by Lisa Gardner
The knocking came again.
Quincy pushed away from the table, rubbed the back of his neck, and self-consciously checked the mirror. His white shirt, pressed crisp just this morning, was now a wrinkled mess. His tie was somewhere on the floor. His cheeks sported a five o’clock shadow, and his dark hair was rumpled from running his fingers through it over and over again. If memory served, this look had worked for him in his thirties, when it made him sexy in a dark, brooding sort of way. He was in his mid-forties now. He thought he simply looked tired.
Some decades were definitely better than others, he thought. What the hell.
He checked the door’s peephole and was not surprised to see Rainie standing there.
He opened the door, and for a moment they simply studied each other.
She’d changed out of her officer’s uniform. Now she wore faded straight-leg jeans and a loose hunter-green sweater with a turtleneck collar that framed her face. Her chestnut hair was down and freshly brushed, gleaming gold and red beneath the hotel’s outdoor lights. She didn’t appear to be wearing a drop of makeup, and Quincy liked her that way. Her pale skin fresh and untouched. No barriers between his hand and the feel of her cheek, or his lips and the corner of her mouth.
He had spent the latter part of the afternoon learning things about Lorraine Conner he had not anticipated. Certainly he was starting to understand that her past held a great deal more than met the eye. Maybe nothing, but maybe something. He doubted she would tell him the whole truth yet, and he wondered about the dangers of learning it all at the last minute, when it might be too late for both of them.
He should be careful. He was a smart, logical man who knew better than most the dark potential of human nature. The warning did him no good. She was here, at his hotel room, and he suspected his face now held a giddy smile.
“Hey,” she said after a moment.
“Good evening, Rainie.”
“Working?”
“Just finishing up.”
“Really?” She stuck her hands in her back pockets and studied the pavement. She was clearly self-conscious, and that touched him.
“I was just about to order take-out Chinese,” he said politely. “Would you like to join me?”
“I’m not that hungry.”
“Neither am I, but we can pretend together.”
She entered his hotel room. He made an effort to clear his paperwork off the bed, since the room was small and there was no place else for her to sit. She studied his laptop while he shoved manila files back into his black leather briefcase/computer carrier.
“Looking for No Lava?” she asked.
“Yes. Most Internet providers have member directories where you can enter your on-line name and vital statistics. Lots of people fill out the forms, so I thought I’d see if we could get that lucky. Unfortunately, we’re not that lucky. Next step is to get a subpoena and contact the carriers directly.”
“Did you run a background check on Shep today?” she asked.
Quincy stopped, still holding four files, and blinked. She wasn’t wasting any time. He put the files in the bag, zipped it shut.
“Do you like lo mein?” he asked lightly.
“Order whatever you want.”
“Lo mein it is.” He picked up the batch of take-out menus Ginnie had left next to the phone and sorted through them until he found one for the Great Wall of China. He placed an order for lo mein and green tea. Rainie was still studying him.
“I don’t think we should have this conversation,” he said presently.
“That means you found something.”
“No. It means I have professional standards and this is a clear case of conflict of interest. Shep is your friend. You and he go way back.” He regarded her steadily.
“I never slept with Shep,” Rainie said matter-of-factly.
“You know most people think that you’re the reason his and Sandy’s marriage is falling apart.”
“We’re not involved. Never have been, never will be.”
“He spends a lot of time at your place.”
“I know.”
“Rainie—”
“People talk. Don’t you get that yet? It’s a small town, it rains eighty percent of the year, and the cows outnumber the people two to one. Most of the time there’s nothing else to do around here but talk. That’s just the way it is.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about the shotgun, Rainie? The shotgun that killed your mother had your prints on it until it disappeared from the police evidence locker. Then one day it was magically back in custody, but completely wiped clean. Why didn’t you tell me it disappeared from evidence?”
Her face went cool, her chin coming up, her gray eyes turning the color of slate. He recognized that expression. Her fighter’s stance.
“Do you think I killed my mother?”
“No.”
“Do you think I shot her in cold blood? Came home from school one day and blew off her goddamn head? I’m just a female version of Charlie Kenyon. No better than Danny O’Grady?”
He said gently, “No, Rainie, I don’t.”
“Then what does it matter, Quincy? It was fourteen years ago and I didn’t do it, so just let it go. It’s one thing to deal with all the stares and rumors from my neighbors, but I don’t expect that from you!”
“Give me some credit,” he countered sharply. “I’m not a small-town deputy you can snow under with a few loud words. I know something happened, Rainie. Something happened, Shep helped you with it, and that’s what binds you, isn’t it? I still don’t know what. Maybe I don’t need to know, but there is something between you and Shep. And it’s beyond professional ties and it makes the fact that you were alone in the school with Shep and Danny very shaky. Sanders was right. You should’ve surrendered jurisdiction over this case. And I suspect you know that as well.”
She fell silent, her lips thinning. He’d caught her off guard. He had wondered in the beginning what a woman as smart as Rainie was doing working such a limited job, and today he’d gotten his answer. Because it kept her in control. She worked with nice people, but none of them was the type to pry. He suspected she dated men of more brawn than brains and kept the relationships short. No one could question her too much. No one could get too close. She had turned protecting herself into a way of life.
“I couldn’t give up jurisdiction,” she said abruptly.
“Because you promised Shep you’d be the primary in the case?”
“Yes.” She hesitated. “I owe him that much.”
“Just how much do you owe him, Rainie?”
“Shep had faith in me. He’s been a good friend and I feel loyalty toward him. But I have professional standards, too, Quincy, and I don’t compromise them. We all go through life making our choices and we’re all responsible for what we’ve done. If Danny shot those girls, then by God, he needs to be held accountable for that.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Of course I’m sure! Covering up doesn’t do him any favors. Why don’t people realize that? We have a basic human need to make restitution in order to absolve our guilt. Letting kids walk away scot-free or shielding them from the consequences of their actions doesn’t help them. A moment’s mistake, a moment of bad judgment could fester into a lifetime of hatred and self-loathing and destructiveness. Until it’s become a dark spot you can’t forget and can’t let go and it builds and builds—”
She broke off. She was breathing hard. Her gaze had become locked on the blue floral bedspread and her hands were fisted at her sides.
“The nightmares are worse, aren’t they?” Quincy asked quietly.
“Yes.”
“You’re not eating.”
“I can’t.”
“You’re too smart to be doing this to yourself.”
“I can’t seem to stop.”
“Why did you come here tonight, Rainie?”
She looked at him with frustrated, troubled eyes. “I think I need to talk.”
“Then talk. But say something new, Rainie, because I no longer have the patience for lies.”
The Chinese food arrived. Quincy split the lo mein, though he suspected she wouldn’t eat. She didn’t. She set the white container aside but accepted a cup of tea. He took a bite of his own dinner. He wasn’t that hungry either, but he’d learned a long time ago that letting himself get run-down during a case, especially a very difficult case, didn’t do anyone any favors.
“Sally and Alice’s funeral will be held tomorrow afternoon,” Rainie said shortly. “The mayor just called and told me. The bodies were retrieved from the ME’s office this evening, and the families don’t want to wait. Everyone thinks it would be best to get this behind us.”
“That will be a rough afternoon.”
“Yeah. We’ve called for backup from Cabot County. Extra patrols both during the funeral and afterward. Patrol cars stationed outside of the bars, you know.”
“Emotions are already running high, add to that a little booze . . .” Quincy trailed off. They both knew what could happen. Young men and guns, vigilante justice.
“We’ll be doubling up the guard around Shep’s house,” Rainie said quietly. “Luke asked to lead the effort.”
“And you?”
“I can’t. There would be more talk.”
“George Walker isn’t very happy with you.”
“No. A lot of people aren’t. I was hoping . . . I wanted to be able to say that Danny didn’t do it. Before we got to the funerals, I wanted to have so much evidence I could look George Walker in the eye and say, ‘A thirteen-year-old boy didn’t murder your daughter, sir. Some other bastard did it.’ As if that would make a difference.”
“You’re not so sure about Danny anymore, are you?”
Her expression grew strained. She said softly, “No.”
“Charlie Kenyon?”
She slowly nodded. “His account of what Danny told him. That he wanted to cut his father into pieces, run him through a blender. . . . So much anger. I didn’t realize . . . I didn’t know things had gotten that bad.”
“It’s not your fault, Rainie. It’s hard for any of us to believe that people we personally know and care about are capable of violence. People seem to forget: Mur-derers don’t come from test tubes. They’re born into this world like the rest of us, and they also have family and friends.”
“That’s just a platitude. I don’t want any more platitudes. I’m sick of easy answers or thirty-second analyses of complicated crimes. Kids are shooting up their schools, grown men are walking into offices and mowing down their coworkers. And I understand your point that schools and businesses are still safer than driving on the highway, but that explanation is not enough. These shootings are happening everywhere, even places like here, where they don’t belong. And they are happening to everyone, even to Danny O’Grady, who just three days ago seemed like a normal kid going through a hard time. And . . . and I feel like I missed something. I should’ve seen this coming. But then I look at it again, and I know I still never would’ve expected violence. Because I don’t understand it, Quincy. Even I, who was raised by a woman who lived by her fists, can’t imagine shooting up strangers. And I need to know why this happened to my town, because no matter how hard I try, I just can’t get to sleep.”
“It’s not your fault, Rainie,” he said again.
She shook her head impatiently. “Explain the shootings to me. I need to know. Is it because of guns? As an officer, should I be banning them from my community? Or is it video games and violent movies, and books. . . . Is it all because of that?”
“Those things are factors. On the other hand, do I think censoring Hollywood and banning guns would end all the crime? No. Some people, even kids, are that angry.”
“Then it’s inevitable? We’ve become a violent culture and there’s nothing we can do about it?”
“I don’t think that. There’s always something we can do. We’re an intelligent society, Rainie. Nothing is beyond our grasp.”
“Tell that to George Walker. Tell that to the parents of Alice Bensen. I’m sure they’re sitting home right now thinking about how capable society is.”
Quincy fell silent. She was in a mood tonight.
“Do you want a solution, Rainie,” he asked after a moment, “or do you want an excuse to be angry?”
“I want a solution!”
“Fine,” he said crisply. “I’ll give you my two cents, for what it’s worth. Society is not filled with evil souls. But it is filled with people who are mobile, fractured, overworked, overweight, overcrowded, and overtired. That’s a potent combination, particularly for people with poor coping skills and volatile tempers. And we’re seeing the proof of that in the increasing number of impulsive, angry acts, such as mass murders and road rage.”
Rainie sighed. She rubbed her temples. “It’s a sign of the times?”
“It’s a sign of stressful living,” Quincy said, then shrugged. “In the good-news department, some of the solutions are fairly simple. Why not teach rage-management classes and stress-coping skills in school? While we’re at it, we could emphasize good communication skills and self-monitoring. Physical care also makes a big difference. In fact, the first thing a child psychologist does when he begins treatment of a new client is address sleep, exercise, and eating habits. You think you have trouble with rage? Try getting eight hours of sleep at night, eat more fruits and vegetables, and enjoy a good workout. Ironically enough, very few people bother with these basic steps anymore, and then they wonder why they’re tense all the time.”
He gave her a pointed look, his gaze sliding to the untouched carton of food by her side. Rainie nodded slowly. She said, almost hesitantly, “I took a class in anger management.”
“In Portland?”
“Yes. After I’d joined AA. Alcohol numbs a lot of emotions. Then you give it up . . .”
“I think that was a great thing for you to do,” Quincy said honestly. “I wish more people would think that way.”
Rainie immediately shook her head. “I’m not so great, Quincy. Don’t admire me too much.”
He didn’t say anything, waiting to see if she would elaborate. The darkness still rimmed her eyes, and she was clutching her cup of tea as if she wished it were a bottle of beer. Apparently, however, she still wasn’t in the mood to share.
“How’s your daughter?” she asked shortly.
“The same. I called this morning.”
She regarded him curiously. “That doesn’t make you feel worse? She’s your daughter, she’s dying, and you’re not there for it. A phone call doesn’t seem like much in the face of all that.”
“Rainie, when I said my daughter was killed by a drunk driver, I was being a little misleading.”
She froze. “I see.”
“My daughter wasn’t hit by a drunk driver,” Quincy said matter-of-factly. “She was the drunk driver. She loaded up at a friend’s house, then tried to drive home at five-thirty in the morning. And she killed an elderly man out walking his dog before she wrapped her car around a telephone pole. My daughter is dead. The man is dead. The dog is dead. And yes, a phone call to a hospital room is completely inadequate.”
“Quincy, I’m sorry.”
He smiled roughly. “So am I. I’m not perfect either, Rainie. Some things, like what really matters in life, we all learn the hard way.”
She nodded. Her expression was still troubled, though. She had more things to say; he could feel the words churning just below the surface. He leaned forward as if he could will the truth out of her. He hadn’t lied to her last night. She fascinated him. She had worked her way into his mind, and now he wanted to cup her cheek with his hand, brush her lips with his fingertips . . .
She was a fighter, and he had so much respect for that.
Her face relented a fraction. Yearning burgeoned in her soft gray eyes. A need to share. A need for connection. He wished he could reach out and touch her. He was too afraid she’d
bolt at the first sign of movement.
“Rainie—”
“I should go.”
“I’ll listen.”
“I don’t have anything to say! I just need a little time.”
“Another fourteen years? Or maybe just five, until the next homicide comes along? It’s eating you up inside. Get it out! What happened with your mother? What did you do with that shotgun?”
She stood abruptly. He was stung by the fire in her eyes, the sudden hard set of her chin.
“Don’t bring up my mother again.”
“No dice.”
“It’s not your business—”
“Too late. You should’ve stuck with dating rednecks, Rainie. Because you have a real man now and I’m not going anyplace.”
“You arrogant son of a bitch.”
“Yes. Now, tell me about your mother, Rainie.”
“The number one line most abused by psychologists. That’s what I am to you, aren’t I, Quincy? A very interesting case study. Something you can write up for the American Society of Shrinks—otherwise known as ASS—later on in the year.”
“Shut up, Rainie.”
“Oh, good comeback.”
Quincy frowned angrily. Then he shocked them both by striding forward and grabbing her arms.
“Brute force?” she whispered, and her lips parted. He saw something dark come into her eyes.
“It’s what you want, isn’t it?” he countered levelly. “A pattern you recognize, a way to bring me down to the level you think you deserve. If you can keep it physical, then you’ll never have to feel. Right?”
She stared at him mutinously. He brought her even closer, until her lips were a mere inch from his.
“Let me go,” she muttered.
“You’re only going to leave here to pace your house all night long. You’re terrified of sleep. You’re terrified of nightmares. You want them to end, but you still won’t do what it takes to make them go away.”
