case this public, this shocking, all budget requests were receiving green lights.
An older woman stood weeping in the front. The grandmother, flown in from Idaho. Her husband stood beside her, arms crossed in front, face impassive. He was being strong for his wife. Or maybe he was still stunned to realize that coffins came in sizes that small.
Rainie was supposed to work the crowd. Sort through the sea of hundreds of faces, an entire community, standing in a cemetery, shocked into unity and chilled to the bone.
She kept hearing the grandma’s keening wails. She kept seeing that small pair of pink-flowered panties, tossed aside on the floor.
“Urine,” Quincy had said quietly, inspecting the underpants. Because that’s what happened when a four-year-old girl woke up at night and saw a strange man standing in her doorway. That’s what happened when a four-year-old girl watched that man walk into her room.
“Mommy,” had she cried? Or had she never said anything at all?
The grandparents had chosen a tombstone with a baby angel carved on top, curled up in eternal sleep. Rainie stood at the monument long after the proceedings ended and the mourners departed.
“Do you believe in Heaven?” she asked Quincy softly.
“Sometimes.”
“Surely you must think about it? You’ve buried half your family, Quincy. If there’s no heaven, what do you have to look forward to?”
“I’m sorry you hurt,” he said quietly. It was really all he could say.
“God sucks. He’s fickle, He’s savage, like any child deserves such a thing—”
“Rainie—”
“The grandparents said she went to church. Shouldn’t that kind of thing help? This wasn’t a nonbeliever. This was a four-year-old girl who loved her mommy and believed in Christ. How can that not help?”
“Rainie—”
“I mean it, Quincy. Heaven’s just our futile attempt to pretend we’re better than animals. But we’re not. We’re born into this world like animals, and we die like animals. Some of us take a long time to get there, and some of us are slaughtered in our sleep. It’s stupid and senseless and this poor little girl, Quincy. Her mother fought for her so hard and yet . . . Oh God, Quincy. Oh God . . .”
“We’ll find who did this. We’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again—”
“She was a four-year-old child, Quincy! She didn’t want justice. She wanted to live.”
He tried to take her hand, but Rainie pulled away.
Tuesday, 12:17 p.m. PST
A DOOR OPENED, SLAMMED SHUT. The noise woke her, jerked her out of one dark place and into another. A second creak of metal and the trunk must have been opened, because suddenly, she could feel the rain on her blindfolded face.
Fight, she thought dimly, struggling to regain her earlier clarity. Kick legs, punch hands. She couldn’t pull herself together. The gas fumes had permeated her brain, leaving her in a dense fog where the only thing she wanted to do was throw up.
She lay curled in the car, passive deadweight.
“I’m going to loosen your bindings,” a male voice said calmly. “If you do what I say, everything will be fine. Struggle, and I’ll kill you. Understand?”
Her assent was implied; with the gag in her mouth, they both knew she couldn’t answer.
She felt hands move in front of her. The man’s fingers were rough and not particularly nimble; he struggled with his own knots.
Kick him, she thought again. But still her body wouldn’t respond to her brain.
He slapped her hands. A sharp pain raged up her forearms, blood-starved nerve endings protesting their abrupt return to life. He shook out her fingers and they struggled to obey. He already controlled more of her body than she did.
“This is a pen. Take it.” He folded her right fingers around the cool metal cylinder. “This is a pad of paper. Take it.” He thrust the paper into her left hand and again, her fingers found life in his orders.
“Now write. Exactly what I tell you. Word for word. Obey, and you can have some water. Disobey, and I will kill you. Understand?”
This time, she managed to nod. The motion pleased her somehow; it was the first one she’d managed on her own.
He dictated. She wrote. Not too many words, in the end. The date. The time. Where to go, what instructions to receive.
She was abducted. He wanted ransom. For some reason, that made her giggle, and that made him mad.
“What’s so funny?” he demanded.
“What’s wrong with you?” When he got angry, his voice got higher, sounded younger.
“Are you making fun of me?”
And that made her laugh harder. Laugh as tears leaked from her eyes and soaked into the blindfold. Which made her aware of a few more things. Such as it was still raining and that if she strained her ears, she could hear the sound of the ocean, breaking against the shore.
He whipped the pen and paper away from her now. Jerked her wrists together at her waist, wrapped them this time with a zip tie.
“I hold your life in my hands, you stupid bitch. Make fun of me, and I’ll throw you outta the car right now and let your body roll right down the cliff. Now whaddaya think of that?”
She thought it didn’t matter. He’d managed to kidnap the one woman in the world who didn’t care if she lived or died. And now what was he going to do? Ransom her back to the only family she had—a husband who had left her? When the lucky tree had come calling, this man had clearly been out to lunch.
“Poor stupid bastard,” she murmured around the wad of cotton in her mouth.
The man’s demeanor suddenly changed. He leaned down, his face mere inches from hers. She could practically feel his smile by her ear. “Oh, don’t worry about me, Rainie Conner. Think I’m young, think I’m stupid? Think I have no idea who I’m holding in my hands? This is just the beginning of our relationship. You’re going to do every single thing I ask. Or someone quite close to you is dead.”
He shoved her back into the trunk. The metal door clanged down, the scent of gasoline filled her nostrils.
Rainie lay in the dark. She didn’t think of Astoria anymore. She didn’t think of her situation. She didn’t even think of Quincy. She just wished she had a beer.
13
Tuesday, 1:43 p.m. PST
THE MINUTE THE JET’S WHEELS hit the ground at Portland International Airport, Kimberly was digging for her cell phone. The flight attendant caught the motion, took a disapproving step forward, then saw Kimberly’s expression and did an abrupt about-face. Mac chuckled. Kimberly hit speed dial for her father.
Quincy answered on the first chime.
