by Lisa Gardner
And then her gaze fell on her sofa, and everything inside her plummeted.
It couldn’t be. Definitely not. And just after that conversation with Quincy . . .
Who would know how to reach inside her deepest, darkest nightmare and rip out her heart?
She scrambled for the light. Scraped the plaster wall with her fingernails and still couldn’t find the damn little switch. Light, light, she had to see. Had to know. It couldn’t be . . .
And then she had it. The single overhead light flooded the family room. Her old round kitchen table with the pedestal base. Her overstuffed chair. Her faded, comfy blue sofa. And the shotgun. Propped up against the back cushions of the sofa. Five long scratches still scarring the old wooden stock.
Time slipped backward. She couldn’t stop it. She ran into the kitchen, fumbling with knives, but in her mind she was seventeen and had just come home from school.
Stop it stop it stop it. Couldn’t be. The gun had gone to evidence storage in Portland. She knew. She’d looked into it. She’d consoled herself with the knowledge that she’d never have to see the damn thing again.
She grabbed the first knife she came to, a small paring knife, and yelled wildly, “Come out, come out, you bastard!”
But no one answered. Even the owls were silent, while her mother was a headless corpse in the family room and, oh God, what was that on the ceiling? Oh God, what is this, dripping down on me?
“Who are you? Who the fuck are you? Come out where I can see you!”
She tore down the hallway to the two bedrooms. No one. She ripped open the bathroom door. Empty. She raced onto her deck, trying hard not to notice the shotgun but of course staring at it, while time grabbed her by the throat and dragged her down viciously.
Her mother screaming, “You liked it, didn’t you? You no-good whore!”
Herself whimpering, “I just wanted him to stop.”
Shut up, shut up. She was not seventeen anymore. She was not helpless. She was a police officer. She was strong. She squared off against the towering pine trees, threw back her shoulders, and roared, “I know you’re out there. I know you’re watching, Mr. Dave Duncan or whatever the fuck your name is! You want me? Face me like a man, you miserable piece of shit!”
Her mother: “Liar. I should’ve known a daughter of mine wouldn’t turn out any better.”
“He raped me!”
“You’re pregnant, aren’t you? Well, don’t look at me to help. I’m not paying for your mistakes.”
“I just want him to stop. . . .”
“Then rub his balls, honey. That always works for me.”
He had to be out there. She could feel him. The goddamn man from her deck, the big-mouthed stranger reviving old rumors in the bar. The stupid man in black who’d gone from manipulating mere schoolchildren to thinking he could mess with the likes of her.
Rainie ran inside. She grabbed the barrel of the shotgun with both hands, like it was a serpent ready to strike. But she was ready now. Prepared. Back outside. She hefted the gun overhead. She lofted it against the black velvet sky.
“Is this your idea of a joke? You think you can rattle me! Fuck you! I’m on to you, you son of a bitch. I’m on to you, so fuck you!”
She heaved the shotgun into the air. She watched it whip around and around. Heard it smack hard against a tree trunk. Her breathing was labored. She could hear faint ringing in her ears. Nothing good ever happened when she heard that ringing in her ears.
A moment passed. Then another moment. No sound in the trees, though she knew he had to be there. He’d driven a troubled little boy to murder, and now apparently he was looking for a new source of fun. What was it Quincy had said? The UNSUB would try to manipulate law enforcement for sport. He prided himself on clever acts.
Rainie would show him. Hell, she’d just thrown a shotgun at him and now stood with only her fists and her rage for protection. Oh, and a small paring knife.
She started to laugh. She didn’t know how it happened. She was standing with her legs apart and her hands balled into fists, ready for a fight, and then she was laughing and thinking of what her mother had yelled at her fourteen years ago.
“Then rub his balls, honey. That always works for me.”
She got it. Fourteen years later, she finally understood her mother’s crude advice. And she had to slap her thighs and hold her middle as the laughter ripped out of her in savage gasps.
She was crying. Tears ran down her cheeks. Second time in one night. Jesus, it sucked to be her.
She was climbing off the deck. Knowing she shouldn’t do it. It was just what the bastard wanted. Having to do it anyway.
Burrowing under the boards into the crawl space, where the soil was rich and dark and she scratched at it with her bare hands. Deeper and deeper and deeper. Still here. Still horrible. All was safe. Still here.
Oh God, she’d had no idea laughing could hurt so much. Oh God, was that her face in the mirror, with the sunken cheeks and mud splatters in the shape of tears?
An hour later she had her 9-millimeter and her flashlight. She went into the woods. She started to hunt. She had no illusions about what she would do if she found the man, and that both terrified her and left her calm.
About two hundred feet from her house, she discovered the hollow. Behind some low shrubs for cover, leaves flattened down from long vigil. Ground was cold now, but she knew he’d been there. Watching. It seemed very clear to her. A man who enjoyed manipulating children to kill. A man who was obviously angry but didn’t have the gonads to do anything about it himself. Who would appeal to him more than a police officer rumored to have killed her own mother?
That was what tonight had been about. First setting the scene at the bar, then supplying the props in her living room. He was inviting her to the party.
“Come back one more time,” Rainie murmured. “Let me show you what I can do, you twisted son of a bitch. Let me show you everything.”
She collected the battered shotgun on her way back in.
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER the trees rustled as a figure leapt down to the ground not far from where Rainie had been standing. The man touched the dirt that still held her footprints. Then he brought his fingertips to his mouth and licked them.
And then he smiled.
Perfect.
TWENTY-NINE
Saturday, May 19, 6:01 A.M.
SANDY O’GRADY WASN’T ASLEEP when the phone rang. She was lying on her back in bed, staring at the gray shadows shifting on her ceiling. She’d been dreaming that she was a little girl again. She’d been out in fields, lounging back in the thick grass with her best friend, Melinda. They were identifying the shapes of clouds.
“Look, that one’s a dragon.”
“Oh, oh, an elephant!”
“A two-headed dog!”
Sandy had woken up with tears on her cheeks and the nearly unbearable need to call Melinda. Except she knew that wasn’t really it. Melinda had moved to Portland nearly fifteen years ago. She’d gotten married—Sandy had attended the ceremony seven months pregnant with Danny—and she and Sandy hadn’t spoken since. Their lives had moved on, the way lives did. They both had new friends who lived closer, had more in common, and required less effort to keep in touch.
She didn’t honestly miss her childhood friend that much. She supposed, however, that she missed her childhood.
To be young and carefree. To be so sure that you had all the answers.
Snoring came from the living room, where Shep slept on the sofa. Rustling came from the front-hall closet, where Becky slept on the floor. And silence came from the bedroom where Danny used to be.
Six A.M. Staring at the ceiling. Wondering where her life had gone wrong. Wondering how to make sense of things. She was a mother now, and it was her job to know the way.
The phone rang.
Sandy picked it up before it completed the first high-pitched peal.
She said, “Hello, Danny.”
He didn’t reply. Sh
e heard the now-familiar background noises. Clanging metal, distant hum of voices. Sandy had seen some of Cabot County’s facility the first time she’d tried to visit Danny. New, modern, really not so bad compared to how some youth detention halls could be. In Sandy’s imagination, however, the youth center remained a grim, gray prison, and these noises fit that place.
“How are you doing, Danny?” she asked, keeping her voice light. She shifted to get more comfortable on the bed. She had him on the phone. She might as well keep him, for it seemed this would be as close to contact as she would get with her son.
“We’re doing okay,” she said conversationally. “We miss you. Your father is working very hard to help you. We hired a lawyer, Avery Johnson. I know you’ve met him. He’s very good, the best of the best. Your father and I are pleased he took your case.”
Still nothing.
She took another deep breath. “Becky is starting to come around. She got a new stuffed animal yesterday. A white and gray kitten. You know how much she likes cats. In fact, we might get a real cat soon. Would you like that? Your father is thinking maybe he could handle a pet after all, and Becky has sworn up and down she’ll take care of everything. He’ll never have to know it’s around. Of course, now we need to go to the pound to pick out a kitten, and I’m not sure how Becky will handle that. She’ll take one look and want to bring home every animal in the place. We could end up with a zoo. Can you imagine your father knee-deep in puppies and kittens?”
Silence.
Sandy’s eyes began to burn. She blinked the tears away. “I wish I could see you, Danny,” she said. “I miss you. Very much. I’ll be honest. I’ve—I’ve been better. But there are a lot of folks around here who believe in you. The church has started a fund-raiser to help with the legal bills. Your grandma and grandpa, they’ve been by every day to help out, and they keep saying how much they can’t wait to get this whole misunderstanding behind us. The neighbors have brought over food. Why, yesterday we even got a brand-new set of Bibles!
“Danny?”
Still no answer.
She sighed quietly. “I miss you. I wish I could give you a big hug right now. I wish I could kiss the top of your head. I wish . . .” Her voice had grown thick. “I wish I could make everything all right. Because I know whatever happened, you didn’t do it on purpose. You’re a good boy, Danny. You’re my boy, and I love you very much.”
More silence. Sandy couldn’t take any more of this; her son was breaking her heart. She went to hang up, and Danny finally spoke.
He said dully, “So much noise. And this horrible smell. Not like the movies. I pulled the trigger. So much noise.”
“Danny?”
“They jerked. The lockers went pop. People fell down. So much noise. I did such a bad thing, Mommy.” His voice rose abruptly. “I did such a bad thing!”
Sandy’s chest tightened. She had suspected this was coming, and still, hearing the long-feared words out loud nearly ripped her in two. She whispered helplessly, “I’m sorry, honey. I am so sorry it came to this.”
“The noise. So much noise . . .”
“Danny—”
“He’s going to kill me.”
“Who, Danny? We want to help you—”
“I want to die, Mommy. I wish I could lay down my head and just . . . die.”
“Don’t talk like that! You’re young, you made a mistake. It’s this other person’s fault. He tricked you, Danny. Can’t you see that? He manipulated you. Now tell us who it is. Please, Danny.”
But Danny had pulled himself back together. She could hear his ragged breathing quiet, then a long snuffle as he wiped his nose with the back of his hand.
“I can’t,” he said at last, and his voice sounded surprisingly mature, surprisingly resolved. “I can’t tell you anything, Mommy. I’m too damn smart.”
THIRTY
Saturday, May 19, 6:35 A.M.
QUINCY WAS ALREADY UP and moving when the old rotary phone shrieked to life next to his bed. At first he was startled by the sound, then he was confused. No one called him here. The office used his cell phone, and the locals—namely, Rainie—seemed to prefer to simply show up. Then a new thought struck Quincy. He froze at the bathroom sink, one half of his face still lathered, the other half shaved.
The phone squawked again.
Funny, but he couldn’t get his feet to move.
He’d been so sure that when the call came it would be on his cell phone. God knows he lived and breathed through its digital lifelines. But he’d also given the office the hotel number, and if Bethie had asked some hospital assistant to please track him down . . .
The phone kept ringing. He forced himself to get moving.
Thirty seconds later it was over and done. And it was as horrible as he feared and as simple as he’d expected. If he would just come to the hospital. They would unplug the machines, pull the ventilating tubes. It could be over very quickly or very slowly. You just never knew.
He started packing his bags. When white foam splashed his carry-on, he realized he hadn’t finished shaving and returned to the sink.
He had phone calls to make. The first few, to Quantico, were easy. The last one, to Rainie, he realized he didn’t know how to do. His expertise was in the professional world. When it came to his personal life, he still had a lot to learn.
The case here needed him. Things were moving fast now, and with a sophisticated killer things generally got worse before they got better. He found himself thinking of Jim Beckett and another young, beautiful law-enforcement officer whose attempt at stopping the serial killer hadn’t even broken his stride. Oh God, he hoped it didn’t come down to that here.
Rainie needed him. She was resilient, but she was going through things no one should go through alone. Last night, right before she turned on him again, he’d seen the ache in her eyes. One more moment, one last defense, and she’d be ready to open up completely. He wanted to be there for that moment. They had the start of something rare and special, he thought. God knows, he did not meet enough people in his life who both challenged and captivated him.
Except his family needed him, too, and as happened so often in his life, he couldn’t be in two places at once. He was not Superagent or Superfather. He was just a person leading a complicated life, and sometimes he did fail the people he loved.
Rainie was tougher than Bethie, he thought. And she was trained in the field. Weak comforts, but he would take what he could get.
He picked up the phone and dialed. Rainie answered on the fifth ring, just when he was beginning to give up. Her voice sounded distant and not at all like her.
“Rainie? I’m sorry, did I wake you?”
She mumbled something that might have been yes.
He waited, and when she didn’t offer anything more, he kept the conversation simple, for there was no way to make it kind. “Rainie, I have to return to Virginia now.”
Stunned silence. He’d expected as much.
He continued with more calmness than he felt. “The hospital just called me. Apparently, Bethie has agreed to shut off life support. She’s already signed the forms to donate Mandy’s organs, and there are people who are waiting. . . . It’s . . . it’s time.”
Rainie didn’t say anything.
“I’ll come back,” he said quickly. “I had the sabot couriered to the crime lab yesterday and pulled a few strings to make it a priority project. I can apply even more pressure while I’m local.”
She remained silent.
“And I’d like to do some additional research while I’m back there,” he added briskly. “I was thinking about it early this morning. I’m willing to bet the person we are looking for is what we call an authority-complex killer. The most famous example is Charles Manson, of course.”
He thought he might be babbling. She still wasn’t talking and he couldn’t seem to stop.
“An authority-complex killer generally comes from a family with an extremely domineering parental figure,” he heard
himself say. “This parent either physically or verbally abuses him as a child. The child grows up fantasizing about facing down his parent but never has the ability to do so. Instead, his rage becomes focused on other people in power. Except rather than seek out direct violence against them, the killer manipulates others into acting. This, of course, makes him feel powerful and omnipotent.
“I need to look up additional case studies, but authority-complex killers are generally charismatic, verbal, and possess excellent socialization skills. The interesting thing about them is that they are mental. Even more than violence, they enjoy toying with people in charge, creating elaborate ruses such as we’ve seen. This person doesn’t want things quick or easy. He wants to watch the police sweat and gloat over our seeming stupidity. In other words, the more I think about it, the more I’m sure Dave Duncan is still in the area.”
“There’s a chance he’s still in the area,” Rainie intoned dully.
“But don’t underestimate him,” Quincy added hastily. “He’ll kill directly if he has to. Particularly established authority figures, such as cops.”
There was a noise over the phone, as if Rainie was dragging something heavy across the bed.
Quincy frowned. He grew silent and for the first time heard the gulf looming between them. He had a sudden image of her sitting alone on her bed in the dark, cradling her gun for comfort. Things had ended badly last night, and now he couldn’t stay to make them right.
“Rainie?” he asked.
No answer.
“I’m coming back.”
No reply.
“I’m not bailing on you and I’m not bailing on this case. Isolation is not protection,” he said adamantly, though he was definitely babbling now and didn’t expect her to understand what he meant. “Dammit, Rainie—”
She said quietly, coolly, “Have a nice flight.”
ABE SANDERS SAT DOWN to a hearty three-egg omelette in the back booth of Martha’s Diner. One big advantage of working in the middle of Hicksville, U.S.A.—fresh produce. His omelette oozed with plump mushrooms, premium Tillamook cheese, and, best of all, fresh spinach. Too many places in the city ruined that. They offered canned spinach or, even worse, creamed spinach. Abe shuddered. Not even Popeye would touch that stuff.
