by Lisa Gardner
They had to do something. No more time. Think, think. Come on, come on …
“Oh thank God! Luke!”
Rainie jerked her eyes to the space behind Andrews. It was a desperate act, a stupid gamble. Andrews twisted around, feeling the breeze for the first time and thinking he’d left himself vulnerable to a flank attack. No time for digging around under the coffee table for a gun. Rainie darted left and grabbed the best weapon she could find. One of the metal kitchen chairs.
“What the …?”
“Kimberly, now!”
The girl dug her elbow into Andrews’s exposed side and lashed out with her foot. Twisted and off balance, Andrews released his hold on her instinctively, struggling to bring his gun up and around. Rainie whipped the metal chair into Andrews’s neck and shoulder. He howled as his gun and the chair both went flying and he realized too late he’d been duped by the oldest trick in the book.
“Bitch!” he roared.
“Kimberly,” Rainie cried out again. “Gun, now!” They needed to find a weapon. Now, now, now.
Her Glock, under the coffee table. Rainie scurried over on all fours. Andrews saw her movement, and cut her off with a brutal kick to her chin. Her jaw cracked. She collapsed on her back, seeing stars. Dimly she was aware of Kimberly diving across the room reaching for Andrews’s fallen gun. Andrews saw her. He had the chair. Raising it over his head, towering above Kimberly.
The chair slammed down. Kimberly made a heavy, wet sound Rainie had never heard before.
Andrews smiled in triumph. Then he flung down the chair and crouched for the 9mm Rainie could now see it lying just inches from Kimberly’s body. The girl had been so close …
One last chance. Rainie flipped onto her side, looking, looking, looking. The Glock, there against the brass leg of the table. Come on, Rainie. Dying is not preferable to living. Dying is not preferable to living! Damn, she’d be an optimist in the end. Reach!
The startling sound of a cartridge being ratcheted into a gun chamber. The sound of death.
“Bye-bye, Rainie,” Andrews said.
And Quincy said, “Hey Andrews. Get your fucking hands off my daughter.”
Virginia
Albert Montgomery was still feeling calm and controlled fifteen minutes later when Quincy returned to the dimly lit interrogation room. Four thirty-one P.M. The agent probably had just confirmed his daughter’s death. Albert wondered if he’d get to see him cry. He would like that.
His interrogator stopped in front of him.
“Howdy Albert,” the man said in a crystal-clear voice Albert had never heard before. “It’s my turn to tell you some things you don’t know. One, I’m sure Kimberly is just fine. And two, I’m not Pierce Quincy.” The man reached up and ripped off the salt-and-pepper wig it had taken Glenda and an FBI makeup expert two hours to apply. Then he stepped out of special shoes with two-inch lifts. And he removed his navy blue suit jacket, custom-tailored to mirror Quincy’s taller, broad-shouldered build. “The name is Luke Hayes,” the stranger said calmly. “And I’m a friend of Rainie’s.”
Portland
Andrews’s face paled. He snapped around toward the bedroom door, the gun in his right hand dipping down toward the carpet, but his left hand still on Kimberly’s shoulder. “Who? How? But you’re in Virginia!”
Quincy stepped into the living room from the adjoining bedroom. He had his 10mm out, but down at his side. His gaze was locked on Andrews. He’d wasted fifteen minutes relentlessly searching the lobby for a man talking on a cell phone before he’d realized his mistake. The man was already upstairs. The man was already in his daughter’s room. Plan B had always been the fire escape. Six floors up, rung over rung. Quincy should be tired. He should be exhausted.
He stood looking at this man who was heavily armed and crouched over his daughter, and he felt unbelievably calm. Time had slowed. All was manageable. The UNSUB finally had a face. And like so many killers before, the face wasn’t even that impressive. He was just a man after all, average height, average weight, average age.
“You killed Mandy,” Quincy said. He kept approaching. Andrews still hadn’t brought his gun back up. He hadn’t shot any of his other victims. Chances were that he wasn’t that comfortable with guns, Quincy decided. An ambush was one thing. A genuine face-off, another.
“Easy pickings,” Andrews snarled. But his voice wobbled. Behind him, Rainie was slowly extending her arm again, reaching for a pistol Quincy could just make out beneath the glass table. Quincy quickly looked away, not wanting Andrews to follow his line of sight. He focused his gaze on Kimberly instead, who was beginning to moan at Andrews’s feet.
“You killed Bethie,” Quincy said.
“More easy pickings.” Andrews shifted suddenly, wrapping his arm around Kimberly’s neck and dragging her up against him. Kimberly’s eyes fluttered open. She looked disoriented, bewildered. Then her gaze met her father’s and she simply looked heartbroken.
“It’s okay,” Quincy told her automatically. He wanted to comfort his daughter, erase the pain from her gaze. He kept his hands at his sides. Kimberly was strong. He would trust her strength to carry her through, just as he hoped she trusted his strength now. Believe in me, he willed his daughter. I will always take care of you.
Andrews smiled and jerked Kimberly closer. “On your feet, Sleeping Beauty. Time to say bye-bye to Daddy.”
Andrews jerked them both upright. Quincy didn’t make any move to stop them.
Out of the corner of his eye, he discerned another movement in the background, but once again he resisted the temptation to look. He homed in on Andrews, focusing now on narrowing the man’s universe. There was just Andrews, Kimberly, and Quincy. Just one vicious predator, one daughter, and one father determined to keep his child safe. If he had eyes only for Andrews, Andrews would have eyes only for him. Rainie … The rest must be a leap of faith.
“How does it feel, Quincy?” Andrews demanded, twisting Kimberly’s arm, bringing her even closer against him. “How does it feel to lose everything and never even understand why!”
“You’re not a real person,” Quincy said conversationally, moving slightly to the left, away from the living room, and drawing Andrews’s gaze with him. “You’re a shell of a man, lacking genuine feelings, connections, compassion. You’ve spent your whole life acting at being a human being, molding yourself into other people’s images because otherwise you don’t know how to be. You don’t know who to be. The greatest justice in life was that your little girls never had to see you again.”
Andrews jerked up his pistol. He pointed it at Quincy’s head. “Fuck you,” he screamed, causing Kimberly to flinch. “I’m going to kill you! I’m going to blow out your goddamn brains!”
“You can’t,” Quincy said, his voice as calm as Andrews’s was angry. He looked at his daughter, willing her to remain strong, willing her to be all right.
“Yes I can!”
“You can’t. Without me, your life has no purpose. When I’m gone, who will you be, Andrews? What will you do? What will you dream about at night? As much as you hate me, you need me even more. Without me, the game ends.”
Andrews’s face grew red. His eyes dashed from side to side. The rage was building inside him, the implosion imminent. From rational act to crazy reaction. This was what Quincy needed. For Andrews to finally lose control. For Andrews to unleash the monster he kept locked inside.
Andrews’s finger wrapped around the trigger. Quincy kept his eyes on Kimberly. He tried to tell his daughter how much he loved her, and he tried to apologize for what she would have to watch next. Rainie. Kimberly. Rainie.
God give them both strength.
A movement out of the corner of his eye …
“Kimberly,” Quincy murmured. “Fuck ballet.”
On cue, she sagged heavily in her captor’s arms. Andrews howled in surprise and pulled the trigger, but her unexpected movement had rocked him off balance. Gunfire spit low across the wall. Quincy dashed left. He bro
ught up his 10mm to return fire but Andrews and Kimberly were too tangled together. He didn’t have a shot. He didn’t have a shot.
“Kimberly,” he yelled, though he didn’t know why.
“Daddy!”
“Hey Andrews,” Rainie called. “Look here.”
The man jerked around. Kimberly broke free and dove to the floor just as Rainie racked back her Glock.
“No!” Andrews howled. He pointed his gun at her—
And Quincy very calmly, very coolly shot the man point blank in the chest. Andrews dropped to the floor. He did not move again.
“Is it over?” Kimberly asked when the echoes of the gunshot faded away. She was trying to raise herself off the floor. Her left arm wouldn’t bear her weight. Blood streaked down her long, fine hair.
Quincy went over to her. He took his injured daughter into his arms, feeling the tremors rocking her slender body. He cradled her against his chest, holding her as gently as he had when she was a newborn. Oh God, she was infinitely precious to him. He had saved her, but he had also hurt her, and he knew it would take them both years to sort out the difference between the two. All he could do was try. Isolation was not protection. No amount of distance kept you safe in the end.
His gaze went to Rainie, now bent over Andrews.
“He’s dead,” Rainie said quietly.
Kimberly clutched his shoulders more tightly. And then she began to cry. Quincy rocked his daughter against him. He stroked her blood-splattered hair.
“It’s over,” he said to Kimberly, to Rainie. And then more firmly, to all of them, “The game is over.”
A loud knocking on the door. “Hotel security,” a voice barked.
And the aftermath began.
Epilogue
Pearl District, Portland
Six weeks later, Rainie Conner sat hunched over her desk in her downtown loft, ostensibly trying to make her budget love her, but really eyeing the phone. Damn thing wasn’t making a sound. Hadn’t made a sound for days. She was really starting to hate that.
She picked up the receiver. “Well, what do you know, dial tone.”
She set down the receiver. She went back to studying her Quicken file. It didn’t do a thing to improve her mood.
Quincy had paid her. She’d yelled and screamed and put up a fuss. When they were both satisfied that she’d made all the appropriate noise, she’d accepted his check. A girl had to eat, and all those cross-country plane tickets had just showed up on her AmEx card. Conner Investigations got to have a profit. For about seven days. Then she started flying to Virginia again. She kept telling herself it was all for good reason.
First she had to join Quincy to finish picking Albert Montgomery’s brain. The agent had finally admitted that the esteemed Dr. Marcus Andrews had approached him two and a half years ago. Andrews had wanted revenge against Quincy. His wife, Emily, had hired Quincy as an expert witness in the bitter child-custody hearing between her and her ex-husband. Quincy’s testimony had been pivotal in the judge’s decision to deny Andrews access to his children permanently. While the case had been important at the time, Quincy hadn’t thought about it now in years and the name Andrews had been too common to make Quincy think twice when Kimberly began talking about her highly respected professor.
Funny how Bethie had always thought it was his career at the Bureau that would put Quincy’s family in jeopardy. None of them had considered that mental health professionals also faced dangers in the form of unbalanced patients and disgruntled families.
Andrews had interviewed Miguel Sanchez as part of his prison research study. As he became familiar with the killing spree and the officers involved in the Sanchez investigation, he’d identified Montgomery’s role and realized here was someone else who probably hated Quincy as much as Andrews did. Dr. Andrews tracked down Montgomery in Virginia, introduced his cause over dinner, and a few beers later, had enlisted Montgomery in a joint quest for revenge.
Montgomery had been playing the inside man ever since. First he helped Andrews understand how the Bureau worked. What would happen if an agent seemed in jeopardy? What if an agent’s family was in jeopardy? How fast could the Bureau review past case files? What if an agent was suspected of a crime? From there, Montgomery had simply sunk in deeper. From introducing Mandy to Andrews to confiscating Quincy’s stationery to attacking Glenda because his hatred had festered and grown that insane.
Nine months ago, Montgomery had searched the Oregon corrections department data banks to find a good candidate for Rainie’s father. Yes, Ronnie Dawson existed. He went to jail at the right time, he was paroled at the right time. And upon personal investigation, he was a five-foot-two aging redhead, who’d never heard of Molly Conner and was as shocked as anyone to hear that a fat donation had been made to a county DA in his name.
Easy come, easy go. Rainie dedicated three days to feeling kind of funky. Then she surprised herself by getting over it. It was hard to miss something you never had, and she hadn’t even truly lost her dream. She did have a father. He was somewhere out there. You never knew.
Attorney-at-law Carl Mitz existed, too. A good lawyer, and as Rainie had learned over lunch, a genuinely nice guy. Just one more person who had the right credentials, so Montgomery got his Social Security number, mother’s maiden name, and date of birth. Andrews took over from there.
Rainie was not feeling so good anymore about the electronic age. She’d ordered a copy of her credit report the other day. She found herself checking it compulsively.
Special Agent Albert Montgomery wasn’t going to stand trial. Apparently, Andrews had left one last present for him: Cyanide in his blood-pressure medication, which some kindly agent retrieved for him from home. Shortly after Quincy’s final interview with him, Albert opened the bottle. Both he and his guard smelled the odor of bitter almonds immediately. The guard dived forward. Albert downed half the bottle. Sixty seconds later, Albert didn’t have to worry anymore about how he was going to live with himself.
For Quincy and Kimberly it wasn’t quite that easy. Kimberly spent forty-eight hours in the hospital with a broken arm and severe concussion. Fortunately, she was young and strong and recovered quickly from her wounds. The physical ones, that is. Quincy tried to get her to return to Virginia with him. She insisted on going to New York, however. She wanted her apartment back. Her classes, her routine, her life. Rainie and Quincy called her every day for the first week. Kimberly liked that so much she took her phone off the hook. She was an independent girl and as Rainie understood from personal experience, she needed to deal with things in her own way, in her own time.
Two weeks after Albert committed suicide, the Philadelphia police got the handwriting analysis back from their crime lab and tried to arrest Quincy for his ex-wife’s brutal murder. Rainie definitely had to return to Virginia for that. She’d yelled at the detectives, yelled at the district attorney, and made a general nuisance of herself. Glenda, on the other hand, finally convinced the DA to send the incriminating note to the FBI lab, which promptly verified the presence of numerous hesitation marks—a classic sign of forgery. Quincy thanked Rainie for coming. Glenda got a promotion.
Rainie returned once again to Portland. She had her business, Quincy had the case to wrap up and his daughter to think about. Of course they spoke by phone. Rainie told him she understood he had a lot going on. She practiced being sympathetic, supportive, and all around undemanding. He couldn’t be there for her, but she could be there for him. This is what relationships were about. Real, adult, mature relationships. If she became any more well adjusted, she was going to have to beat someone.
Two weeks before, a fishing vessel off the coast of Maryland pulled up Abraham Quincy’s body in its nets. Montgomery had already revealed that Andrews had ordered the body heavily weighted and dumped in such deep water that it would never be found. He wanted Quincy to never know what happened to Abraham, to always have to wonder if his father was still out there, maybe still alive, maybe still waiting for his son
… Not even Andrews could control fate. A fishing vessel happened to be active in the area. The fish happened to eat through the ropes bearing the weights. Abraham Quincy was found.
Rainie heard the news from Kimberly, who called her sounding quiet and much too old. They were going to have a small family ceremony for Abraham later in the week. Perhaps Rainie could come?
Rainie bought a third ticket to Virginia. Then she waited to hear from Quincy and waited to hear from Quincy and waited to hear from Quincy. Finally, she picked up the phone. He didn’t return her call.
Rainie had had enough. She drove to the airport, flashed a ticket that wasn’t valid for another two days, told them she had a family emergency and boarded the plane. Eight hours later, she knocked on Quincy’s door. He opened it, looking tense, then shocked, then genuinely grateful. She jumped his bones before he ever made it to the bed. She decided she was getting pretty good at this sex thing.
Later, they went out to Arlington and simply sat next to Mandy’s and Bethie’s graves. Didn’t talk. Didn’t do anything. Just sat until the sun had sunk low and the air had grown cold. On the way back to the car, Quincy held her hand. Funny, she was thirty-two years old and she’d never walked hand-in-hand before. Then he opened her door for her, and by the time he got around to the other side she had this strange ache in her chest. She wanted to touch him again. She wanted to take him into her body and wrap her legs around his flanks and hold on tight.
Instead, when they were back at his house, she put his exhausted body to bed. Then she stayed awake for a long time afterwards, stroking the lines on his face, the ones that didn’t go away, not even when he slept. She fingered the salt in his pepper hair, the scars on his chest. And she finally got it. All of it. The enormity of it. Why people sought each other out and formed families. Why baby elephants stumbled relentlessly through drought-stricken deserts. Why people fought and laughed and raged and loved. Why people, at the end of it all, stayed.
