by Lisa Gardner
“She was young, unwed-mother material. Had fallen madly in love with Dougie’s father. Unfortunately, he hadn’t fallen madly in love with her. The usual story. Best I could tell, she didn’t have any family in the area. The state provided resources, and she had enrolled in a local program we have to help single moms earn their GEDs. It’s run through the Episcopal church. The women provide day care for the kids and tutoring for the moms. The state kicks in a small stipend for each day the girls attend. It’s not much, but the program has had success. Gaby—Dougie’s mom—looked like she might be one of the better stories.”
“No drugs, no alcohol, no other men?”
“No, no, from what I could tell, she lived a very quiet life. I’d stop by every now and then, never as part of my job, but as a neighbor. I grew up with a single mom, I know how hard it is. Sometimes I’d even watch Dougie for an hour or two while Gaby ran to the grocery store, that kind of thing. He was precocious. Apartment living isn’t easy for a toddler, especially in units this small. I won’t tell you he was magically an angel while his mother was alive. He was a master breakout artist from the time he was two. I think all of us discovered him out of the apartment at one time or another and returned him home.
“But he was loved, well cared for. Clean clothes, well fed. She’d pick him up all kinds of toys at garage sales. Even found him a tricycle for when he turned three. Gaby really went all out for her son. She wanted to make a better life for both of them.”
“So what happened?”
“She died. Hit and run, one night when she was walking back from the convenience store. Dougie had gone to bed and she’d gone out for milk. No family ever stepped forward to claim him. He became a ward of the state and I got his file.”
“Did you ever think of adopting him?”
“Me?” Peggy Ann raised a brow. “I’m single, working a government job that barely covers my rent and will probably cause me to burn out before I’m thirty-five. What could I offer Dougie Jones? He deserved a family. So that’s what I found him.”
“The first set of foster parents.”
“The Donaldsons are good people. In social-services-speak, we consider them the Mercedes-Benz of foster parents. Good marriage, nice home, comfortable middle-class lifestyle. I told them Dougie’s story, and Mrs. Donaldson couldn’t file the paperwork fast enough to get him into her house. Here was a kid who had a good start. He was loved, he had bonded, he had more potential than ninety percent of the kids who cross my desk. And here were people ready to take up where his mother left off. This should have been a happy ending, Ms.—”
“Kimberly, call me Kimberly.”
“Well, it should’ve been a happy ending. To this day, I can’t tell you why it wasn’t.”
“He burned down their garage.”
“Only after breaking apart most of their furniture, shredding his bedding, and punching holes the size of basketballs in his room. The garage was the final straw. They didn’t feel they could handle him anymore. Mrs. Donaldson told me that she was honestly afraid.”
“Of Dougie?”
“Of Dougie.”
“But you found him another home.”
Peggy Ann smiled wanly. “There’s money in foster kids, Kimberly. As long as there’s money, I can always find them another home.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Not as good a situation, with predictable results. For the record, I pulled some strings to get mental health resources available to Dougie after he burned down his second home. The state ponied up the money and I lined up a local psychologist who specializes in children. Unfortunately, Dougie’s third foster mother never took him to the appointments. She had five kids to manage; thrice-weekly appointments were simply too much. And yes, Dougie imploded, and yes, she kicked him out, and yes, we started the cycle all over again. And again, and again.
“Dougie’s an angry little boy. I wish I could tell you why. I wish I could tell you how to fix him. All I know for sure is that Dougie is very, very mad. At the world, at the foster system, and even at me. And right now, according to the experts, he would rather be angry than be loved.”
“I met him this afternoon,” Kimberly said.
Peggy Ann arched a brow. “Well, at least you look like you’re in one piece.”
“He was playing with a beetle, out in the rain, enjoying the mud. I thought I could talk to him about Rainie Conner. The minute I mentioned her name, however, he became furious.”
“Really? Last I’d heard, she was one of the only people he tolerated.”
Kimberly tilted her head to the side. “You don’t know?”
“What?”
“Rainie has been kidnapped.”
“Oh no.”
“We’re concerned that Dougie may know something about it.”
“A kidnapping? He’s only seven. I mean, if he’d burned down her house, I’d understand. But kidnapping?”
“According to Laura Carpenter, he knew Rainie was missing before anyone told him.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Which is why I went to see him.”
“And did he give you an explanation?”
“No. But I got the impression . . . The way he said some things didn’t sound like a seven-year-old boy talking. It sounded like a boy repeating something an adult had told him.”
Peggy Ann’s turn to frown. “You think maybe he knows the person who kidnapped Rainie?”
“I’m not sure yet. But I think he does know something. Can you think of other close friends he might have? Anyone in which he would confide?”
“I don’t get involved in the day-to-day. You’d have to ask Laura—”
“Nothing personal, but I don’t think Laura Carpenter is that close to Dougie.”
“Maybe Stanley?”
“I haven’t met him yet.” Kimberly was silent for a moment. “What about the abuse charges Dougie made?”
Peggy Ann sighed. “Off the record?”
“Off the record.”
“If I thought Dougie was in any real danger, I’d pull him out of that house in a heartbeat. I have noplace to take him, of course, but I’d figure something out. I’ve followed up with both Stanley and Laura Carpenter; I can’t find anyone who has an unkind word to say about them, and I did find about half a dozen boys from the high school football team who swore Mr. Carpenter helped them turn their lives around. And I’ve visited Dougie multiple times; I’ve never seen any sign of bruising on him, nothing to suggest violence. Given his troubled past . . .”
“You think he’s lying.”
“I think Stanley Carpenter’s ‘tough love’ approach feels like war to Dougie. But it may also be the only hope Dougie has left.”
“Do you know if Rainie had made any conclusions?”
“I haven’t seen any report.”
“Rumors?”
Peggy Ann frowned, shook her head. “I haven’t heard any rumors, either. Last I knew, she was still investigating.”
Kimberly nodded, sat back. Quincy had hinted that Rainie was beginning to think Dougie’s case had merit. When she’d talked to Laura Carpenter, however, she didn’t seem to know anything on the subject, and neither did Peggy Ann. The real question in Kimberly’s mind wasn’t what Rainie had concluded, but what others thought she had concluded. By all appearances, however, Rainie had played things close to her chest.
Kimberly sighed now, frowning, trying to think of what to pursue next. “Was Dougie in school?”
“First grade.”
“Can you give me the name of his teacher? Maybe he or she will know something.”
Peggy Ann got up and moved toward the table, which Kimberly could see also doubled as a desk. “Mrs. Karen Gibbons is her name. I’m sure she won’t mind you giving her a call. For the record, however, Dougie isn’t exactly the teacher’s pet.”
“That’s what I figured. What about a psychologist? Now that he’s at the Carpenters’, is he going to appointments?”
“No
t that I know of, but again, Laura could tell you more.”
Kimberly had talked to Laura briefly after her run-in with Dougie. From what she could tell, Laura didn’t know anything. Really, honestly, didn’t know anything, which Kimberly had thought was an interesting trait in a foster mom. It was as if Stanley had wanted to take in a foster child and Stanley had designed a program for a foster child and Stanley now had a foster child. Laura was simply along for the ride.
Kimberly hadn’t seen any outward signs of bruising, but in her personal opinion, Laura fit the profile of an abused wife. She wondered if Rainie had thought the same.
Peggy Ann finished copying a name and phone number down on a sheet of notebook paper. She handed it over to Kimberly.
“Is it still raining outside?” Peggy Ann asked.
“Drizzling, yeah.”
“Did you look? Maybe he took a coat with him, or umbrella, hat and gloves.” The woman’s tone was wistful. She was worrying about Dougie again, and Kimberly understood that Peggy Ann would not be sleeping tonight.
“He was last seen in sweatshirt and jeans,” she said quietly. “We have the sheriff’s office out searching for him now.”
“I see,” Peggy Ann said, but still she frowned. “Wait a minute. If the sheriff’s office is looking for him . . . Didn’t you say you were FBI?”
“We don’t really think he’s lost,” Kimberly said as kindly as she could. “We believe he may have been kidnapped.”
Peggy Ann stuffed her hand into her mouth. “Oh no.”
Kimberly rose out of the chair. “If there’s anyone else you can think of for me to speak with . . .”
“I will let you know immediately.”
“And if for some reason you should hear from Dougie—”
“I will let you know immediately.”
Kimberly was at the door. Peggy Ann remained standing in the middle of the room. She looked forlorn now, shoulders slumped in her oversized sweatshirt, a few strands of dark hair tangled around her pale face.
“Peggy Ann, if we do make contact with Dougie,” Kimberly asked abruptly, “can you think of anything we can say to him, anything or anyone that might get his attention? Does he have a favorite toy or an invisible friend? Maybe a memento from his mother?”
Peggy Ann gave her a sad smile. “What do you think he used to start the fire in the Donaldsons’ garage? He gathered together all his personal possessions—his clothes, his toys, his pictures of his mom—and he set them aflame. Every last item. There’s not even a portrait of his own mother left.”
Kimberly honestly didn’t know what to say.
Peggy Ann smiled forlornly. “I hope for his own sake Dougie has a matchbook tonight.”
“Why?”
“Have you checked the thermostat? It’s dropping into the low forties. And if he’s already cold and wet . . .”
The rest didn’t need to be said. “We’re doing everything we can,” Kimberly reiterated.
Peggy Ann wasn’t fooled. “And yet when it comes to Dougie Jones, all that we can do is never nearly enough.”
26
Tuesday, 9:01 p.m. PST
KINCAID KICKED OFF THE TASK force debriefing by having Shelly Atkins go first. It was a subtle but effective dig at the Bakersville Sheriff’s Department, as Shelly had already admitted she had nothing to report.
“We’ll go round the table,” Kincaid announced at promptly nine p.m. “Catch everyone up on where we’re at with our individual efforts. Then we’ll discuss protocol for tomorrow’s exchange. Shelly, what do you have?”
Shelly, sitting across the table from Kincaid, blinked in surprise. She stared at Detective Spector, sitting to Kincaid’s right, then at the hostage negotiator, Candi Rodriguez, sitting on Kincaid’s left. Finally, she sighed, knowing an ambush when she saw one, and got on with it.
Kimberly walked into the conference room just as Shelly stood to make her report. Quickly, she slid into the chair Quincy had saved between him and Mac, using her hand to wipe the rain from her face. Only one other seat remained empty, for OSP Detective Alane Grove. Apparently, Kincaid wasn’t in the mood to wait for even his own people. He made a motion with his hand, and Shelly started talking.
As discreetly as she could, Kimberly nudged her father’s elbow and sketched a quick update on the yellow legal pad in front of him. She wrote: Luke Hayes = no. Lucas Bensen’s son???
Quincy stared at that notation for a long time.
“So, as per the last meeting,” Shelly was saying roughly, “the sheriff’s department has had two primary tasks. One, we’ve been checking local offenders’ alibis, as well as rattling some cages. Two, we’ve been involved in the search for seven-year-old Douglas Jones. As for our first mission, we drew up a list of twenty-seven ‘people of interest.’ As of this time, we have personally visited twelve of these individuals. Eight have been definitely ruled out as having alibis. Three we have moved to the ‘unlikely’ category. One remains a ‘person of interest,’ as well as the other fifteen, whom we hope to visit shortly.
“Now, during one of these visits, the individual in question volunteered a list of names he thought might be willing to kidnap a woman for ransom. Several of these names were already on our list. But three more emerged that I have added to the ‘people of interest’ column, bringing that total to nineteen local males.”
She glanced over the table at Kincaid, cleared her throat. “I’ll be honest. Given the late hour, and all of the other responsibilities my people have, it is doubtful we can clear nineteen names by ten a.m. tomorrow. We’ll keep at it until midnight, then I’m going to start sending my officers home in five-hour shifts, so that everyone can grab at least a little shut-eye by morning. What names we don’t have cleared—I’m guessing it’ll be a good dozen—I’ll flesh out into mini-profiles for Ms. Candi. Yes, I’ll use bullet points.”
Shelly gave the hostage negotiator a droll look. Candi responded with a sickeningly sweet smile of her own.
“Now, in regard to Dougie. I got three deputies coordinating efforts with the local search-and-rescue team, as well as the fire department, and about two dozen volunteers. They’ll keep at it for another few hours, but the woods around the Carpenter residence have been pretty thoroughly searched. Either Dougie is hiding and doesn’t want to be found, or the boy is gone, kidnapped as we suspect.”
“Have you spoken to the foster parents?” Kincaid asked.
“I haven’t, but one of my deputies has.”
“And?”
Shelly shrugged. “And what? Stanley Carpenter personally thinks Dougie has run away—according to him, Dougie remains a hellion, willing to do anything to avoid taking responsibility for his actions. ’Course, last we knew, Dougie was alleging that Stanley’s abusive. The person in charge of sorting all that out is Rainie Conner, who is our first kidnap victim and can’t exactly be reached for comment. Do I think Stanley’s telling the truth? Hell if I know. Do I think Dougie has been kidnapped or willfully ran away? Hell if I know. I only slept four hours out of the past forty. I’m just happy I’m standing up straight.”
Kincaid blinked his eyes. “Fair enough,” the sergeant said. “Did you go inside the home?”
“No, Deputy Mitchell paid the visit. The Carpenters are cooperating. Stanley’s alibis—working all day, football practice at night—both checked out. Laura spent the day home alone, so it’s a bit harder to account for her time. They allowed Deputy Mitchell to walk through the house and tour the kid’s room. It’s pretty bare, just a mattress and a sheet. The window is nailed shut and the door locks from the outside, which made Mitchell uncomfortable. But again, according to Stanley, Dougie has a history of breaking out of foster homes and committing arson, which is consistent with what we’ve heard.”
“I’d like to send the crime lab there, see what they might be able to turn up.”
Shelly shrugged. “We can try it. I think Mitchell would tell you there’s just not much to search in Dougie’s room. No desk, no books, no d
resser, no toy chest. In his cursory inspection, he couldn’t even discover a trash can. I don’t know. Maybe turning a kid’s room into a jail cell is the only way. Now see, this is why I stick to horses.”
“Did Deputy Mitchell speak with Laura Carpenter?” Kimberly spoke up.
Shelly turned toward her. “She was present when he entered the home, but it sounded like Stanley did most of the talking.”
“And did this strike Deputy Mitchell as odd?”
“You’re asking does Stanley rule the household with an iron fist?”
“I met Laura Carpenter earlier today. I was . . . concerned by her seeming lack of interest or involvement with her foster child.”
Shelly considered it. “Mitchell didn’t say anything, but I could follow up with him.”
“Do you have a deputy you consider an expert in domestic abuse cases? Or maybe an officer you consider better at speaking with battered women?”
“I do.”
“I would send that person for the follow-up visit, see if he or she could get Laura alone. Stanley is never going to tell you anything. But maybe, if we reached out to Laura . . .”
Shelly was nodding. “That makes sense. Consider it done.”
Kincaid cleared his throat, and ruffled the papers in front of him. It was his meeting, after all. “So, Kimberly. Sounds like you’ve had a busy evening. Anything you’d care to share with the task force?”
“I simply did some follow-up on Dougie Jones,” Kimberly said casually. She had no intention of mentioning her visit to Luke Hayes, nor, she knew, would her father want her to. “I paid a visit to his social worker, Peggy Ann Boyd, who was actually Dougie’s neighbor when he was born. According to her, Dougie’s always been very precocious, but at least for the first four years of his life, he was very well loved. Unfortunately, his mother was killed in a hit-and-run accident. When no family claimed him, he became a ward of the state, and his adventures with his various foster parents began. She insists that deep down inside, he’s still a good kid. He’s very angry right now, however, and in her own words, he needs that rage more than he needs to be loved.”
