The FBI Profiler Series 6-Book Bundle
Page 69
“Oh shut up, Quincy. Now you’re making me cry.” He was. She dabbed at the corners of her eyes and sniffled roughly. Damn fed.
“What are you going to do?”
“You might have a point.”
“Of course I have a point. I’m the expert.”
“I still have so much to learn.”
“Rainie—”
“No, don’t say it.”
“How do you know what I’m going to say?” He tried to reach for her. She stepped out of his grasp, already shaking her head.
“Because I do! Because for a man who’s been to so many crime scenes, you still have a romantic view of life. But it’ll never work, so just don’t say it.” She made a firm no-crossing signal with her hands.
“I want to take you out to dinner,” he said calmly.
“You are such an ass!”
“I’m promising lo mein, with green tea. I’m hoping this time we’ll both eat.”
“For chrissakes, you’re not staying, Quincy. You’re an agent. You love your job. You’re good at your job. I’m just a stop along the way.”
“I could stop a lot. It’s the advantage of being a big shot.”
“Why? To watch me cash my unemployment checks?”
“Rainie—”
“It’s true and we both know it! You’re … you, Quincy. You know who you are and where you’re going and that’s great. But I’m me. And me is a mess. I liked being a cop. God, I liked being a cop. I don’t … I don’t know what comes next. I have to figure it out. And I guess I have to go through a trial. And I can’t do that with you watching. I liked being your coworker. I won’t be your charity case.”
“Rainie.” He sounded exasperated. Then he simply sounded sincere. “I missed you these last two weeks. I drove myself crazy thinking about you. People said only civil things to me, and I honestly resented it. I wanted you instead.”
Rainie shook her head again. He was not making this easy for her. She felt longing. In all honesty, she felt pain. The scent of his cologne haunted her. It made her want to lean into his hard frame. He would hold her. He had done so that night, and it was one of the few precious memories she had.
But she still knew better. He had a hero complex, and she was too proud to be a damsel in distress.
Another minute passed. Quincy’s shoulders finally slumped. He shook his head, and it was his turn to stare at the ground. Rainie stuffed her hands in the back pockets of her jeans.
“I gotta go,” she said after a moment, looking at everything but him.
He didn’t say anything, and she figured that was that. She started walking back down the cheery street, and the sun was so bright in her eyes, it brought on tears.
She turned at the last minute. She shouldn’t do it. She did it anyway.
“Quincy.”
He quickly, hopefully looked up.
“Maybe … maybe someday, when things are going a little better. Maybe I could come visit.”
And he said honestly, “I can hardly wait.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
When I first proposed this book to my editor, it was the winter of 1998 and nearly seven months since the last shooting—Kip Kinkel’s May rampage in Springfield, Oregon. That tragedy had followed close on the heels of another, in Jonesboro, Arkansas (March 24, 1998), which had followed West Paducah, Kentucky (December 1, 1997), Pearl, Mississippi (October 1, 1997), and Bethel, Alaska (February 19, 1997). Like many Americans struggling to grasp five shootings in fifteen months, I wanted to understand why these mass murders had occurred and what could be done to prevent them.
After fine-tuning what would be appropriate to cover in a work of fiction whose goal must also be to entertain, I began researching this novel. One Monday, while wrapping up weeks of interviewing, I asked an expert if he believed that the rash of incidents indicated a new trend in juvenile behavior. While this point is controversial, the man did not hesitate to answer. “Absolutely,” he said. “As for future shootings, the question is not if but when.”
The very next day, Littleton, Colorado, joined the sad list of shot-up schools in a scope and scale that was staggering. I watched the news clips, and like people all around the world, I gave my thoughts and prayers to a community I had never met.
Each time one of these shootings occurs it is heartbreaking, but as Supervisory Special Agent Pierce Quincy tries to explain in the following pages, it does not have to be hopeless. With each tragedy, we have learned and are learning. In addition to Littleton, Springfield, and Jonesboro, there is Burlington, Wisconsin, where police responded to an anonymous tip in time to arrest three teenage boys plotting to assassinate a target list of “in” students, and there is Wimberly, Texas, where concerned students contacted police in time to foil a plot by five eighth-grade boys to blow up the junior high. People are learning to listen, and it does work.
In the end, I believe we owe an enormous debt of gratitude to each of the communities that has suffered this tragedy. By sharing their experience with us, and their sorrow, they are teaching us to be better people, students, families, and neighbors. May there come a day when white lilies and red roses are not piled against schoolyard fences. May there come a time when we are not haunted by the image of teenagers signing farewell notes on white caskets. May there be a future when our schools once again know peace.
The following people helped me tremendously with my research. I appreciate their help and patient explanations. Of course, all mistakes are mine, and some facts are subject to artistic license.
Dr. Gregory K. Moffatt, Ph.D., Professor of Psychology, Atlanta Christian College
Thomas Grisso, Ph.D., Professor of Psychiatry (Clinical Psychology), Director of Forensics Training and Research, University of Massachusetts Medical School
Steve Ellis, Officer, Amity Police Department
Rudolf Van Soolen, Chief of Police, Amity Police Department
Jonathan McCarthy, Paramedic, New Orleans Health Department
Amy Holmes Hehn, Senior Deputy District Attorney, Juvenile Division, Multnomah County
Stacy Heyworth, Senior Deputy District Attorney, Multnomah County
Michael Moore, Attorney-at-Law
Virgie Lorenz, teacher
Bruce Walker, computer whiz extraordinaire
Chad LeDoux, gun aficionado and fellow writer
Debra Dixon, author
The Next Accident is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
2012 Bantam Books Mass Market Edition
Copyright © 2001 by Lisa Baumgartner
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
BANTAM BOOKS and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Originally published in hardcover in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., in 2001.
eISBN: 978-0-553-90089-7
Cover art: © Alan Ayers
Cover design: Yook Louie
v3.1
Contents
Master Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Plan A
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Plan B
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Virginia
His mouth grazed the side of her neck. She liked the feel of his kiss, whisper-light, teasing. Her head fell back. She heard herself giggle. He drew her earlobe between his lips, and the giggle turned to a moan.
God, she loved it when he touched her.
His fingers lifted her heavy hair. They danced across the nape of her neck, then slid down her bare shoulders.
“Beautiful, Mandy,” he whispered. “Sexy, sexy, Mandy.”
She giggled again. She laughed, then she tasted salt on her lips and knew that she cried. He turned her belly-down on the bed. She didn’t protest.
His hands traced the line of her spine before settling in at her waist.
“I like this curve right here,” he murmured, dipping one finger into the concave curve at the small of her back. “Perfect for sipping champagne. Other men can have breasts and thighs. I just want this spot here. Can I have it, Mandy? Will you give that to me?”
Maybe she said yes. Maybe she just moaned. She didn’t know anymore. One bottle of champagne empty on the bed. Another half gone. Her mouth tingled with the forbidden flavor, and she kept telling herself it would be okay. It was just champagne, and they were celebrating, weren’t they? He had a new job, the BIG job, and oops, it was far away. But there would be weekend visits, maybe some letters, long-distance phone calls.…
They were celebrating, they were mourning. It was a farewell fuck, and either way champagne sex shouldn’t count with the nice folks at AA.
He tilted the open bottle of bubbly over her shoulders. Cool, sparkling fluid cascaded down her neck, pooling on the white satin sheet. She lapped it up helplessly.
“That’s my girl,” he whispered. “My sweet, sexy, girl.… Open for me, baby. Let me in.”
Her legs parted. She arched her back, the whole of her focusing down, down, down, to the spot between her legs where the ache had built and now only he could ease the pain. Only he could save her.
Fill me up. Make me whole.
“Beautiful, Mandy. Sexy, sexy, Mandy.”
“Pl-pl-please.…”
He pushed inside her. Her hips went back. Her spine seemed to melt and she gave herself over to him.
Fill me up. Make me whole.
Salt on her cheeks. Champagne on her tongue. Why couldn’t she stop crying? She tilted her head down to the sheets and sipped champagne as the room spun sickeningly.
Suddenly the bed was gone. They were outside. In the driveway. Clothes on, cheeks dry. Champagne gone, but not the thirst. Six months she’d been dry. Now she craved another drink horribly. One bottle of champagne still unopened. Maybe she could get him to give it to her for the drive home. One for the road.
Don’t go.…
“You okay, baby?”
“I’m okay,” she mumbled.
“Maybe you shouldn’t be driving. Maybe you should stay the night.…”
“I’m okay,” she murmured again. She couldn’t stay, and they both knew it. Beautiful things came, beautiful things went. If she tried to hold on now, it would just make it worse.
He was hesitating, though. Looking at her with those deep, concerned eyes. They crinkled at the corners. She had loved that when she first met him. The way his eyes creased as if he was studying her intently, really, truly seeing her. Then he’d smiled a split second later, as if merely finding her had made him so very happy.
She’d never had a man smile at her like that before. As if she were someone special.
Oh God, don’t go.…
And then: Third bottle of champagne. All full. One more for old times’ sake. One more for the road.
Her lover took her face between his hands. He stroked her cheeks with his thumbs. “Mandy …” he whispered tenderly. “The small of your back …”
She couldn’t answer anymore. She was choking on her tears.
“Wait, baby,” he said suddenly. “I have an idea.”
Driving. Thinking really hard because the narrow road curved like a snake and it was dark and it was so strange how early she could have a thought, and how late her body would be in responding. He sat beside her in the passenger’s seat. He wanted to make sure she got home safe; then he’d take a cab. Maybe she should take a cab. Maybe she was in no shape to drive. As long as he was coming with her, why was she the one at the wheel?
She couldn’t hold on to that thought long enough to make it work.
“Slow down,” he cautioned. “The road is tricky here.”
She nodded, furrowing her brow and struggling to concentrate. Wheel felt funny in her hand. Round. Huh. Pressed on the brakes. Hit the gas instead. The SUV lurched forward.
“Sorry,” she muttered. World was beginning to spin again. She didn’t feel well. Like she was going to throw up, or pass out. Maybe both. If she could just close her eyes …
Road moved on her again. Vehicle jerked.
Seat belt. Needed a seat belt. She groped for the strap, got the clasp. Pulled. Seat belt spun out toothlessly. That’s right. Broken. Must get that fixed. Someday. Today. May day. Stars spinning away, sky starting to lighten. Sun going to come up. Now she just needed a little girl singing, “Tomorrow, tomorrow, there’s always tomorrow—”
“Slow down,” he repeated from the passenger’s seat. “There’s a sharp turn ahead.”
She looked at him numbly. He had a strange gleam in his eyes. Excitement. She didn’t understand.
“I love you,” she heard herself say.
“I know,” he replied. He reached for her kindly. His hand settled on the wheel. “Sweet, sexy, Mandy. You’re never going to get over me.”
She nodded. The dam broke, and tears poured down her cheeks. She sobbed hopelessly as the Ford Explorer swerved across the road, and the gleam built in his eyes.
“I’m as good as it gets,” he continued relentlessly. “Without me, Mandy, you’ll be lost.”
“I know, I know.”
“Your own father left you. Now, I’m doing the same. The weekend visits will stop, then the phone calls. And then it will just be you, Mandy, all alone night after night after night.”
She sobbed harder. Salt on her cheeks, champagne on her lips. So alone. The black abyss. Alone, alone, alone.
“Face it, Mandy,” he said gently. “You’re not good enough to keep a man. You’re nothing but a drunk. Christ, I’m breaking up with you, and all you can think about is that third bottle of champagne. That’s the truth, isn’t it? Isn’t it?”
She tried to shake her head. She ended up nodding.
“Mandy,” he whispered. “Speed up.”
“Why didn’t Daddy come home for my birthday? But I want Daddy!”
“Sweet, sexy Mandy.”
Fill me up. Make me whole.
So alone …
“You hurt, Mandy. I know you hurt. But I’ll help you, baby. Speed up.”
Salt on her cheeks. Champagne on her lips. Her foot settling on the gas …
“One little push of the accelerator, and you’ll never be lonely again. You’ll never have to miss me.”
Her foot … The approaching curve in the road. So alone. God, I’m tired.
“Come on, Mandy. Speed up.”
Her foot pressing down …
At the last minute, she saw him. A man on the narrow shoulder of the country road. Walking his dog, looking startled to see a vehicle at this time of the morning, then even more surprised to have it bearing down on him.
Turn! Turn! Must turn! Amanda Jane Quincy jerked frantically at the wheel.…
And it remained pointed straight ahead. Her lover still gripped it, and he held it tight.
Time suspended. Mandy looked up without comprehension at the face she had grown to love. She saw the rushing dark through the window behind him. She saw the seat belt strapped tight across his strong, broad chest. And she heard him say, “Bye-bye, sweet Mandy. When you get to hell, be sure to give your father my regards.”
The Explorer hit the man. Thump bump. A short-circuited cry. The vehicle plowed ahead. And just as she was thinking it would be okay, she was still in one piece, they were still in one piece, the telephone pole reared out of the darkness.
Mandy never had time to scream. The Explorer hit the thick wooden pole at thirty-five miles per hour. The front bumper drove down, the back end came up. And her unsecured body vaulted from the driver’s seat into the windshield, where the hard metal frame crushed the top of her skull.
The passenger had no such problems. The seat belt caught his chest, pushing him back into his seat even as the front end of the Explorer crumpled. His neck snapped forward. His internal organs rushed up in his chest, momentarily cutting off his air. He gasped, blinked his eyes, and seconds later, the pressure was gone. The SUV settled in. He settled in. He was fine.
He unfastened his seat belt with his bare hands. He had done his homework and he wasn’t worried about prints. Nor was he concerned about time. A rural road in the early hours of dawn. It would be ten, twenty, thirty minutes before someone happened by.
He inspected beautiful, sexy Mandy. She still had a faint pulse, but she was now missing most of the top of her head. Even if her body was putting up a last-ditch fight, her brain would never recover.
A year and a half of planning later, he was satisfied. Amanda Jane Quincy had died scared, died confused, died heartbroken.
He and Pierce Quincy were still not even, the man thought, but it was a start.