by Lisa Gardner
“He’s doesn’t even know he has a son! How can the man kill him? He doesn’t even remember I exist. Goddammit, goddammit, GODDAMMIT!”
He hurtled the phone receiver to the floor. It shattered into bits but it wasn’t enough. He grabbed a chair and smashed it into the stove. He hurtled the coffeepot into the sink. He flipped over the table with a roar.
“Dad …”
“I can’t go I have to stay he might be alive you never know. I can’t leave him he’s my father and he doesn’t even know he has a son. He’s going to be tortured and murdered and oh God did you see what that monster did to Bethie and he’s just a sick old man he doesn’t even know he has a son. Jesus Christ, Rainie, he doesn’t even know he has a son.…”
“You’re coming to Portland.”
“NO!”
“You’re coming to Portland, Quincy. We won’t let you stay. It’s exactly what this sicko wants.”
“My father—”
“Quincy, he’s dead. I am so sorry, but he’s dead. You know he’s dead. I am so sorry.…”
Quincy’s knees buckled. He went down on the floor, surrounded by glass and wood and fragments of plastic phone. He went down on the floor and he looked at Rainie with an expression she hoped she would never have to see again.
“My father,” he whispered. “My father …”
“Daddy, I’m scared. Please Daddy, I need you.”
Quincy turned toward his daughter. She had begun to cry. A heartbeat passed. Rainie didn’t know what he was thinking. Looking at his daughter and seeing traces of his rapidly vanishing past? Or looking at his scared, stricken little girl, and seeing a future that could still happen?
Quincy held open his arms. Kimberly flew into his embrace.
“It’s going to be all right, Kimmy,” Quincy murmured. “I promise you, it’s going to be all right.”
Then he closed his eyes, and Rainie knew why. He didn’t want any of them to see that he had just told a lie.
24
JFK International Airport, New York
Friday morning, five thirty-five, eastern standard time, they boarded the first flight for Portland, Oregon, proud owners of three tickets purchased with cash the day before. They had shown ID to pick up the tickets, then Quincy had used the power of his FBI creds to get the woman at the counter to change their names to aliases so there would be no record of their flight. The attendant had looked secretly excited to be involved in some sort of covert law enforcement operation. The three of them had remained pale and drawn, exhaustion making them sway on their feet.
The thunderstorms had finally passed, though the sky was still dark and the runway slick with rain. Ground crews in yellow windbreakers ran around the plane, loading bags. Onboard, Rainie watched them shout orders at each other, but could not hear their words.
Kimberly sat next to the window. She had taken her seat and almost immediately fallen asleep, her head slumped against the bulkhead. Rainie had the middle. She’d passed the threshold where sleep was still possible and now she was too awake, unbearably aware of the world around her. Quincy sat on her right. His face had become a mask. Once, she’d touched the back of his hand. He had moved it away from her. She had not tried again since.
“When my mother died, I hated my father,” he said.
“What caused her death?”
“Heart attack. She was only thirty-four. No one saw it coming.”
“Doesn’t sound like it was your father’s fault.”
“I was a boy. My father had the power to make everything right, ergo he was also responsible for everything that went wrong. I used to ask him why she died. He always gave me the same answer. ‘Because she did.’ ”
“Shit happens,” Rainie said.
“Yes, the swamp Yankee version of shit happens. It took me years to realize it was the best answer he could give. Sometimes there’s simply no reason for why things happen. What is karma to a little boy? What is the divine wisdom of God? What is the fecklessness of fate? Why did my mother die? Because she did. In his own way, my father was teaching me a very important lesson.”
Rainie didn’t say anything.
“Mandy didn’t deserve to die,” Quincy said. “Bethie didn’t deserve to die, and my father didn’t deserve to die. Shit didn’t happen. One man did.”
“We’ll find him, Quincy.”
“I’m going to kill him, Rainie. I spent four years being trained to heal as a psychologist, and the thought doesn’t bother me. I’m going to find him and kill him. What does that make me?”
She hesitated. “Vengeful,” she said at last.
He nodded as the plane finally powered up and prepared for ascent. He said, “I can live with that.”
25
Bakersville, Oregon
Sheriff Luke Hayes lounged against his patrol car outside of Martha’s Diner, looking deceptively sleepy in the midday heat. Standing at five nine, with rapidly thinning hair and a featherweight’s wiry frame, he didn’t possess the kind of physical presence that immediately struck fear in a suspect’s heart. It wasn’t a problem, however. For one thing, he hit harder than most timbermen. For another thing, he moved three times as fast. Word generally spread pretty quick. See that bald guy? Don’t go after him or he’ll whip your ass. Hey, it was bad enough to go down in a bar brawl, let alone to be publicly dropped by a guy roughly half your body weight and possessing only a tenth of your hair.
By far, Luke’s best feature was his eyes. He possessed a pair of riveting baby blues that soothed enraged housewives, calmed rifle-toting drunks, and pacified screaming kids. A suspect had once accused him of practicing major mojo with his gaze. Luke didn’t think he possessed any special magic. He was just a naturally calm guy with a solid, even temperament. You’d be surprised how many women dug that.
His eyes weren’t visible at the moment. They were closed against the white-hot sun, his face turned up slightly as if seeking a cooling breeze. The coastal air was flat today, however. Stagnant. He sighed heavily.
His head came down. He opened his eyes. And found Rainie standing in front of him.
“Another busy day in Bakersville,” she said dryly.
“Gonna be a fight by six. Probably two fights if this heat keeps up.”
“Maybe you should give up law enforcement. Sell air-conditioning units instead.”
“It’s not half-bad an idea. I could start by giving myself one. Hello, Rainie. Good to see you again.”
He held out his hand. She clasped it warmly and didn’t immediately let go. He thought she looked tired. Her cheeks had that gaunt look she always got when she was pushing herself too hard. She was a beautiful woman, always had been in a striking sort of way. Wide cheekbones, full lips, soft gray eyes. But her body was slimmer now, rangy like a fighter’s. And she’d cut off all her rich, chestnut hair, giving herself some spiky city do when he could’ve told her that half the men in Bakersville dreamed about that long, lush hair. The feel of it in their hands. The look of it, pooled on their pillows. Pipe dreams, of course. But nice ones during the gray Oregon winters.
“Sheriff uniform suits you,” Rainie said.
Luke puffed out his chest. “I’m a stud.”
She laughed. “All the nice Protestant ladies are lining up their daughters just for you?”
“Tough to be a hero, but somebody’s got to do it.”
“God, I miss this place.”
“Yeah, Rainie. We’ve missed you, too.”
They went into the diner. Carl Mitz wasn’t due to show up for another hour. By mutual agreement, they slid into their old booth and ordered a late lunch/early dinner.
“How’s Chuckie?” Rainie asked after ordering the Friday special—chicken-fried steak with extra gravy and garlic-mashed potatoes. Guaranteed to add an inch to your waistline, or your money back.
“Cunningham has settled down,” Luke answered. “Bit more confident these days. Plus, I think we’ve gone a whole month without him drawing down on some poor civvie whose o
nly mistake was daring to run a red light during Chuckie’s shift.”
“He’s stopped attacking the taxpayers? That is progress. And the rest of the town?”
“One-year anniversary was tough,” Luke said softly. “Still a lot of paranoia, some bad blood. I hate to say it, but it’s probably a good thing Shep and Sandy moved away. I’m not sure folks could’ve handled it otherwise.”
“What a shame.”
“It’s human nature, Rainie. We’re all looking for something to believe in, and someone to blame.”
“Still—”
“We’re okay, Rainie. That’s the joy of small towns—even when we change, we don’t change. Now how about you?”
She didn’t say anything right away, which he had expected. She had always been a private person, even when it had been just her, him, and Shep, a three-man sheriff’s department united against the world. But then, that’s what Luke liked about Rainie. She could be moody. She possessed one hell of a temper. But you knew she’d get the job done. She showed up, she delivered, and when things had gotten rocky, Luke had been proud to have her in charge.
He’d been sad—no, he’d been angry—when the narrow-minded town council had demanded that she go. He had thought she’d put up more of a fight, and like a lot of folks in Bakersville, he’d been surprised, maybe even hurt, when she hadn’t.
“Quincy’s in trouble,” she said abruptly.
“I gathered that.”
“It’s … bad, Luke. Very bad.”
“Accident wasn’t an accident?”
She nodded. “Amanda was murdered by somebody out to get Quincy. Except it didn’t end there. The man then used her death to target Quincy’s ex-wife. Befriended her, romanced her, and slaughtered her, Luke. Absolutely butchered her. That crime scene was barely twenty-four hours old, before he kidnapped Quincy’s father.”
Luke arched a brow. “Bureau’s got to be involved,” he said tightly. He liked Quincy, seemed like a good guy. At least for a fed.
“Sure, the Bureau’s involved. Any day now, we think they’ll arrest Quincy.”
“What?”
“He’s been framed for the murder of his ex-wife. Did I mention that?”
“When G-men make enemies, they make enemies.” Luke was frowning. “How’s he holding up?”
“I don’t know.”
Luke’s frown deepened. “I thought you’d know better than most. Or has something changed?”
“For God’s sake, Luke, the man’s family is being hunted. We’re living Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None. Now is not exactly the time to put him on a sofa and say, Hey, Quince, tell me how you really feel.”
“That’s convenient.”
“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?” Her voice had picked up. Color stained her cheeks. This was supposed to intimidate him. Instead it simply made him feel better. Rainie needed some color in her cheeks. He only wished that he’d brought a box of #2 pencils for her to snap. For old times’ sake.
“I’m just saying—” he began mildly.
“Oh I heard what you were saying. Now I’m sorry I brought this up.”
“I would’ve brought it up if you didn’t,” he assured her. “That’s what friends are for.”
“Speaking of which, thanks for telling some Virginia cop that I have the hots for a fed.”
“You have the hots for a fed?”
“Luke Hayes—”
He was grinning and the sight of his amusement sent her temper spluttering. But then his grin faded, and he said a bit more honestly, a bit more gently, “Face it, you and Quincy have a genuine meeting of the minds. That’s serious shit, Rainie. You can go an entire lifetime without finding anyone who matches like that. I know I have.”
“Harumph,” Rainie said. She scowled, but Luke wasn’t fooled. He saw something in those wide gray eyes. Gratitude maybe. Or relief. Someone else thought she and Quincy could work out. Someone else believed the scrappy home-town girl was worthy of a fed.
You were bigger than this town, Luke wanted to tell her. You were too smart to spend your career patrolling Friday-night football games. Damn, I’m proud of you. But he didn’t say those words because he understood that she wouldn’t know how to take them.
The waitress came over with two Cokes. Luke accepted his with a smile. Rainie set hers on the table and proceeded to spin it absently between her hands.
“It’s … it’s insane,” she murmured. “There’s someone out there, Luke. We don’t know his name. We don’t have a clear description. We don’t even know how he ties in with Quincy. We just know he’s smart. Methodical. And at least twelve steps ahead of us.”
“Plan of attack?” Luke asked quietly.
“Attack is a strong word. We have a plan of retreat. We fled here with Quincy’s surviving daughter, Kimberly. The man knows too much about their lives on the East Coast.”
“You need manpower?”
Rainie shook her head. Then she ran a hand through her short-cropped hair. “It’s hard to explain. This man … his system. He’s not hit-and-run. This guy, it isn’t just about the kill, it’s all about the game. We know he’s still coming. We know he’ll follow us here. But he won’t strike out of the blue. Somehow, someway, he’ll convince one of us to open the door.”
“Carl Mitz,” Luke filled in.
“You have to admit, the timing is suspicious.”
“I see your point.” Luke sighed. He spread out his hands on the table. “Well, I don’t know what to tell you, Rainie. Mitz started calling four days ago. I checked with the law offices of Avery & Abbott in Portland and they confirm having him on staff. He’s also on record with the Oregon State Bar. I don’t like his timing either, but at this point …”
“Mitz checks out.”
“Mitz appears to be a genuine vermin, er, lawyer.”
“What about his client?”
Luke frowned. “His client?”
Rainie nodded. She leaned forward. “This guy—Tristan Shandling, for lack of a better name—he’s been using each family member to learn about the other family members. Mandy tells him about Bethie who tells him about Kimberly. Shandling plays his game and conducts his recon all at once. Except Amanda, Elizabeth, and Kimberly don’t know a thing about me.”
Luke got it. “So assuming he’s learned that Quincy has a friend in Portland—”
“Not a big assumption. He seems to know everything about Quincy’s life, plus he’s stolen Quincy’s identity. All you need to check anyone’s phone bill is a name and Social Security number.”
“Then Shandling needs a source of information about you.”
“He can’t come himself.” Rainie thought out loud. “He’s been too busy with Bethie in Philadelphia.”
“So he hires someone.”
“Someone reputable. Just in case we get suspicious and check the person out.”
Luke nodded thoughtfully. “You’re right, he’s smart and methodical. So how do you want to play it?”
“I’m thinking we stick to the basics. I sit in the booth behind this one with a newspaper in front of my face so Mitz doesn’t see me when he walks in. You greet him, make him comfortable, and pretend to be willing to cooperate.”
“Good cop,” Luke filled in dryly.
“Exactly. I wait here, eavesdrop, and let you pour on the charm. Then, when he’s nicely entrenched in his, ‘we don’t give out information on our clients’ speech, I pounce and tear him to shreds.”
“Bad cop.”
“Yeah.” She smiled wolfishly.
Luke shook his head, “Rainie,” he said, “damn, it’s good to have you home.”
At exactly five P.M. Carl Mitz strolled through the doors of Martha’s Diner. In a crowd of plaid western shirts and field-stained jeans, he stood out conspicuously wearing a tan linen suit and carting a behemoth brown briefcase. He identified Luke easily enough—maybe the sheriff’s star gave him away—and proceeded straight to the booth.
Rainie opened th
e newspaper and ducked down against the red vinyl seat. The newspaper easily obscured her face, but she still felt vulnerable. Not that she had much to fear. Her first impression of Mitz was an oversized accountant with bad taste in glasses. Mussed-up hair, ill-fitting suit, pinched white features. Whatever kind of law he did, it wasn’t criminal because there wasn’t a jury in the world who would take that face seriously. He probably did taxes or corporate deals. Something with really big spreadsheets.
Luke shook the man’s hand. Mitz winced.
Oh boy, Rainie thought. When your stalker cares enough to send the very best …
Mitz sat down. He slid his briefcase onto the seat beside him. It took up half of the booth, but he seemed determined not to let it go.
“Thank you for seeing me,” he told Luke crisply.
“No problem at all,” Luke drawled, his voice magically two octaves lower and eight beats slower. “You seemed like an earnest fellow. I figured it would be easiest to meet in person, shake your hand, and address all your questions at once.”
“Well yes, of course. Face-to-face is always nice. I only hate to intrude.…”
“Oh you know how it is in small towns. We got plenty of time and we’re always happy to meet new folks.”
Rainie rolled her eyes. She thought the Andy Griffith routine was laying it on a bit thick, but Mitz seemed to relax a fraction more, his spine actually making contact with the back of the booth.
“It’s a simple matter really,” Mitz said briskly. “I’m running a routine background check on someone who used to live in this town. Lorraine Conner. I understand she was a police officer here.”
“Yes sir. I believe she was.”
“She lived here?”
“Yes sir. I believe she did.”
“For how long?”
“Oh … for a long time. Years. Yeah, definitely years.”
“Mmmm, yes. And her mother was Molly Conner?”
“Yes sir. I believe that is correct.”
“Do you know how old Lorraine is?”
“Oh no, sir. I’m much too smart to ask a woman her age.”
“You must have it in the files, though. Personnel records, something like that.”
