by Lisa Gardner
She felt something brush her shoulder. Jumped. Nearly screamed. Just the edge of the rising staircase, which she had drifted back into. She was spooking herself out, no better than a kid getting all goosebumped at the local horror show. Enough was enough.
She returned to the box. Opened the lid. Crossed herself, because imminent danger brought out the religion in anyone. Then tossed the bag in.
Pop. Crack. Blinding flash.
Kimberly flung her arms in front of her face, stumbling back reflexively.
“What the hell …”
She felt it before she saw it. The lighthouse had started to burn.
Wednesday, 1:05 p.m. PST
Mac heard it over the cell phone. Sounded like a small explosion, then the telltale crackle of wood.
“Kimberly? What’s happening? Are you okay?”
But before he could get a reply, Deputy Mitchell was pointing excitedly at the screen. “We got movement. Due west.”
“She can’t be going west,” Mac countered with a frown. “We’re on the edge of a cliff. Due west—”
“Is an ocean. She’s in a boat!” Mitchell declared.
Mac was back on his cell phone. “Kimberly—”
“I’m here, I’m here,” she suddenly came over the airwaves, then paused in a fit of coughing. “I’m in the lighthouse.”
“But the monitor—”
“Shows you the money.”
“Kimberly, what did you do?”
“I don’t know,” she answered in a small voice. “But, Mac, I have a problem. He must have rigged the drop box, because when I deposited the money, it set off a small explosion. Now the lighthouse is on fire. Mac … I can’t get out.”
“I’m coming,” Mac said.
“You can’t. The road’s blocked off.”
“Then I’ll run.”
He was three miles away. They both knew that.
Kimberly was coughing again. “Mac,” she said quietly over the phone, “I love you.”
Wednesday, 1:05 p.m. PST
Shelly heard a strange pop, followed immediately by a small explosion. She had a moment’s bewilderment, followed by the immediate thought to look for a man fleeing from the lighthouse. But she didn’t see a person emerge. Instead, flames shot out of the top of the lighthouse.
“Holy crap!” Shelly was on her feet, running for the decaying structure. The radio was crackling on her belt. She heard Mac calling for Kimberly. Kimberly saying she was trapped.
Shelly arrived at the door and threw herself against it. For fifty years she’d lived with the shoulders of a plow horse. By God, it was about time they did her some good. But nothing happened. She threw herself against the swollen wood again and again.
She could feel the door growing hot beneath her touch. She heard a sinister creaking as the fire found fresh air in the top of the structure and raced greedily up the walls. And then she heard coughing, lots and lots of coughing as Kimberly stumbled through the flames.
With no windows on the lower level, and the fire already consuming the top …
Shelly stripped off her outer shirt and wrapped it around her face. Then she stepped back and kicked the door as hard as she could. This time, she felt it give. One more kick, and the warped door gave with a shriek.
And the fire responded with a giant whoosh!
Shelly staggered back from the ball of heat. She felt the hair on her arms singe. Her eyebrows burn. Then the first wild tendrils of flame recoiled, the fire inhaling like a living beast.
The lighthouse twisted beneath the pressure. Old wood starting to buckle.
Shelly did the only thing she knew how to do.
She ran into the flames.
Wednesday, 1:07 p.m. PST
Kincaid’s cell phone was going insane. He had a frantic call from Deputy Mitchell. The ransom drop had gone bad. Lighthouse on fire. FBI Agent Quincy was trapped inside. He had a triumphant call from Trooper Blaney. License plate matching Stanley Carpenter’s had just been found outside the Bakersville Bowling Alley. What should Blaney do?
And he finally had Lieutenant Mosley on the phone, apologizing for his absence—he’d had to “take care of some things.”
Kincaid didn’t know what those things were, and at the moment, he didn’t care. He was too busy being pissed off.
He needed fire-and-rescue. He needed backup. He needed Lieutenant Mosley to get in front of the press right now, and he needed to hunt down Quincy once again and notify the man that his daughter was in mortal danger. Oh yes, and he still needed to catch a kidnapper.
One-oh-seven p.m., Kincaid was watching his case disintegrate in front of his eyes. And he was too far away to do a damn thing about it.
He finally retreated to his car outside the Jenkins farm, turned on his scanner, and listened to various reports as Kimberly Quincy fought for her life.
Wednesday, 1:08 p.m. PST
Lieutenant Mosley was on the run. He had twelve million things to do and approximately ten minutes to get it all done. He didn’t bother trying to round up the press; instead he went straight to them.
He found most major networks positioned outside the Hal Jenkins property, having abandoned Danicic’s house in favor of a crime scene.
He took up position outside the yellow crime scene tape, always a favorite visual, and hoped no one would notice his sweaty face and labored breath. He held up the hastily prepared statement and began:
“It is with great sadness that the Oregon State Police confirms the loss of one of its own. The body of Detective Alane Grove, a four-year veteran of the force, was discovered this morning on a farm in Tillamook County. We believe she was killed serving above and beyond the call of duty. The owner of the farm has been taken into custody, and we anticipate will soon be charged in this case.”
There was a flash of camera bulbs. Several reporters thrust their microphones into the air.
“Can you tell us how she was killed?”
“The investigation is ongoing.”
“Was she part of the task force working on the recent ransom case?”
“Detective Grove was working on behalf of the task force.”
“So her death is related?”
“Naturally, we are pursuing that possibility.”
“What about Rainie Conner and Dougie Jones? Any word?”
“Not at this time.”
“But if you have a suspect in custody …”
“The investigation is ongoing,” Mosley repeated. The gathered reporters groaned.
“Come on,” one of the newsmen said up front. “It’s after one o’clock. You got a guy in jail. Surely you know something about the woman and boy.”
Mosley looked the man in the eye. “I have no comment at this time.”
And then, when there was another collective groan, he shrugged. “What do you want me to tell you guys? We have one detective who is confirmed dead. As for the fate of Lorraine Conner and Douglas Jones … Pray. That’s all I can say. Everyone out there, pray for them.”
44
Wednesday, 1:12 p.m. PST
The water had swallowed her hands when Rainie suddenly felt the lock give. She twisted the handle and the door burst open, water spilling into the laundry room and taking her with it.
For a moment, she was beached against the far wall, too stunned to react. Then she scrambled to her feet, ducking back into the basement stairwell. Dougie remained curled around the stair’s hand railing. She grabbed him awkwardly with her bound hands. The boy was unconscious. His head lolled against her shoulder, lips blue, eyelids fluttering alarmingly against his icy cheeks. She carried him against her chest like an oversized baby, staggering drunkenly as her own limbs shook with cold and fatigue.
The laundry room was dark, shades drawn, lights off. The door connecting to the kitchen was closed. She had no idea if the man already stood right behind it or was maybe running down the hall, alerted by the noise.
She propped Dougie on top of the washing machine, then tried the
third door, shaking it savagely, playing with the lock. Just like last time, it refused to budge. She banged her fists against it, weeping in frustration now. So close, so close. Get me out of this house!
She ended up backed into a corner, waiting for the inevitable. The man to come crashing in. To lash out at her with his hands, his feet, maybe the Taser. She was cold and exhausted and frightened. Her left leg didn’t want to bear her weight. She thought maybe she was losing Dougie.
She cried harder, the feel of her warm tears against her cheeks suddenly pissing her off. They were out of the basement, dammit. By God, she wasn’t going to act like a trapped animal now. She’d had enough.
Rainie hefted Dougie back into her arms and stormed for the connecting door. She kicked it open with her right foot, powered by sheer adrenaline into the kitchen. The space was empty, the house dark. She paused for one second, heard nothing, then came to her senses and rattled through a drawer in search of a weapon. She found a paring knife. It would do.
Water was still pouring in, whirling around her feet, making the linoleum slippery. She abandoned the kitchen, whisking down the carpeted hallway, always aware of her back.
She ducked inside the first door she found. A bedroom. Quickly, she dropped Dougie on the bed. Paused. Listened. No sound of footsteps. Moving fast, she positioned the knife between her thick, frozen fingers and went to work on the binding around her wrists. In the bad-news department, her flesh had swollen around the zip tie. In the good-news department, she could barely feel anything anyway. She hacked through the tough strap and some of her own skin. The minute the band ripped free, she didn’t care anymore. She could wiggle her fingers. She could rub her numb hands against her thighs. A thousand angry nerve endings screamed to life. She welcomed each and every one of them. Pain is life. Life is good!
Now she had work to do. First, Dougie.
She yanked the boy’s unconscious form into a sitting position, jerked his sodden clothes off his body, and rolled him into the thick comforter like a giant burrito.
“Come on, Dougie,” she whispered, briskly rubbing his arms, his legs, his damp hair. “Stay with me.”
Her own teeth were chattering, her body still hemorrhaging precious heat. She left Dougie long enough to rifle the nearby bureau, then the closet. She found an old flannel man’s shirt that smelled like a locker room. Too cold to care, she slid off her soaked T-shirt and drew the flannel around her body. It felt like a warm cup of cocoa, a nap in front of a blazing fire. It was the best shirt she’d ever worn and she found herself weeping again, a mess of emotions and fatigue and fear.
She returned to the bed, rubbing Dougie’s form again and again, desperate to get some heat into him. Just as his eyelids fluttered open, the water started snaking into the bedroom.
She looked at the growing deluge. She studied Dougie’s pale, dazed face.
She would have to carry him. Heft him over her shoulder and run for it.
It sounded good, but the minute she tried to lift him up, her left leg buckled again. As heat reentered her body, so did searing pain. Her busted knee, her bruised ribs, her endless collection of scrapes, cuts, and contusions. She dropped Dougie back onto the mattress and fell beside him.
And that quickly, she was exhausted beyond belief. She couldn’t lift her arms. She couldn’t move her legs. She just wanted to sleep. To curl into a tight little ball, close her eyes, and feel the world slip away.
Just for a minute.
She forced her eyes back open. Felt herself once more start to cry. And through the delirium of pain and fear and exhaustion, she willed herself to do just one last thing: think, Rainie, think.
And then, she saw the phone.
Wednesday, 1:13 p.m. PST
Shelly was on fire. In an abstract sort of way, she understood. That the stench of burnt meat and seared hair was her own. That the white-hot pain she’d always read about was genuinely true. That the air could be so hot, it literally boiled the water inside her mouth, evaporated the moisture from her lungs.
First time she inhaled, she would bring the fire inside her body and it would kill her.
So she held her breath as she dove through the flames licking up the twisting exterior. As she bent down and grabbed Kimberly’s fallen form. As she draped the smaller woman’s body around her broad shoulders. As she headed once more for the door.
Shelly thought of her dreams of a Parisian adventure. Oh, if that Left Bank artist could see her now, as she strode through the fire, hair curling, skin blistering, comrade on her shoulders.
I am woman, hear me roar.
Pity, she thought, as she stumbled through the doorway, collapsed onto the wet ground, and started to lose consciousness.
Because no one was ever going to want to paint her now.
Wednesday, 1:17 p.m. PST
Quincy and Candi were just pulling onto the dirt road leading to Stanley Carpenter’s fishing cabin when Quincy’s cell phone rang. It was Abe Sanders from Astoria. He’d sent two men to watch their double-murder suspect, Duncan, as promised. He wanted Quincy to be the first to know that they’d lost him.
“Lost him?” Quincy echoed. “How the hell do you lose someone as slow as Charlie Duncan?”
“Well now, Quincy—”
“Abe, it’s fifteen minutes past the deadline for learning that my wife is still alive. Talk faster.”
Sanders cut to the chase: Duncan went to a local diner for breakfast. Not a big deal, he did that most days as the man couldn’t cook. He walked in the diner. Never walked out. When the detectives finally entered the establishment two hours later, they learned he’d exited through the kitchen. The owner had thought it was odd, but then, Duncan was an odd sort of guy.
“Honest to God,” Sanders said, “my officers swear up and down he didn’t make the tail.”
“Just felt like sneaking out the back door for old times’ sake?”
“Maybe.” Sanders must have heard how defensive he sounded. “Look, we’re tearing apart the town as we speak. Best we can tell, his vehicle is still parked outside the diner, so he’s on foot.”
“Or he had a friend pick him up, or he helped himself to a car,” Quincy argued in exasperation.
“We’re considering all options. Give me some time.”
“Time? What time? It’s one fifteen, Sanders. There’s been no word from the kidnapper. Do you know what that means? It means Rainie is probably dead.”
Quincy threw down his cell phone, already cursing himself for not having pursued Duncan harder or located Andrew Bensen, or done any of the eight thousand other things they had considered but never developed because they just didn’t have the time. From the very beginning, there had never been enough time.
His phone rang again. Kincaid’s number. Quincy glanced at his watch. He wondered if this would be it. Kincaid calling with official news from Danicic or some other reporter. They had been late with the ransom drop, and their punishment would be …
He had set his shoulders and tightened his gut before he ever took the call. It didn’t help him.
It was Kincaid, but he wasn’t calling about Rainie.
He was calling about Kimberly.
Wednesday, 1:18 p.m. PST
“It may not be as bad as it sounds,” Kincaid was saying urgently. “Your guy Mac managed to rip through a chained gate with a county surveillance van, which opened up access for fire-and-rescue. They are at the scene now.”
“I need to talk to her.”
“She is receiving immediate medical attention. The second she is stabilized, I’m sure you can give her a call.”
“She’s my daughter!”
“Quincy …” For a moment, the phone was simply silent, Kincaid searching for words that didn’t exist. “She did good today.”
Quincy bowed his head, squeezed the bridge of his nose. “She’s always done good,” he whispered.
“The guy rigged the drop box somehow. Lined the upper level of the lighthouse with explosives maybe—we don’
t really know yet. The minute the weight of all that money hit the bottom of the box … She never really had a chance. If not for Shelly charging into the inferno …”
“Shelly? Sheriff Atkins?”
“Yeah, Shelly is who dragged her out—”
“I’m sorry,” Quincy said, a little bewildered now. “Somehow I assumed it had been Mac.”
“No, he was in the surveillance vehicle. It was Shelly who was backup. From what I understand, she went straight into the lighthouse and dragged Kimberly back out through the flames. Sounds like it was quite a feat.”
“Is she okay?” Quincy asked sharply.
Silence.
“Kincaid?”
“They’re medevacing her to St. Vincent’s in Portland,” Kincaid replied quietly. “It … it doesn’t sound good.”
And then it was Quincy’s turn to say nothing at all. First Detective Grove, then Sheriff Atkins and his own daughter. And for what?
“Any word from Danicic?” he asked, although he already knew the answer.
Kincaid said, “None at all.”
Wednesday, 1:20 p.m. PST
In the space of fifteen minutes, Mac felt as if he’d aged fifty years. Kimberly’s throat had been seared by the fire, swelling shut and blocking her airway. The medics had had to tube her at the scene, not something Mac ever wanted to see again.
At least the medics seemed pleased with her progress once they got her intubated. Her color improved; her chest rose and fell rhythmically. She appeared to be merely sleeping, if not for the singed ends of her hair, the black, sooty look of her clothes, the scent of seared meat.
She looked a lot better than Shelly Atkins.
The sheriff’s reddened flesh had already started to blister by the time the EMTs had arrived, her arms and legs swelling up grotesquely. Shelly had had the foresight to tie her shirt around her face. Her shoulders and arms, however.…
Mac had only read of such things. Never seen them firsthand. The smell alone roiled the stomach, made him want to turn and retch. Mitchell had turned green immediately. But the deputy had held his own.
As they scrambled with the first-aid kit. As they tried to cover the most severe burns with pathetically few patches of sterile gauze. As Shelly went into shock from the pain and stress, right about the same time Mac had realized Kimberly had stopped breathing.
