by Lisa Gardner
“We are,” she corrected him. Stanley flushed again, and in that moment, Rainie could see how a young high school girl would seem so attractive to him. Someone who looked up to the big, strong football coach. Hung on every word he said.
“Has he ever talked to you about the night his mother died?” she asked Stanley.
The man shook his head.
“He needs to talk about that more. On his own terms, in his own time. But he believes it’s his fault that she’s dead. And that guilt fuels a great deal of his rage. Toward himself and you.”
“Why would he think it’s his fault his mom got hit by a car?” Laura asked with a frown.
“Because apparently he left the apartment that night. He went looking for her, and in his own mind, she was killed chasing after him.”
Stanley’s eyes widened. “Was she?”
“Of course not,” Rainie said impatiently. “She was killed by a drunk driver before Dougie ever left the apartment. Just check the police report.”
“Poor kid,” Stanley murmured, and for a change, his wife didn’t argue.
“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” Laura said at last. “Why’d the reporter do all this? Befriend Dougie. Kidnap you, kidnap him. I mean, what was the point?”
“Fame, fortune, and a finely baked apple pie,” Quincy murmured, then he and Rainie left the room.
Quincy waited until they had checked out of the hospital, had gotten into his car. “How would a police report include the detail that Dougie’s mother was killed before he left the apartment? From what you’re saying, no one even knew that the boy had left the room.”
Rainie shrugged. “You know that and I know that. But they don’t know that.”
He reached across the front seat, squeezed her hand. “You’re a very nice woman, Rainie Conner.”
“For a liar?” she asked lightly.
But he heard the catch in her voice as she turned away from him and started to cry.
Home was harder than Rainie thought it would be. She took her medication, roamed rooms that were supposed to make her feel comfortable, and waited to magically get on with her life. While she cycled back to a refrigerator that had been cleared of all booze. While she woke up in the middle of the night, sweat soaked and bursting with fear. While Quincy stared at her and told her he loved her, and she remembered again what it was like to be so loved and still feel all alone.
Kimberly was given a clean bill of health. She and Mac stayed the night, and for twenty-four hours the house was filled with talking and laughter once more. They played cards, talked shop.
Mac and Quincy stayed up late after the women had gone to bed. Mac had an idea for the Astoria case. Quincy thought it wasn’t half bad.
And then, before Mac went to bed: “How is she doing?” he asked, head nodding toward the master bedroom.
“Terrible,” Quincy said bluntly.
“Do you want us to stay?”
“It’s not the kind of thing where another person can make a difference.”
“That must really suck for you,” Mac said quietly.
And Quincy said the first words that came to mind: “Thank you.”
Quincy waited until the next morning, when Rainie had gone for a run, to give Abe Sanders a call. They had touched base briefly after Rainie had been recovered. Sanders’s suspect, Duncan, had magically reappeared later that night, only to disappear twice more since then. They had stepped up surveillance but were still hampered by lack of evidence. They had no basis for a warrant, no plausible reason to even stop the man for a search. But Duncan was up to something. Sanders felt fairly strongly the man had a new target.
Quincy passed along Mac’s idea. Sanders considered it. “Well, we’ve tried dumber tactics.”
“Let me know.”
Sanders hung up, Rainie returned from her run, and Quincy searched her things while she took her shower, looking for any sign of recently purchased beer.
This was what it meant to live with an alcoholic.
Then he went into his study and sat for a long time simply staring at the photo of his daughter.
He drove to Portland several times, visited Shelly in the hospital. She was the belle of the burn ward, entertaining nurses and patients alike with dirty jokes and stories of incompetent criminals. She seemed to look forward to Quincy’s visits, particularly as he always brought her chamomile tea.
She’d show off her most recent skin grafts. He’d nod somberly and try not to turn too many shades of green.
Shelly’s policing days were done. She was looking at one year at least of various surgeries and rehabilitative therapies. Her left foot was twisted. Her hip ruined. She was still one of the best-spirited people Quincy knew, and he often thought he felt more comfortable with her in the burn ward than with Rainie at home.
The fourth visit, she had good news.
“I’m going to Paris!” she announced.
“You’re going to Paris?”
“Yep. It’s always been a dream of mine. I mentioned it a few weeks ago when I did that crazy interview. Guess it twisted some soft sap’s heart. The sheriff’s department received an anonymous donation of an all-expense-paid trip to Paris for me. Soon as they get my burned ass out of this wheelchair, I’m on a plane.”
“The Left Bank will never be the same,” Quincy assured her.
“Sure you don’t know anything about the donation?” she quizzed.
“Absolutely not.”
She’d always been the smart one. “Thanks,” she said quietly. “I owe you one.”
Which, Quincy thought, looking at the long ropes of scar tissue twisting down her arms, was the saddest thing he’d ever heard.
Kincaid stopped by later in the day. Forensic experts had been going through Danicic’s computer. The reporter had truly enjoyed the written word. In addition to crafting long, rambling e-mails to himself, he had already started his autobiography, Life of a Hero.
From what they could piece together, Danicic had concocted his plan not for the ten grand, but to cast himself as the hero in a real-world drama that would catapult him to instant fame. Through his selfless efforts, he would single-handedly help police officers negotiate the rescue of two innocents. Tragically, the victims would already be dead by the time investigators arrived at the scene, cruelly locked up in the basement and left to drown. This would allow Danicic to appear mournful as he embarked on his nationwide media tour, cultivating a new personality as an expert on violent crime who would soon become a permanent fixture on the cable news channel of your choice. Basically, Danicic hadn’t been motivated by quick money. He’d been looking for a whole new lifestyle.
In the attic of his house, they found box after box of books. Case studies of violent offenders. Textbooks on police procedure and the latest forensic techniques. Printout after printout cataloguing famous kidnappers and where they had gone wrong. In many ways, the kidnappings had been his life’s work.
As for why Rainie and Dougie, Kincaid still wasn’t sure. Maybe they were back to Quincy’s point: A woman and small child seemed less threatening targets. Maybe it was opportunity, because Danicic had struck up a friendship with Dougie and quickly realized how easily the troubled boy could be manipulated. Maybe because Rainie’s spouse and occupation would lend the case that much more media interest.
They could only guess; Danicic wasn’t alive to tell them.
One week later, Quincy had a phone call out of the blue. Special Agent Glenda Rodman wanted to let him know that Andrew Bensen had been located in Canada, where he was seeking special status as a conscientious objector of the war. She thought Quincy would like to know.
And two days after that, Quincy finally got the call he’d been waiting for.
Afterward, he found Rainie outside, staring at the mountains, sipping a cup of tea with hands that still had a tendency to tremble.
“Let’s go,” he said, and headed for the car without another word.
Quincy was the one known for his silence. But in
all the years he had spent with Rainie, he’d come to understand her quietness as well. The way she could sink deep within herself, shoulders hunched, chin down. The way she would stop making eye contact, her gaze going more and more to the grand outdoors, as if she would like to disappear into that towering bank of firs, as if she could will herself to cease to exist.
By the time they had arrived in Astoria, she was curled up in a ball, knees by her chin, arms around her legs for support. Her eyes had taken on a bruised, haunted look.
He wondered sometimes if this was how she had looked when her mother struck her. And sometimes, the image was too sharp in his head. A younger, more defenseless version of Rainie curled up on the floor. And an older, drunken version of Rainie, pounding away. Two sides of his wife. A past she was seeking to escape. A future she was desperate to avoid.
They arrived at the cemetery. Rainie knew where they were. She’d come here before with Quincy and, he would guess, many more times on her own.
She walked straight to the grave. Looked down at the stone angel. And then, as if unable to help herself, stroked the granite cheek with her fingers.
“Charles Duncan was arrested today,” Quincy said. “I wanted you—and them—to hear the news from me. Duncan confessed to killing Aurora and Jennifer Johnson. Sanders has a signed statement, as well as a confession on tape.”
“He confessed?” Rainie asked, sounding bewildered.
“It was Mac’s idea. With all the forensic reports now done, Sanders and the experts have a fairly clear idea what happened that night. Order of events, details of the rampage. So Sanders picked Duncan up. Told him they had a new development: They’d found a receipt in Jennifer’s papers for a nanny cam. Turns out there was a camera stuffed in a bear in Aurora’s room.”
“Really?”
“No. This was Mac’s gambit. I believe it’s called blindman’s bluff. It’s not the easiest thing in the world to pull off, but again, this is where the evidence reports made the difference. Sanders dangled a few details. Duncan cracked. Good thing, too. Sanders found a Peeping Tom report filed away—Duncan’s taken to following and spying on a checkout girl who works at his neighborhood Safeway.”
“Oh, thank God.” Rainie’s hand went over her mouth. “It’s over. He did it. It’s done.”
“Yes,” Quincy said, and in spite of himself, his own voice grew hoarse. “It’s over, Rainie. It’s done.”
“I don’t want to have nightmares anymore.” Rainie started to cry. “I don’t want to keep reaching out for a little girl I can’t save. The world is cruel. Our jobs are hopeless. I don’t even know how to love anymore. I just need to hate.”
She collapsed in his arms, still weeping, still talking. Half of it made sense. Half of it didn’t. He held her, let her get it all out. And then he stroked her back, playing with the short, feathery wisps of her hair. He willed his strength into her, as if one man’s love could heal his wife. And he wasn’t surprised when she stepped away from him and wiped her eyes.
They went back to the car in silence. They drove home in silence.
And later that night, when she said she was going to see Dougie, Quincy let her go, and prayed for his own sake, as much as anyone’s, that she wasn’t actually going to a bar.
Dougie’s room had a new decoration: the yearbook photo of his mother, blown up to an eight-by-ten and nicely framed. Laura of all people had had it done. In return, Dougie had started using words such as “please” and “thank you” when the older woman was around. It gave Rainie a surreal feeling every time she came to the house.
He must have had a good day, because he was playing in his room with a new toy car when she drove up. Outside, it was pitch black with the threat of freezing rain, so even Dougie was in for the night.
Rainie sat cross-legged on the floor, while Dougie drove the car all over his mattress. “Vroooooom. Vroom. Vroom. Vroom.”
“So, what did you think of Dr. Brown?” she asked.
The boy shrugged. “He’s all right.”
“Good toys?”
“Too many Spider-Men,” Dougie said seriously. “What’s so great about Spider-Man? Now Beetle-Man, that would be a hero. Vrooooom.”
“Maybe you can help him see the light. When do you see him again?”
Dougie stopped driving his car, looked at her perplexed. “See him again? But I went!”
Rainie had to laugh. “It’s therapy, Dougie. It takes more than one session to figure things out. You have to give it time.”
“But it’s talking.”
“Well, maybe you’ll come to like Spider-Man.”
Dougie gave her a skeptical look and resumed racing his car around the mattress.
Driving home, Rainie thought of Dougie and smiled. The boy was doing okay in his own way. He still antagonized Stanley. He still talked longingly of fire. But he was now more and more inside the house, playing, relaxed, part of the family, whether he realized it or not. She liked that he had the picture of his mother back. She liked that from time to time, he would tell a story from when he was a baby. Some of his tales sounded like fantasy to her, but in his own way, Dougie was reclaiming his past. It seemed to settle him, give him a first glimpse of the future.
He had hope. Unlike so many other children. Unlike Aurora Johnson.
The thought bruised her, hurt her all over again even after all these months. And she could feel the darkness rear up in the back of her mind, feel the telltale heaviness settle in her shoulders. And her thoughts, of course, fed on the darkness from there.
All the children out there who never had a chance. The child predators on the prowl right now. What eight-year-old was being tucked into bed right now who would never live to see the morning? What young girl was about to be snatched from her own home while her parents slept unaware down the hall?
And Rainie was left hurting, aching, reeling from the sheer hopelessness of it all.
Think happy thoughts, she told herself, almost inanely. Yellow-flowered fields, smooth-flowing streams. Of course, none of it worked.
So she thought of Dougie again. She reminded herself of the satisfied look on his face as he raced his car around the room. And she thought of all the other children out there who were bruised and battered, but somehow—somehow—found a way to survive.
She wanted so much for those children. Fiercely. Passionately. For them to grow up. For them to be free. For them to break the cycle of abuse, to find the unconditional love every person was entitled to. For them to be happy.
And she wondered how she could want so much for them, yet so little for herself. She was one of those children, too. She was a survivor.
And then, for the first time in a long time, she knew what she had to do.
She drove up the gravel driveway. She strode through the stinging rain into her house. She found Quincy sitting in front of the fire, a tight look around his mouth.
“Dougie says hi,” she volunteered loudly. “He earned himself a new toy car.”
And that quickly Quincy’s shoulders came down, the tension eased in his face. She knew what he’d been thinking, what he’d been worrying, and it brought tears to her eyes.
She stood there for the longest time. Minutes. Hours. She didn’t know. She looked at her husband and she knew she was seeing him again for the very first time. The gray that was now more visible than the jet in his hair. The fresh lines creasing the corners of his mouth. The way he sat so stiffly in his own home before his own wife, as if he were steeling himself for what she’d do next.
She strode forward before the momentum left her. She dropped to her knees in front of him. She reached out her hand. She said the words that needed to be said: “My name is Rainie Conner, and I am an alcoholic.”
The look on his face was so grave, it nearly broke her heart all over again. He took her hand. “My name is Pierce Quincy, and I’m the man who still loves you. Get off your knees, Rainie. You never have to bow before me.”
“I’m so sorry—”
> “Shhh.”
“I want our life back.”
“Me too.”
“I don’t know where to start.”
“Tell me you still love me.”
“Oh, Quincy, I love you.”
“Tell me you won’t drink again.”
“I’ll join a program. I’ll do what needs to be done. I won’t ever drink again.”
He drew her up onto his lap, buried his face against the soft wisps of her newly grown hair. “Congratulations, Rainie. You’ve just taken the first step.”
“It’s a very long road,” she whispered softly.
“I know, sweetheart. That’s why I’m going to hold your hand all the way.”
Acknowledgments
My favorite part of writing any novel is easily the chance to pester a bunch of fine folks who have the misfortune to answer their phones, or in this case, their e-mail. Each book brings me a bunch of new research topics. And each research topic brings me a bunch of new experts to harass.
This time around, I’m deeply indebted to the patient men and women of the Oregon State Police. In particular, Lieutenant Gregg Hastings, for helping me understand the inner workings of the department, as well as life as a public information officer; Lieutenant Jason Bledsoe, who has a mind even more devious than my own and challenged my fictional crime over and over again until I finally got it right; and Lieutenant Beth Carpenter, Portland Crime Lab, who graciously permitted my husband and myself to tour the new, state-of-the-art facility, which at the time was decorated with the wackiest decorations I’ve ever seen (shotgun-shell Christmas tree lights, anyone? Or how about the latent-prints Christmas tree, which was decorated with fake thumbs?).
Of course, I also harassed my pharmacist of choice, Margaret Charpentier, for her yearly contribution to my fictional murder and mayhem. And I pressed my dear friend Dr. Greg Moffatt, whose brilliant insights into troubled minds allow my characters to reach new levels of twistedness.
As always, these people shared with me accurate and precise information. I, of course, abused, corrupted, and heavily fictionalized everything from there.
