by Lisa Gardner
Quincy merely shrugged again.
“Do you think he’s local?” she asked abruptly. There was no need to define who.
“I think the UNSUB knows this area,” Quincy stated carefully. “I think he’s either lived here in the past, or at least visited enough to be very familiar with the terrain. Kidnappings entail complicated logistics; an UNSUB would want to be somewhere he feels comfortable.”
“I read somewhere,” Shelly said, “that most ransom cases have a personal connection. A business partner, a family member, or hell, even a loan shark, looking to get back something owed to them.”
“Rainie didn’t gamble, I’m her business partner, and the only debt we have is our mortgage. Though with banks these days . . . maybe I shouldn’t put anything past them.”
The rain was picking up, starting to come down in sheets. The sheriff didn’t seem to notice. Quincy had already spent so much of the day being wet and tired, he didn’t care that much himself. Maybe they never should’ve moved to Oregon, he found himself thinking. Maybe if he’d demanded that they remain in New York, Rainie would still be safe.
“Kincaid’s not so bad,” Shelly offered up at last.
“He has his moments.”
“And all of us, we’re going to work real hard on this.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Of course, if I were you, I wouldn’t want to take anyone at their word.”
Quincy cocked his head, finally eyeing the sheriff with interest.
“I’d want to do my own asking around,” Shelly was saying. “I’d want some good ideas of where to start.”
“Yes,” Quincy agreed quietly. “I would like that.”
“I had a deputy making some calls this morning, routine checks of places Rainie was known to frequent. You know, in case she magically showed up. One of those calls was to Dougie Jones’s foster mom, Laura Carpenter. According to her, the minute she mentioned Rainie’s name, Dougie asked if she was missing. Dougie seemed to think that Rainie was a liar, and liars get what they deserve.”
“What else did Dougie say?”
“Mrs. Carpenter didn’t have anything else to report. ’Course, Dougie’s statement does seem to warrant some kind of follow-up. Then again, Dougie doesn’t do so well with uniforms. Or for that matter, men.”
“Then it’s a good thing my daughter’s coming to town,” Quincy said.
“Why, yes, it would be.” Shelly Atkins finally cracked a smile. It took ten years off her age and made him notice her eyes once again. She had soft brown eyes. It was hard to imagine a woman with eyes like that ever telling a lie.
“What brought you to Bakersville, Sheriff Atkins?” he heard himself ask.
“The job. Used to work in La Grande. In comparison, this is a big step up.”
“Miss the quiet old days yet?”
She grinned at him. “Never in a million years.”
Shelly trotted back toward the Fish and Wildlife building just as a car turned into the parking lot. Quincy caught a glimpse of Kimberly behind the wheel, Mac in the passenger’s seat.
Quincy had a plan. Now he had his own crew. He also had one last item Kincaid had neglected to grab when Quincy had bolted from the room—his cell phone. The kidnapper had already called it once. Quincy was willing to bet money he’d call it again soon.
Tuesday, 3:01 p.m. PST
“WELL, TO GIVE THE OSP CREDIT, the statement’s not half bad,” Kimberly said fifteen minutes later. They were seated in Martha’s Diner, on the outskirts of town. It had always been a favorite spot of Rainie’s; she was addicted to Martha’s homemade blueberry pie. Quincy had ordered a piece. It sat, uneaten at the table, like a memorial.
Kimberly pushed the Daily Sun across the table toward Quincy. Rainie’s kidnapping was front-page news, except that her name and occupation were never revealed. Quincy could read signs of the OSP’s influence everywhere. Key facts had been withheld to keep from informing the abductor of things he may not yet know. Other leading statements had been deliberately included—victim may have last been seen at a bar—in an attempt to elicit information from the public.
The article concluded with a formal statement from the PIO. “‘We are eager to work with the abductor in this matter,’ said Lt. Mosley, ‘to do everything in our power to ensure the return of the victim, safe and sound. Unfortunately, new federal banking requirements do not allow us to meet the abductor’s current demands in the time frame given. We encourage the abductor to call us immediately, at a number set up just for his use, so that we may discuss this matter with him and work out an agreeable payment plan. Again, we understand the abductor’s demands and we want to be of help, we just need a little more time.’”
The number was at the end of the article, a hotline that probably led straight to the op center, where an entire task force and a tape recorder were standing by. Quincy thought that was too obvious. He had his own ideas about what number the UNSUB would call, and it wasn’t some police-controlled hotline.
“So the abductor calls in,” Kimberly said, “and they have an expert ready to negotiate.”
“I believe they have Kincaid ready to negotiate. I don’t know yet if I would call the sergeant an expert.”
“But you don’t think he’s a dumb bunny.”
“I will grant him one step above bunny level of intelligence.”
“I see the bloom is off the rose,” Mac murmured. He was working his way through an enormous piece of chicken-fried steak with apparent gusto.
On the other hand, Kimberly had inherited her father’s lack of appetite. Her tuna salad remained largely ignored; same with his cup of soup.
“OSP’s strategy?” Kimberly asked her father.
“Kincaid didn’t feel it necessary to share the details with me, but I would assume they’re going with the classic approach: buy time to allow the police to further their investigation and get their ducks in a row. If all goes as planned, they’ll find Rainie before it ever gets to a ransom drop.”
“New federal banking requirements.” Mac finished the last bite of steak, pushed away his plate. “Nice touch, but only if the guy hasn’t done his homework.”
“Kincaid’s current assumption is that the kidnapper is of limited educational background. The local yokel, if you will.”
Mac grinned at that. “And you?”
“The means of communication has been simple but clever. The notes, while short, are properly spelled and adequately articulated. Some aspects of behavior have been crude, but then again, very effective.”
“Simple does not necessarily equal dumb,” Kimberly murmured.
“Exactly.”
“Well, the guy had to have something going for him to abduct a woman like Rainie. I can’t imagine her falling for just any ruse, or going down without a fight.”
Quincy didn’t say anything. The silence grew long, and in that silence he heard months’ worth of fighting and arguing and worrying. He had never said anything to Kimberly about it. He hadn’t wanted to violate Rainie’s privacy. Or maybe he just hadn’t wanted to admit to anyone, not even his daughter, that his second marriage was failing.
Kimberly and Mac exchanged a look. Quincy saw it, but still couldn’t bring himself to speak.
“Was she really at a bar?” Kimberly finally asked, voice gentle.
“I don’t know. We have yet to retrace her last steps.”
“Dad, you should know her last steps.”
“You assume I was still living at the house.”
“Oh, Dad.” Kimberly reached across the table, squeezed his hand. She and Mac exchanged another look, with Mac suddenly declaring, “I think I’ll go to the bathroom.”
“No, no.” Quincy removed his hand, shaking aside his daughter’s concern and Mac’s obvious ploy. He forced himself to sound firm, matter-of-fact. For a man who’d spent most of his life dissembling, it wasn’t so hard after all. “It’s not a secret, certainly nothing the Oregon State Police don’t already know. Rainie and
I have separated. It happened last week. I had hopes that it would be temporary. I thought if I left, it might shock her into finally stopping drinking.”
“Oh, Dad.” Kimberly sounded dismayed again. In contrast, Mac was to the point.
“When?”
“It started several months ago. At least that’s the best I can tell. We were called in for a double homicide in August. The scene involved a mother and her small child. Rainie’s been struggling ever since.”
“You’ve both been to bad scenes before,” Mac said.
“Define bad,” Quincy challenged with a shrug. “As a professional, I can give you theories. That the combined weight of so many cases finally caught up with her—the tipping point, if you will. That actively preparing to adopt a child made her more vulnerable to this particular case—lack of compartmentalization, if you will. None of it really matters. At the end of the day, it seems that each and every member of law enforcement has that one case that hits too close to home. You had your case several years ago, Mac. In August, Rainie found hers.”
Mac looked away. He wasn’t going to comment on that, and they knew it.
“What about the upcoming adoption?” Kimberly asked. “That must have given Rainie something to look forward to.”
“It fell through.”
“Oh, Dad,” Kimberly murmured again.
“Naturally, the separation puts me in a slightly different light in the OSP’s eyes,” Quincy said briskly. “Sergeant Kincaid has opted to share some details of the investigation with me, but has obviously kept many more to himself.”
“Lovely,” Mac muttered. “As if you don’t have enough things to worry about.”
“In the good-news department,” Quincy continued, “I seem to have found an ally in Sheriff Shelly Atkins, Luke Hayes’s successor. She gave me a lead: Apparently the boy Rainie has been working with, Dougie Jones, commented first thing this morning that Rainie might be missing. He called Rainie a liar and said liars get what they deserve.”
“You think a child did it?” Kimberly asked with a frown.
“Dougie’s seven, which makes that doubtful. But then again . . .” Quincy shrugged. “He’s a troubled, mixed-up boy who’s led a troubled, mixed-up life. It’s quite possible he knows something about what happened.”
“So when do we go talk to him?” Mac spoke up, pushing away from the table and gesturing for the bill.
“I was thinking Kimberly would interview him. Soon as possible.”
“Me?” Kimberly looked around the table.
“Dougie doesn’t like cops or men.”
Kimberly narrowed her eyes. “And while I’m following up with this charming young boy, what are you two going to be doing?”
“Going to the fairgrounds, of course. Kincaid spent a lot of time and energy preparing the newspaper article, but he also made one very big assumption: that the UNSUB would read it before four p.m.”
“Oooh, fun,” Mac murmured, already reading between those lines.
Quincy said, “My thought exactly.”
15
Tuesday, 3:09 p.m. PST
“DO YOU BELIEVE IN TRUE LOVE?”
The voice came from far away, accompanied by the rattle of pots and pans. She was dreaming again, Rainie thought. Dreaming of a dark void filled with a booming voice. Maybe this was heaven.
Heaven smelled like bacon, she realized without a trace of irony. Then the voice boomed again.
“My mom believed in true love. Believed it when she fell in bed with my father. Believed it when she scrubbed his clothes, bought his whiskey, and bruised from the impact of his fist. Yeah, my mom was a real romantic. Probably loved my father right until the moment he beat her to death. My mother called it love, my father called it obedience. Frankly, I think they were both full of shit.”
A hand touched her shoulder. Rainie flinched, discovered that she was propped precariously on the edge of a hard wooden chair and nearly fell off.
“Relax,” the voice said impatiently. “It’s time you pulled yourself together. You have work to do.”
More sounds, the person—lone male, probably early twenties to early thirties, based upon the voice—was moving around the room. A refrigerator door sucked open, slammed shut. A crack, sizzle, then a new smell filled the air. Eggs frying. Bacon and eggs. Breakfast.
It must be morning, she thought, but that estimation didn’t feel quite right. Still blindfolded, hands bound, it was hard to get her bearings. She’d been drugged, fading in and out. She could remember white light, movement, writing a note. Surely those things took time. But how much time?
She should sit up, clear her head. It was easier to remain in her dark, bound cocoon, slouched in the middle of God knows where. Captives didn’t have to think. Captives didn’t have to feel.
She realized faintly that the gag was gone, though her mouth was so dried out, it was no more capable of forming words without the gag than it had been with it. After another moment, she determined she could move her feet. So he’d removed the gag and unbound her feet. Why? Because she had work to do?
It couldn’t be morning, she decided. She had left her house shortly after one a.m. It felt as if that had been at least twelve hours ago. Her abductor must have gone back to bed. That made sense to her. After rampaging around in the middle of the night, he’d gone back to bed and was now eating a late breakfast/early lunch. Midday. That felt better to her.
He was scraping a pan now. The air in the room tasted smoky, laced with grease. She had a mental image of a small room without being sure why. Tiny kitchen in a shut-up house. Beneath the grease, she thought she could smell moldy linens and stale, uncirculated air.
The squeaking sound of something—a chair—being dragged across linoleum. The man sat down heavily and Rainie suddenly felt a forkful of eggs pressed against her lips.
“Eat, but slowly. The drugs can leave you feeling queasy. Throw up and you’re on your own. No way I’m dealing with that kind of mess.”
Just the smell of the eggs made her stomach roll. Rainie licked her lips, tried to form a word, had to try again. “Water,” she croaked. Then, slightly louder, “Water.”
Her voice sounded foreign to her. Harsh, guttural, raw. The voice of a victim.
The chair screeched again. The man was up, moving. She could sense his impatience in the hard slam of a plastic cup against a counter, the jerk of a water faucet being snapped on.
A moment later, the cup was thrust against her lips. “Four sips, then some eggs, then more water. Come on, start drinking. I don’t have all day.”
She did as she was told. On some level this surprised her. But maybe it didn’t. How long had she been feeling helpless now? It had started way before Abductor A had discovered her at Point B. She had felt overwhelmed and powerless since first walking through that house in Astoria, since gazing down at that small lifeless body. Since feeling the terror that still pervaded that room, since knowing what that little girl had been forced to know. No one to help her anymore. No one to save her. And that man would have loomed so large and powerful, as he ripped off her pajamas, as he prepared to do what he was going to do.
No happy ending here. The man had done what he’d wanted, then he’d placed a pillow over four-year-old Aurora Johnson’s face and smothered her to death. Where was the justice in that? Where was God?
And Rainie had been feeling herself slip away ever since. Time spent on the Internet, searching for stories she knew she shouldn’t read. A twelve-year-old boy who raped and murdered a three-year-old toddler. A mudslide killing a mother and three small children after the husband popped out the door to buy them all ice cream. Then there was the tsunami. Over two hundred thousand people gone in the blink of an eye, a third of them children who never stood a chance. Not that the survivors were much luckier. According to news reports, slave traffickers promptly took advantage of the chaos to pick off orphans and turn them into sex slaves.
All of these children born into the world simply to lead
lives of terror, misery, and suffering.
What was one person to do? For every murder she helped investigate, millions more were happening. And the perpetrators were no longer hard-bitten criminals, with yellowed crooked teeth and small beady eyes. They were charming suburban husbands. They were soccer moms. They were children themselves, ten, eleven, twelve years old.
Rainie’s head was filled with too many things she didn’t want to know. Pictures that tormented her. Questions that haunted her. Had little Aurora died knowing how much her mother had loved her, how hard her mother had fought to the bitter end? Or had she died hating her own mom for failing her so completely?
“Another bite,” her captor demanded.
She opened her mouth, obediently swallowed, then much to the surprise of them both, projectile-vomited across the table.
“Ah, Jesus Christ!” The man sprang back, his chair clattering to the floor. “That’s disgusting. Oh, man . . .”
He didn’t seem to know what to do. Rainie continued to sit, an impassive lump, letting him sort it out. She could taste bile in her mouth. Water would be nice. Maybe orange juice. Anything to soothe her throat.
And then she thought of Quincy. She saw him, standing in front of her so clearly she tried to reach out her bound hands. She was in the study. It was late at night. He stood in the doorway, his dark green bathrobe belted around his waist.
“Come to bed,” he said.
But she couldn’t. She was reading another horrible story and couldn’t possibly tear her eyes away. She was a sponge, soaking up the sorrows of the world and feeling the last of herself silently erode away.
“Rainie, what are you looking for?” he had asked her quietly.
She didn’t have an answer for him and when she looked up again, he was gone. So she reached down into the filing cabinet, and pulled out her beer.
“Shit, shit, shit,” her captor was grumbling now. “I mean, really. Ah jeez.” Water running in the sink. The sound of a sponge being squeezed. So he was cleaning it up after all. His only other choice was to untie her hands and he couldn’t do that.
