by Lisa Gardner
“We did. It seemed far-fetched.”
“Yes, well, cops have singularly linear minds,” Richard conceded with a shrug. “It’s where you go wrong. Violence is a creative act. It requires patience and care. I’ve been nursing Danny O’Grady along for over a year, you know. Slowly making him feel comfortable on-line. Letting him know his feelings of rage and inadequacy are common and acceptable. Then it was easy. Met him in person. Showed him I’m a legitimate guy—his own school counselor, in fact. How can you doubt what the school counselor is telling you? ‘You need to stand up for yourself, Danny. Show everyone, including your father, who’s boss.’
“Of course, I never mentioned Melissa Avalon. I left that as a last-minute surprise. He just had to bring the guns and his backbone; I’d help him take a stand. When we walked into the side entrance of the school, the boy was shaking like a leaf. But you should’ve seen the look of determination on his face. Man, I was proud. Ironically enough, I kind of felt like a father. And then I walked into the computer lab and drew down on pretty Melissa Avalon.”
Richard’s voice lowered. He leaned forward conspiratorially. “The trick is to hesitate,” he confided. “Let the kid apprise the situation. Let him understand he has the chance to intervene. And then, while he’s still shocked and dazed and trying to find his conscience, bam! Pull the trigger. Down goes the precious little teacher. And the kid is all yours. He didn’t stand up for good. Now he’s gotta be evil. I told the boy to let it rip, and he bawled like a baby, but he didn’t disappoint. Not bad shooting, really, considering he was too frightened to leave the doorway of the computer room. Shep might be a decent teacher after all—at least when it comes to guns.”
Mann rocked back on his heels. He sighed and finished up contentedly, “Danny killed himself two little girls. And as soon as everyone left the building in a wave of mass confusion, I calmly exited stage right. Piece of cake, just like the times before.”
“Not quite. Becky saw you.”
Mann merely shrugged. “Guess she tried to play hero and find her brother. Bad break for her, when she ran down the hall and discovered her own brother and school counselor holding the proverbial smoking guns. But not so bad for me. I simply threatened to kill Danny if Becky talked, and threatened to kill Becky if Danny talked. Voilà. If people would raise children who were more callous, my job might actually be difficult. Without a guilty conscience, of course, there is very little to manipulate.”
“And is that why you created Dave Duncan, some stranger running around Seaside? More need to manipulate?”
Mann smiled wolfishly. “Come on, Rainie. A murder has been committed—what do the brilliant cops do? They line up the locals. Now before, that was my whole advantage. I had no apparent ties to what happened, so no one ever thought to even question me. But that got boring. This time I became a local—quite nicely, if I do say so myself. But now I will be subject to questioning, and I kind of stole an identity, which might come up if somebody pushes too hard. How to cover? I know. I’ll create some out-of-town stranger for you to chase. Clever and ironic. Someday I’m gonna have to write a book.”
“Not to burst your bubble, Richard, but if you’re so good, why do I know you’re the shooter? And Danny’s admitted that you are. For that matter, I’ve already called and left messages for the others about you. Face it, the jig is up.” Rainie was lying about having left messages for Sanders and Luke, but Mann didn’t seem to care.
“They aren’t coming, Lorraine. Don’t you understand that yet? Your hero Quincy is rushing into the arms of his ex-wife. And your friends Detective Sanders and Officer Hayes are dealing with another shooting across town. Or didn’t you hear? It seems that someone sent Daniel Avalon a copy of a private tape his daughter made of her and her new lover, in flagrante delicto. I guess it was a little much for Mr. Avalon. He looked up good old Principal VanderZanden. He brought his favorite shotgun.” Richard covered his lips delicately. “Oops. It’s just you and me, Lorraine. Let’s talk.”
“Why? You had your fun. What do I have to do with anything?”
“Tell me how it felt that afternoon. Tell me how much you enjoyed killing the man who shot your mother.”
“Go to hell.”
“It felt great, didn’t it? You don’t like to admit it, but it gave you a secret thrill. And you like to relive it, don’t you, Lorraine? Every time you step onto your back deck. Every time you raise your beer in a silent toast to the man you blew away.”
“Richard, I changed my mind.” Rainie sat down on a nearby bench. She watched him still. “I will tell you what I say each time I dump out a beer.”
“What?” He was honestly breathless.
“I toast my mother.” Her fingers trailed down to her ankle.
“You tell her off? You send her a giant, postmortem fuck you? Oh, I like that. I do the same thing once a year.”
“No.” Her hand closed around the small handle of her gun. “I don’t tell her, Fuck you. She tried to stop him, you asshole. She was slow to believe, but she finally told him a few choice words. And then he blew off her head. So no, I don’t tell her, Fuck you. I tell her I’m sorry. I tell her I should’ve killed him sooner. And then I tell him I hope it’s hot enough down there in hell.”
She whipped out her .22. “Bye-bye, Richard.”
“Too late, Rainie. Danny’s right behind you.”
Rainie heard a board creak. She turned reflexively, saw Danny’s shocked, pale face. Too late she realized her mistake. She tried to turn back around. She squeezed off one wild, desperate shot.
Then Richard savagely slammed her mother’s shotgun into the side of her head.
RICHARD STEPPED FORWARD QUICKLY. He leveled the unfirable shotgun at Danny and said, “Gimme the gun.”
Danny looked at Rainie’s crumpled form. The boy handed over his firearm.
Richard smiled. Like candy from a baby. He tucked the gun in the back waistband of his jeans and left Rainie’s shotgun on the deck. “Your daddy sprung you, didn’t he?”
The boy didn’t say a word. He simply gazed hungrily at Richard’s gun. Richard wasn’t worried, however. Danny was too browbeaten by his father to ever do something bold. That had been half the fun.
Now Richard bent over and, with some difficulty, hefted Rainie onto his shoulder.
“You squealed on me, didn’t you, Danny? Didn’t I tell you that smart boys don’t squeal? Smart boys stay quiet, if they want to keep their families safe.”
Danny remained wordless.
“Well, there’s only one thing to do now,” Richard said with a sigh. “We’re going to have to kill your sister. Rules, Danny. Just ask my old man. You gotta live by the rules.”
QUINCY’S FLIGHT DIDN’T touch down in Portland until nine P.M. Luke met him at the gate and started briefing him as they both half-walked, half-jogged to his illegally parked car.
“Her neighbor reported hearing a gunshot a little after eight P.M.,” Luke was saying. “Frankly, we didn’t get that call until nearly nine P.M.”
“Why so late?”
“Because we had our hands full with another shooting, and dispatch got confused. Daniel Avalon had disappeared as of yesterday afternoon. Today he surfaced in Bakersville, trying to blow off Steven Vander-Zanden’s head.”
“Casualties?”
“Not yet. VanderZanden ended up bruised and battered, but fortunately Avalon’s a lousy shot. On the other hand, VanderZanden’s wife figured out what it was about from all the cursing and swearing. I don’t know yet how VanderZanden will fare with her.”
“Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” Quincy murmured. Someone came barreling toward them with a cart filled with luggage. They both swerved wildly and kept running. “When did officers arrive at Rainie’s house?”
“Fifteen minutes ago. So far there’s no sign of Rainie, but there are blood splatters on the deck. Sanders thinks he got her.”
“Any phone calls, any gloating? He loves games. This whole thing has been one
giant adventure for him.”
“Yeah, well, we’re trying to cut off his amusement ride. In the good-news department, Sanders opened up the personnel file for Richard Mann around six-thirty. First thing he saw was a black-and-white photo of the real Richard Mann, which certainly didn’t match our favorite counselor. He’d already called for a couple of uniforms to descend upon Mann’s house when the shooting started at the VanderZanden residence.”
They arrived at Luke’s patrol car. Quincy threw his bags on the floor and climbed in. Luke flipped on the sirens. Off they went.
“What did they find at Mann’s house?” Quincy asked, gripping the dashboard as Luke took a corner hard.
“We found one computer. A cop hit the space bar. The monitor came up with a screen that said: Love you too, Baby. Then the whole thing blew up. Luckily, it was a small charge and no one was hurt.”
“Fuck!” Quincy slapped the dashboard. “We’ve spent this whole dance two steps behind.”
“Yeah, and now the dance floor is getting crowded. In other news, Danny disappeared at five-thirty this evening. Two Cabot County cops were transporting Danny to a mental facility when they ran off the road. Supposedly when they regained consciousness, he’d already stolen the keys to his shackles and disappeared into the mist.”
Quincy looked at Luke. He said, “Shep.”
Luke said nothing, which coming from him was a yes.
“Is he in custody?”
“They’re still questioning him. But there’s no sign of Danny, and I know Shep. He’d do anything for his son, probably even this. But something’s gone wrong. He looks like a giant bowl of jelly. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he’s scared out of his mind.”
“You think Danny ran off on his own?”
“I don’t know.”
“You think he went to Rainie’s house?”
“We’re dusting for prints. Ask me when the reports come back.”
“How well does Danny know the area?”
“He’s hunted here all his life. He’d do all right.”
“Get your hands on Shep. Have him meet us at Rainie’s place.”
Luke didn’t bat an eye. “Okay.”
“Ask Sanders to send two state troopers to the O’Grady house. I want Sandy and Becky under full police protection. According to the preliminary information, Richard Mann—or whoever he is—has done this three times. On each occasion it’s been a mass shooting. And on each occasion there have been no witnesses. I don’t think he’s going to start now.”
Luke paled but nodded soberly.
“Luke, do you have a vest?”
“Yes.”
“Put it on. Make sure everyone puts theirs on.”
“You don’t think he’s left town.”
“I know he hasn’t left town. It’s the nature of the beast. Each time, he has to raise the stakes in order to get the same thrill. And, heaven help us, he’s tired of being bored.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Saturday, May 19, 10:05 P.M.
ABE SANDERS RAN UP to meet Quincy the minute he arrived at Rainie’s house. The CSU was tearing up floorboards, dissecting the deck in search of trace evidence. Giant floodlights illuminated the grounds, while men in navy blue windbreakers swept the premises inch by inch with bobbing flashlights. Quincy had seen this scene hundreds of times by now, and it still struck him as surreal.
He’d never even been to Rainie’s home. There should be nothing here to connect to her in his mind. But when he saw the back deck framed by soaring trees, he could picture her at once, and pain socked him in the gut. Her vulnerable eyes, her stubborn chin. So much unfinished business.
He had to reach out a hand to steady himself. Then he got on with the matters at hand.
“What have they found?” he asked Sanders.
“It’s under the deck.”
Quincy followed Sanders around. Shep was back there as well, hunched with his chin tucked in the top of his coat against the night’s chill. Luke was right. Shep looked on the verge of being ill. If he’d been behind the jailbreak, things had not gone as planned.
Then Quincy noticed that men were furiously working the dirt beneath the deck like a promising archaeological site. They dusted, fluoresced, and categorized. They carted away piles of dirt.
“It looks like a fresh grave,” Sanders was saying. “Right under the deck. But all we’ve found so far are some old threads and gravel. They’re still working on it.”
Quincy looked at Shep. The sheriff had thinned his lips. Quincy understood. They were looking at the final resting place of the man who had killed Rainie’s mother. And Quincy also understood who had put him there.
“Anything else?” Quincy asked.
“We found an old shotgun,” Sanders said. “Shep already identified it as the gun that was used to kill Molly Conner fourteen years ago. In theory, it’s an open case, so all evidence has been held in the state police’s storage locker in Portland. Then two days ago a young man claiming to be from the Bakersville sheriff’s department checked out the evidence. He gave Rainie’s badge number, which the doofus officer in charge never followed up on. And gee, Bakersville’s newest police officer just happens to match Richard Mann’s description.”
“He gave this some thought.”
“No kidding. We got a ton of fingerprints from his house, but it’s going to take a while to work through the system. We’ve been calling him Mann, though apparently the real Mann is teaching in some remote village in Alaska and has no idea someone stole his identity. When he gets back to civilization, he’s in for a little surprise.”
“Mann’s still around here,” Quincy said.
“He’d be an idiot to remain in the area. We got guys everywhere.”
“He’s an adrenaline junkie. He’s taken it this far. He’ll see it all the way through.”
“What do you think he’s doing?”
“I’m not sure anymore. In the beginning, I think he was planning on business as usual. He identified a kid who was troubled. He found an identity he could use as a ruse. It’s not rushed. He’s executed three complicated crimes in the space of ten years. He takes his time. He’s cautious. Think of what we talked about earlier: He operates with a double contingency plan. So even if you penetrate the first wall, you simply encounter the next layer of defense.
“My guess is that he was too good. Two spectacular crimes and no one came close to figuring them out. Where’s the thrill in that? Where’s the rush? So this time he started to take more chances. He lingered after the shooting. He gave us more hints, but I just didn’t see them. His whole little diatribe on what makes a good father. He was referring to his own issues with his father, of course. Then that little speech at the funeral on how he’d decided Danny couldn’t be the shooter. Danny was too smart, too sophisticated to use blatant force. He wasn’t talking about Danny. He was talking about himself.
“And then we get to Rainie. He brought her the shotgun, the gun most of the town believes she personally used to kill her own mother. That must have captivated him. Here’s a woman who is rumored to have done exactly what he fantasized about every day of his childhood. She probably seemed glorious to him.”
“You think he wanted her to run away with him? Become his partner?” Sanders asked incredulously.
Quincy shook his head. “No. I think he made the same mistake everyone else in this town has made. She didn’t shoot her mother. And that deeply, deeply disappointed him.”
Sanders could fill in the rest. “And if he’s disappointed . . .”
“If we don’t find them soon,” Quincy said quietly, “I doubt she’ll live through the night.”
A voice suddenly came from deep in the woods. “Over here, over here,” a technician cried. “I got something!”
They ran. There on the ground, a tiny piece of white cotton, as if torn from a T-shirt.
“They went into the woods,” Sanders said trium-phantly. “Quick, somebody get some dogs.”
“A
djoining roads,” Quincy said immediately. “Log-ging roads, rural routes, dirt roads, anything. Get your men on them, because he didn’t come all this way on foot.”
Abe excitedly began making the calls, and then they were plunging into the underbrush, desperate to find a trail, desperate to find Rainie.
“SHIT!” RICHARD MANN SAID for the fifth time in about as many minutes. He staggered to a halt, wiping the heavy sweat from his brow and giving Rainie a look that was rapidly growing ragged.
She pretended to ignore his hatred while lowering herself gingerly to the ground, not the easiest thing to do with her hands tied behind her back. Her head hurt. She had regained consciousness quickly, but that hadn’t done her any favors. When Richard had smacked her with the shotgun, he’d done a good job of it. Her jaw throbbed; she suspected it was broken. Her eye had swelled shut; she thought the socket might be fractured. She was starting to see double with what vision she had left, and the pain was becoming less constant but more acute. Hemorrhage, maybe? Blood clot? The possibilities were endless.
At least she was having the last laugh. Her wild shot had caught Richard Mann in his right buttock as he’d swiveled around to swing the shotgun. He’d dismissed it as a mere flesh wound, but after hiking up the steep mountain for a bit, he’d taken to favoring his right leg. His walking was no longer steady; his face had become flushed. They were taking more and more breaks and stopping for longer periods of time. It was hard to tell in the dark, but she suspected he was bleeding heavily. He’d stuffed his windbreaker down his pants to bandage the wound, but he must have begun to doubt that system, for he kept pausing now to check the ground for signs of blood.
Mess with me, get shot in the ass, Rainie thought. She smiled at her own dark humor, then promptly winced in pain.
Danny was still with them, now sitting quietly beside Rainie. He had yet to say a word. He simply walked, his head ducked low and his hands stuck in the pants pockets of his blue surgical scrubs. The night was cold. He kept fidgeting with his white cotton undershirt as if trying to get warm. Rainie wished there was more she could do for him.
