The FBI Profiler Series 6-Book Bundle

by Lisa Gardner

  “What?”

  “Did you ask the DA to drop the charges against me?”

  “No.” He shook his head in bewilderment. “Rainie, I’m the one who told you to go through with the trial, that it was probably the best way to put the past behind you. Why would I then interfere?”

  “Fine, I’ll take your case.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll take your case! Four hundred dollars a day, plus expenses. And I don’t know beans about Virginia or motor vehicle accident investigation, so no accusing me later of not having enough experience. I’m telling you now, I’m inexperienced, and it’s still going to cost you four hundred dollars a day.”

  “There you go with that charm again.”

  “I’m a fast learner. We both know I’m a fast learner.” She said that more savagely than she’d intended. Quincy’s face nearly softened, then he caught himself.

  “Deal,” he said crisply. He picked up his jacket, drew out a manila envelope and dropped it on her glass coffee table. “There’s the accident report. It includes the name of the investigating officer. I’m sure you’ll want to start with him.”

  “Jesus, Quincy, you shouldn’t be reading that.”

  “She’s my daughter, Rainie; it’s the only thing I can do for her anymore. Now, come on, I’m buying.”

  “Buying what?”

  “Dinner. It’s too damn hot in here, Rainie, and you really need to put on some clothes.”

  “Just for that, I’m wearing the tank top to dinner. And as long as you’re buying, we’re going to Oba’s.”

  2

  Pearl District, Portland

  One night out on the town, and it was easy to slip into old roles. Quincy sweeping into town and taking her out to an extravagant restaurant. Eating great food, tropical shrimp ceviche, rare ahi tuna, butternut squash enchiladas. Quincy drank two world-famous marionberry daiquiris, served in chilled martini glasses. Rainie stuck to water, because in a place like Oba’s she was too embarrassed to conduct her little ritual of ordering—but not drinking—a Bud Light.

  They talked a little. They talked a lot. God it was good to see him again.

  “So how is the investigative business?” Quincy asked halfway through dessert, when they had exhausted small talk and settled in.

  “Good. Just got my license. Number five hundred and twenty-one, that’s me.”

  “Doing private work?”

  “Some. I got in with a few defense attorneys; they’re the ones who convinced me to get licensed. Now I can do more work for them—background checks on witnesses, crime-scene reconstruction, police report analysis. Still a lot of sitting at the desk, but it beats chasing down the cheating husband or wife.”

  “Sounds interesting.”

  Rainie laughed. “Sounds dull! I spend my time logged on to the Oregon Judicial Information Network. On a really exciting day, I might access my Oregon State Police account to peruse criminal history. It takes intelligence, but we’re not talking adrenaline rush.”

  “I read lots of reports, too,” Quincy said, sounding mildly defensive.

  “You fly places. You talk to people. You get there while the blood’s still fresh.”

  “You miss it that much, Rainie?”

  She avoided his gaze to keep from answering, wished she did have a bottle of Bud Light, and switched topics. “How’s Kimberly?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Rainie arched a brow. “I thought she was the daughter who liked you.”

  Quincy grimaced. “Tact, Rainie. Tact.”

  “I strive to be consistent.”

  “Kimberly needs some space. I think her sister’s accident hit her harder than the rest of us. She’s angry, and I don’t think she’s comfortable with that yet.”

  “Angry with Amanda, or angry with you and Bethie?”

  “To be honest, I’m not sure.”

  Rainie nodded. “I always wanted a sister. I figured that must be something special, to have a genetic ally in the world. Someone to play with. Someone to fight with. Someone who had your parents, too, so she could tell you if your mom really was nuts, or if it was all in your head. But it doesn’t sound like Mandy has been much of an ally for Kimberly. Instead, she’s been the major source of family stress.”

  “The rebellious older sister, getting all the attention,” Quincy agreed.

  “While Kimberly behaves as the model child, the born diplomat.”

  “Bethie hates for me to say it, but Kim will make a terrific agent someday.”

  “She’s still pursuing criminology?”

  “Psychology for her B.A. Now she’s looking at submatriculating into a master’s program for criminology.” The lines in Quincy’s forehead momentarily smoothed away. He was very proud of his younger daughter, and it showed on his face. “How’s Bakersville?” he asked presently.

  “Okay. Moving on the best you can after these things.”

  “Shep and Sandy?”

  “Still together.” Rainie shook her head as if to say, who understood. “Shep’s working for a security company in Salem. Sandy’s gotten active in revamping juvenile law.”

  “Good for her. And Luke Hayes?”

  “Making a fine new sheriff, or so he tells me. I visited five, six months ago. The town’s in good hands.”

  “I’m surprised you went back.”

  “Luke had some business for me.”

  Quincy gazed at her curiously; she finally gave up the information with a shrug. “He was getting inquiries about my mom.”

  “Your mom?” Quincy was surprised. Rainie’s mother had been dead for fifteen years, murdered by a shotgun blast to the head. Most of the people in Bakersville figured Rainie had pulled the trigger. That’s what happens when you leave a house with brains dripping down your hair.

  “Some guy was calling around town, trying to find her. Luke thought I should know about it.”

  “Why after all this time?”

  Rainie grinned; she couldn’t help herself. “The guy had just gotten out of prison. Released after serving thirty years for aggravated murder. Yeah, my mom knew how to pick ’em.”

  “And apparently she knew how to make an impression,” Quincy added drolly, “if the man was still thinking about her thirty years later.”

  “Luke gave him the score. Ran a background check to be sure nothing was funny. Passed it along to me, and that’s that.”

  Quincy had that strange look on his face again. Rainie thought he might be about to say more, then he apparently changed his mind.

  The waiter came with the bill. Quincy paid it. And just like old times, Rainie pretended it didn’t bother her.

  The sensible thing would’ve been to end the night there. Quincy had flown in, handed her some desperately needed business, and taken her out on the town. She should quit while she was ahead. But it was only seven o’clock, the temperature was just beginning to cool, and her ego still felt raw.

  Rainie walked him through the Pearl District. Look at this gorgeous antique store, complete with a Porsche illegally parked out front. Here’s another coffeehouse, here’s an art gallery, here’s a showroom for unique, handmade furniture. She led him by rows of recently converted warehouses, their facades now redone in creamy yellows and warm brick reds, modest exteriors for half-a-million-dollar condos and luxurious penthouse suites. People sat in tiny square gardens that dotted each front door. More than a few J. Crew-clad couples walked their prized black Labs down well-manicured streets.

  Look at this place, Rainie thought. Look at me. Not bad for a small-town Bakersville girl.

  Then she glanced down at her ripped-up shorts and ratty tank top, and that quickly, the euphoria left her. She wanted this world, with its pretty, pretty things. She hated this world, with its pretty, pretty things. She was thirty-two years old, and she still didn’t know who she was or what she wanted out of life. It made her angry, but mostly with herself.

  She made an abrupt about-face, and headed for the hills. After a confused
moment, Quincy followed.

  Touché was a local place. It had stood when poor college students were the only ones who found the declining warehouse district inhabitable. It would stand long after the SUV crowd got tired of cavernous lofts and fled for greener pastures. The downstairs of the building was a restaurant. Not bad. The upstairs was a pool hall. Much better.

  Rainie handed over her driver’s license and a wad of cash at the bar. In return, she got a rack of billiard balls, two cue sticks, and two Bud Lights. Quincy arched a brow, then took off his jacket. He wore the only suit in a dimly lit room filled with half a dozen bikers and two dozen college kids. He was now the fish out of water, and he knew it.

  “Eight ball,” Rainie said. “Junk balls count the same as a scratch. Hit the eight in first and you die.”

  “I know the game,” he said evenly.

  “I bet you do.” She racked up the balls, then handed him the cue stick to break. He offered her the first pleasant surprise by rolling the stick on the table to test for warp.

  “Not bad,” he commented.

  “They run a good show here. Now stop stalling and break.”

  He was good. She’d expected that. In their time together, she hadn’t found his weak spot yet, something that both irritated her and held her attention. But Rainie had been living in the Pearl District for four months now, and Touché was still the only place that felt like home. The tables were scuffed from use, the carpet well worn, the bar beat up. The place had taken its lickings, just like her.

  Quincy hit two balls in on the break and went on a six-ball run before missing. Leonard, the bartender, stopped by long enough to watch, then shrugged indifferently. Touché attracted its fair share of pool sharks and he’d seen better.

  Rainie took over with a swagger. She felt good now. Adrenaline in her veins, a pleasant hum in her ears. She was smiling. She could feel it on her face. A light was beginning to burn in Quincy’s eyes. She could feel it on her bare arms as she bent over the table. His shirt collar was open, his sleeves rolled up. He had chalk on his hands and another light blue smudge on his cheek.

  They were on dangerous ground now. She liked it.

  “Corner pocket,” she said, and the game truly began.

  They played for three hours. He won the first game when she got cute and tried to hop the cue ball over the eight. She missed. He won the second game when she got aggressive and tried a triple bank shot to close out the table. She missed again. Then she won the third, fourth, and fifth games by nailing those same shots and giving Quincy’s meticulous nature something to consider.

  “Give up yet?” she asked him.

  “Just warming up, Rainie. Just warming up.”

  She gave him a huge grin and returned to the table. Game six, he surprised her by exchanging some of his finesse for power. So he’d been holding out on her. It only made things more interesting.

  He got her game six; they settled in for game seven.

  “You’ve been playing a lot,” he observed halfway through a four-ball run. His tone was mild, but his brow was covered with a sheen of sweat and he was taking more time to line up his shots than he had in the beginning.

  “I like it here.”

  “It’s a nice place,” he agreed. “But for real pool, you need to go to Chicago.”

  He went after the eight ball and missed. Rainie took the cue stick from him.

  “Fuck Chicago,” she told him and cleared the felt-lined table.

  “What now?” Quincy asked. He was breathing hard. She was, too. The room had grown hot. The hour was late. She was not so naïve that she missed the nuances in his question. She looked around inside, at the poor, beat-up room. She looked outside, where streetlights glowed charmingly. She thought of her beautiful, overpriced loft. She thought of her old fifties-style rancher in Bakersville and the soaring pine trees she still missed.

  She looked at Quincy then, and …

  “I should go home now,” she said.

  “I thought as much.”

  “I got a big job in the morning.”

  “Rainie …”

  “Nothing’s really changed, has it? We can fool ourselves for a bit, but nothing’s changed.”

  “I don’t know if anything changed, Rainie. I never knew what was wrong to begin with.”

  “Not here.”

  “Yes here! I understand what happened that last night. I know I didn’t handle it as well as I could’ve. But I was willing to try again. Except next thing I knew, you were too busy to see me when I came into town, then you were so busy you couldn’t even return a phone call. For God’s sake, I know what you’re going through, Rainie. I know it’s not easy—”

  “There you go again. Pity.”

  “Understanding is not pity!”

  “It’s close enough!”

  He closed his eyes. She could tell he was counting to ten so he wouldn’t give in to impulse and strangle her. There was irony in that, because physical abuse was something she would have understood better and they both knew it.

  “I miss you,” he said finally, quietly. “Eight months later, I still miss you. And yes, I probably came here and offered you a job for that reason as much as anything—”

  “I knew it!”

  “Rainie, I won’t miss you forever.”

  The words hung in the air. She didn’t pretend to misunderstand them. She thought of Bakersville again, the house she grew up in, that big back deck, those gorgeous towering pine trees. She thought of that one day fifteen years ago, then that one night, fifteen years ago, and she knew he must be thinking of them, too. Quincy had told her once that getting the truth out would set her free.

  One year later, she wasn’t so sure. She lived with the truth these days, and all she could think was that there were still so many things cluttering the space between.

  “I should go home now,” she said again.

  And he repeated, “I thought as much.”

  Rainie walked home alone. She turned on the lights of her cavernous loft alone. She took a cool shower, brushed her teeth, and climbed into bed alone.

  She had a bad dream.

  She was in a desert in Africa. She knew the place from some wildlife show she’d watched one night on the Discovery Channel. In her dream, she half recognized the scenes as part of that TV program, and half felt they were unfolding in real time in front of her.

  The desert plains. A horrible drought. A baby elephant born to a sick, exhausted mother. He rose shakily to his feet, covered in goo. His mother sighed and passed away.

  Sitting too far away to help, Rainie heard herself cry, “Run little guy, run.” Though she didn’t know yet why she was afraid.

  The hour-old baby leaned against his mother, trying to nurse a corpse. Finally, he staggered away.

  Rainie followed him through the desert. The air shimmered with heat, the hard-baked earth cracked beneath their feet. The orphaned elephant uttered little moans as he searched for food, for companionship. He came to a grove of sagging trees and rubbed his body against the thick trunks.

  “The newborn pachyderm mistakes the tree trunks for his mother’s legs,” Rainie heard an unseen narrator report. “He rubs against them to announce his presence and seek comfort. When none comes, the exhausted creature continues his search for badly needed water in the midst of this savage drought.”

  “Run little guy, run,” Rainie whispered again.

  The baby lurched forward. Hours passed. The baby began to stumble more. Collapsing into the unforgiving ground. Heaving himself back up and continuing on.

  “He must find water,” the narrator droned. “In desert life, water means the difference between life and death.”

  Suddenly, a herd of elephants appeared on the horizon. As they neared, Rainie could see other young calves running protectively in the shade of their mothers’ bulk. When the herd paused, the babies stopped to nurse, and the mothers stroked them with their trunks.

  She was relieved. Other elephants had arrived, the o
rphan would be saved.

  The herd came closer. The baby ran to them, bleating his joy. And the head bull elephant stepped forward, picked up the infant with his trunk, and hurtled him away. The nine-hour-old baby landed hard. He didn’t move.

  The narrator commented again. “It is not uncommon for a herd of elephants to adopt an orphan into its midst. The aggressive behaviour you see here is indicative of the severity of the drought. The herd is already under stress trying to sustain its own members, and thus is not willing to add to their group. Indeed, the bull elephant sees the newborn as a threat to his herd’s survival and acts accordingly.”

  Rainie was trying to run to the downed infant. The desert grew broader, vaster. She couldn’t get there. “Run little guy, run.”

  The baby finally stirred. He shook his head, climbed unsteadily to his feet. His legs trembled. She thought he was going to go down again, then he bowed his head, pulled himself together, and the shaking stopped.

  The passing herd was still in sight. The baby ran after them.

  A younger bull elephant turned, paused, then kicked the tiny form in the head. The baby fell back. Cried. Tried again. Two other male elephants turned. He ran to them. They slammed him to the ground. He staggered back up. They slammed him back down. The baby kept coming, crying, crying, crying. And they pummeled him into the hard, cracked earth. Then they turned and ponderously moved on.

  “Run little guy, run,” Rainie whispered. She had tears on her cheeks.

  The infant crawled wearily to his feet. There was blood on his head. Flies buzzed around the torn flesh. One of his eyes had swollen shut. Nine hours of life, all of it cruel, and still he fought to live another.

  He took a step. Then one more. Step-by-step, he followed the main elephant herd, no longer bothering to cry and no longer getting near enough to be charged.

  Three hours later, the sun sank low and the herd found a shallow pool of water. One by one, the elephants went into the water. According to the narrator, the newborn orphan was waiting for them to be done, then he would have his turn.

  Rainie finally breathed easier. It was going to be all right now. The animals had found water, they would feel less threatened, they would help the orphan. He had persisted, and now everything would be all right. That’s the way it works. You bear the unbearable. You earn the happily-ever-after.