Gone (23 page)

She exited, inspecting the parking lot. She didn’t see any sign of the man, however, which didn’t make much sense. The parking lot was a big open space. No one could simply vanish.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. This was it. Something was happening, something was going down.

Seventeen minutes since the first phone call. Detective Alane Grove stood outside the Wal-Mart and readied for action.

She didn’t notice the man again until it was much too late.

Wednesday, 10:32 a.m. PST

S
ILENCE.
S
ILENCE.
S
ILENCE
.

Quincy stood in the middle of the conference room, where only Candi, Lieutenant Mosley, and Kincaid remained. The negotiator paced the length of the room. Kincaid filled out paperwork. Lieutenant Mosley finally headed to the lobby, to deal with his hyperactive pager.

Fifteen minutes went by. Twenty minutes. Thirty minutes.

And still there was only silence over the airwaves.

“What the hell is going on!” Quincy demanded at last.

But nobody had an answer.

34

Wednesday, 10:12 a.m. PST

S
HE WAS FLOATING.
It was a curious sensation. One tinged with both a sense of wonderful weightlessness and a heavier sense of dread. Maybe she wasn’t floating. Maybe she was falling, plummeting, racing down a dark abyss.

She felt the wind in her hair, the chill on her face.

She opened her arms.

And she was awake.

Dougie spoke first. “Rainie?”

“Dougie?”

The room was dark. She couldn’t get her bearings. Something had changed, but she couldn’t figure out what. From across the way, she heard the rustle of clothes, Dougie moving toward her.

“You’re not dead,” Dougie said.

“No.” She licked her lips, trying to find moisture to ease her parched throat. Her tongue felt swollen with thirst, her mouth cracked and painful. She blinked her eyes, but nothing appeared in front of her, not even shades of gray. Maybe she’d gone blind.

“Where?” she managed to ask hoarsely.

“It’s a room,” Dougie supplied. “I gave you the bed. I thought you needed it more.”

“Dark.”

“He boarded up the windows. I tried to get the wood off, but I need a tool. Do you have a tool?”

Dougie’s tone was wistful. He knew the answer, of course. Sometimes, it was just hard not to ask.

“I got food,” Dougie said a bit more brightly. “Crackers. Cheese. I saved you a piece.”

“Water,” she croaked.

Dougie’s voice went low. “I drank the water,” he said quietly.

“Oh, Dougie . . .”

She couldn’t summon enough moisture for further words. Instead, she reached over and tousled his hair. In response, he pressed his cheek against her leg. It immediately sent a bolt of pain through her body, but she didn’t protest. It was unbelievably nice to feel his presence in this unrelenting dark. To know that neither one of them was alone.

“I told him we were cold,” Dougie said in a muffled voice. “I told him the cellar was too wet and we wouldn’t stay there anymore.”

“Brave . . . of you.”

“He laughed at me. He said he didn’t fucking care if we froze to death—”

“Dougie . . .”

“He said it! I’m only repeating what he said. Didn’t fucking care.”

Rainie rolled her eyes. Now Dougie was clearly milking the opportunity to swear. But it made her smile. He sounded like a seven-year-old. He sounded, for the moment at least, normal.

“He didn’t put us in the cellar,” Dougie said now, perplexed. “He led me down the hall. He put me in this room. I didn’t like it at first. I yelled at him to let me out. I was . . . I was afraid.” He mumbled the last word, making it hard to catch. “But then he came back with you. And gave me some blankets. And I had some cheese and crackers. And water”—another mumbled word. “But only a little bit. I swear it wasn’t that much. And I did save a cracker. Don’t you want a cracker?”

Rainie felt the boy press the saltine against her fingers. She took his gift, not wanting to offend him. She didn’t think she could eat the cracker, however. She didn’t have enough moisture left in her mouth.

“How long?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I kinda . . . I think maybe I fell asleep.”

Rainie nodded, looking around the room, trying to get her bearings. It was unbelievably dark, even darker than the cellar. She would guess that not only had the man boarded up the windows, but he had painted everything black. Why? Sensory deprivation? Another tool for controlling his hostages?

Why this room, if he had the cellar? Unless maybe he’d realized the truth behind Dougie’s words. The cellar was too cold and damp, running the risk of hypothermia.

Maybe he couldn’t afford for them to be dead just yet.

The thought invigorated her. If he needed them alive, they wielded more power than they thought. They could afford to keep fighting. In fact, they’d better start ramping up their efforts, fight hard now, before that equation changed.

Rainie sat up. Out of nowhere, a white-hot harpoon of pain lanced up her left side and nailed her left temple. She cried out before she could stop herself, falling back, clutching her head with her bound hands. As swiftly as it came, the sharp pain was gone again, except now she was aware of too many things. Strange, tingling currents zooming up and down her limbs. A heavy dull ache swelling her left knee. The sharp sensation of her head being squeezed in an unbearable vise grip.

“Rainie?” Dougie asked fearfully.

“Sorry . . . Moved . . . wrong.”

“He zapped you. I saw him do it. He had this thing in his hand, and then he pressed it into your neck and pulled the trigger. Your body went
bzzzzzzt,
just like they do on TV.”

“Need . . . a moment. Dougie—”

But before she could say the rest, the door burst open, and the room was flooded with brilliant white light. Rainie flung up her bound hands to protect her eyes. Dougie cowered beside her.

“Heard you were awake,” the man announced. “Excellent. Get up. We got work to do.”

Rainie tried to move, tried to roll away from the man, find her feet, put up some kind of fight. Her muscles would not respond to her brain. Her legs didn’t move, her hips remained motionless, her shoulders refused to rotate. She lay helpless as the dark silhouette stepped into the room and grabbed Dougie by the arm.

“You first. She’s not going anywhere.”

Dougie cried out in terror, flailing with his feet, thrashing against the bed. Rainie tried to grab his hands, tried to draw him against her, as if that would make a difference. The man wrenched him away, tossing the boy easily over his shoulder.

Dougie screamed again and the sound cut Rainie to the bone.
Goddammit, do something,
she commanded herself.
Get off this fucking bed!

She strained against the mattress, begging her body to move.

“No, no, no!” Dougie was screaming down the hall.

Rainie remained pinned to the bed, tears pouring down her face.
No, no. Please move. Oh, goddammit. Oh, goddammit, Rainie, you miserable piece of shit. How could you be so weak?

She heard a door open, a door shut, and then there was no sound at all.

Time elapsed. She didn’t know how much. Her left leg twitched uncontrollably. The pressure built behind her temples, pressed against her eyeballs.

Then the man was back. She heard his hard, fast footsteps pound into the room. He grabbed her bound wrists and dragged her out of bed. She flopped like a dead fish onto the floor and lay there, too stunned to move.

“Get up,” he commanded her. “Like hell I’m carrying you down the stairs.”

“Water.” She sounded pathetic, beaten, a wounded animal begging for mercy. How did someone like her ever get to sound this way?

“Oh, trust me, you’ll have plenty of water soon enough.”

He yanked her to her feet. Her left knee wouldn’t take it. The minute he let go, she collapsed again. The man wasn’t happy. He kicked her in the ribs, then stood above her, hands on his hips.

“Rainie, I don’t have time for this shit.”

Hit him,
she thought.
Bite his kneecaps.
She remained curled up in the fetal position. She didn’t know a head could hurt as much as hers did and still not explode.

“Oh, for crying out loud.” He kicked her again. She remained motionless.

He got pissed off and waled on her as if she were a beaten dog.

It didn’t do him any good. She couldn’t stand up and no amount of physical abuse was going to make a difference. The man finally seemed to reach the same conclusion. He stopped kicking her and, instead, sighed heavily.

“You know, this is getting to be way too much trouble for the money.”

He bent down, looping his arm around her bound wrists. “Next time, fuck proof of life. I’m gonna kill up front and get it over with. None of this dragging people around, having to feed them, having to house them, having to put up with their puny attempts at escape. Frankly, you’ve really annoyed me, Rainie. I can understand why your husband moved out. You’re fucking incompetent.”

He started dragging her by the arms down the hall. She kept herself still, deadweight. Halfway down the hall, the man’s breathing became ragged. He stopped, gasping for breath and cursing her. A human body was cumbersome, not easy to pull. If he was going to kill her, she’d at least make him work for it.

He hooked his hands beneath her armpits, took a deep breath, and resumed his laborious journey down the hall. They entered the kitchen. He yanked her around the corner, down the long row of cabinets. At the last minute, she twisted her leg just enough for her foot to hook the corner unit. In response, he cuffed her on the side of the head.

Then they were off again.

She understood where they were going now. Back to the cellar. The dark. The bone-biting cold. She balked, more desperate now, arching her back, trying to twist out of his arms. She didn’t want to go back down into that pit. He would toss her down the stairs. He would bolt the door.

And no one would ever see her or Dougie alive again.

“No, no, no.” She didn’t know she had started moaning, until her own voice reached her ears.

“Shut up!” the man warned.

They went by the last cabinet. She desperately clawed at the handle.

“You’re pissing me off, Lorraine!”

But she wouldn’t let go, couldn’t let go. She was weak and battered and delirious from the withdrawal of her medication. But she had one lucid thought: He hadn’t killed them last night, which could only mean he still needed them. So she had to fight now, make a last stand before their usefulness expired and he abandoned them completely.

“I’ll get the Taser,” the man roared. “Don’t make me do it, Rainie.”

“Water, water, water!”

He grabbed her fingers and yanked them from the knob. One of her fingernails ripped off. She yelped with pain, then he had the cellar door flung open and was pushing her onto the top step.

“I’d start walking,” he said, “otherwise it’s a long fall.”

He pushed her hard. She barely caught the wooden railing, using it to slow her momentum as she careened violently down the stairs, landing in a puddle at the bottom.

“Let me out!” Dougie shouted from the shadows. “I don’t want to play anymore!”

His voice ended in a high-pitched scream.

“Hey, Rainie,” the man taunted from the top of the stairs. “Enjoy your precious water.”

The man started to laugh. Then he slammed the door shut and Rainie heard the click of the lock securing the door in place.

Dougie started screaming again, loud, wild, outraged. “No, no, no, no, no!”

Rainie would’ve joined him, if only she had the strength.

“No, no, no, no, no!”

Moment slid into moment. Dougie finally fell silent. They both absorbed the dark.

And then, for the first time, Rainie became aware of a new sound. Low, constant, vibrating. Hissing in the dark.

Rainie finally got the man’s joke. And she realized now the question she should’ve asked Dougie from the moment she’d woken up—why had the man given him cheese and crackers? What had Dougie done to earn such a treat?

“Dougie,” she called out quietly. “You have to tell me the truth—did the man take your picture?”

“I’m sorry,” the boy said immediately, which was answer enough.

Rainie closed her eyes. “Dougie, were you holding a newspaper?”

“It had my picture on the front page! Yours, too,” he added belatedly.

“Dougie, you need to get to higher ground. Can you find the workbench? Climb up on that.”

“I can’t! I’m tied to a pipe! I can’t move!”

“Oh no.” Rainie tried to stagger to her feet, to find Dougie in the dark. But her legs wouldn’t move, her body wouldn’t cooperate. She remained sprawled on the cold floor, feeling the water rise against her cheek.

The hissing sound had gained momentum and was now accompanied by a gurgle.

The man had burst a pipe. He was flooding the basement. He had his proof of life.

Now, he’d put them down here to die.

35

Wednesday, 10:41 a.m. PST

L
IEUTENANT
M
OSLEY HAD SPENT TWENTY YEARS
of his life in the OSP uniform. Two decades of starting each day with navy blue pants, a gray short-sleeved shirt, and a black patent-leather utility belt.

He drove a state trooper car, updated now with a gold star shooting across a navy blue backdrop. He worked out of the latest incarnation of the Portland field office, actually a former post office located smack-dab in the middle of a strip mall; last time a registering sex offender had decided to make a run for it, they’d gotten to chase him past the Hometown Buffet into the Dollar Tree store. It was the kind of thing that was frightening at the time—a convicted sex offender bolting through a public area filled with little kids—but made for a good story when all was said and done and the felon was safely behind bars.

In his career, Lieutenant Mosley figured he’d worked hundreds of motor vehicle accidents and written thousands of traffic citations. He’d learned firsthand what a speeding car could do to a sixteen-year-old kid as well as to a family of five. Then he’d served three years on a gang task force, right about the same time the L.A. gangs brought their particular brand of violence to the Portland area and taught nine-year-old boys to beat each other to death with baseball bats. Finally, he’d spent five years fighting the war on drugs, watching the growing crack epidemic envelop entire city blocks in a wave of addiction and decay.

When the public information officer position became available two years ago, Mosley figured he was ready for a change. And maybe other officers thought he was coasting, easing his way toward the retirement years, but at this stage of the game, he knew he’d paid his dues. He’d driven the highways; he’d walked the streets. He’d won battles; he’d lost fights. He had a pretty good idea of both how much and how little law enforcement could do.

In colloquial terms, he thought he’d seen it all. And yet he’d never seen anything quite like what he was seeing now.

Mosley finally turned away from the small TV the Fish and Wildlife officers had blaring at the front desk. He poked his head back into the conference room.

“Hey,” he said to Kincaid and Quincy, “you got to see this.”

Wednesday, 10:45 a.m. PST

A
DAM
D
ANICIC WAS HOLDING
a press conference. Impeccably dressed in a charcoal gray suit with a pastel pink shirt and darker pink satin tie, Danicic seemed to be channeling Regis Philbin as he stood on the lawn of a small white house, hands clasped in front of him, face painfully sincere.

The yard was filled with an assortment of reporters, cameramen, and awestruck neighbors.

“After much soul-searching,” Danicic was declaring to the gathered masses, “I have decided I have an obligation to come forward as a civilian and not as a member of the press, to report what I know about the tragic kidnappings of a woman and child right here in Bakersville. As a newspaper reporter, naturally I was honored and excited to be covering the kidnappings for the
Bakersville Daily Sun
and the ensuing investigation. Indeed, I was up most of last night working on this morning’s front-page story for the
Sun.

“I feel, however, that a journalist has an ethical obligation to be an objective outsider in any story, to be separate from the events unfolding. The longer I worked on my story, the clearer it became to me that I am no longer an objective outsider. In fact, just minutes ago, I received new information that puts me at the heart of this investigation. Thus, I feel I must remove myself as lead reporter for the piece and, instead, fully disclose everything I know, in the hopes that it might lead to the discovery of Lorraine Conner and seven-year-old Douglas Jones.”

“What the hell is he talking about?” Kincaid asked Lieutenant Mosley.

“Who knows,” the PIO said flatly. “But we are about to get screwed.”

“It all began yesterday morning,” Danicic continued expansively, waving his arms now, playing to his audience, “when the
Daily Sun
received the most frightening letter addressed to the Opinions Editor. This letter declared that someone among us had kidnapped a woman, but that she would remain unharmed,
as long as we did as the kidnapper said.
”

Danicic went on to describe yesterday’s events in detail after painful detail. The deal the
Daily Sun
had struck to cooperate with the law enforcement task force: “Because a local paper is by definition part of the community, and thus must show restraint and compassion when a fellow member of the community is in harm’s way.”

The attempt at renegotiating the ransom drop: “A desperate move from a desperate task force, racing against the relentless drumbeat of time.” The kidnapper’s unexpected retaliation against Dougie Jones, and the letter left on the windshield of Danicic’s car: “I started to realize then that in the events that were unfolding, I might be called upon to play an unusual and unexpected role.”

But it wasn’t until this morning, Danicic assured his fellow members of the press, that he realized clearly what that role might be. Upon e-mailing his lead story directly to Owen Van Wie, the
Daily Sun’
s owner, he finally caught some badly needed sleep. Only to wake up to the sound of a doorbell and discover an envelope, addressed to him, sitting on his front steps.

“Ah shit,” Kincaid groaned.

“We should’ve locked him up last night,” agreed Lieutenant Mosley.

Quincy continued to study the screen.

“This note was typewritten, but similar in tone and content to the other letters, which I have been privileged to see,” Danicic reported. “I have no doubt of its validity, and that it came from the kidnapper himself. In this note, the kidnapper reiterated his desire to ransom Lorraine Conner and Douglas Jones for twenty thousand dollars. The writer of the note, however, declared that he no longer trusted the police task force and did not feel that he could work with them. He indicated that if this matter was not resolved shortly, he felt he would have no choice but to kill both his victims. As proof of his claim, he included this.”

Danicic held up a photo. The local network camera zoomed in. The picture was dark and distorted. The face of a small boy appeared in the middle, but the flash had bleached out the child’s face, making individual features hard to discern. The boy was holding something.

“This photo clearly depicts Dougie Jones. Note the boy’s fingers, pointing to the date on the top of the front page of this morning’s paper as he poses next to his own photo in the
Daily Sun.
I believe you can just make out the face of a woman, lying behind Dougie. I believe the woman is Rainie Conner, but the police will need to be the judge of that.

“To say the least, I was deeply disturbed to receive this photo and this note. My first impulse, of course, was to call the authorities, as I have done with all communications I have received. This note’s tone, however, gave me pause. Needless to say, I’m distressed to hear that the kidnapper feels he can no longer cooperate with law enforcement. Having seen firsthand what that kind of distrust can do—the abduction of an additional victim, a small boy, just yesterday afternoon—I am concerned about what this means for both Dougie and Rainie. Thus, I reached a difficult decision. I have decided I must handle this note in a different manner.

“I am bringing it to you, the public. I am standing here right now, in the hopes that my message will reach the person who is holding Rainie Conner and Dougie Jones. And I am offering my services as a negotiator.” Danicic turned slightly to peer directly into the camera lens.

“Mr. Fox,” he said solemnly. “Following is my cell phone number. I encourage you to call it anytime. And I promise to do everything in my power to assure that you receive your twenty thousand dollars. All I ask is that you do not harm Dougie Jones or Rainie Conner. Do not make innocent victims pay for the mistakes of law enforcement.”

Danicic rattled off his phone number. A few of his neighbors began to clap.

In the front lobby of Fish and Wildlife, Kincaid shook his head, as if trying to wake himself from a particularly bad dream.

Mosley recovered first. “We need to hold our own press conference immediately. We will issue a statement that we are in contact with the kidnapper and are working with him to meet his demands. We need to say that while we appreciate any help the public has to give, it is crucial to give the task force time and space to handle this delicate case. We should also mention we brought in a professional negotiator; that will increase public confidence.”

“Let’s pick Danicic up,” Kincaid decided. “I want him and that note down at the Tillamook field office ASAP. Call the lab and get a scientist from QD up here to analyze the note, as well as some kind of expert on photos. And I want Danicic cooling his heels in an interrogation room. If the UNSUB does take him up on his cockamamie scheme, I don’t want to be hearing the details on CNN.”

Mosley nodded. Both men turned toward Quincy, who was still staring at the TV screen.

“You’re quiet,” Kincaid stated. His eyes narrowed. “You don’t really think we should work with him, do you?”

“What? No, no. That’s not it. Just trying to see the future.”

“Good luck to you.”

“He called at ten,” Quincy said abruptly. “The UNSUB fulfilled his promise from yesterday’s letter, and seemed to be setting up for the ransom drop by ordering three female officers to three separate pay phones. But at the same time he was doing this, he was also leaving a note on Mr. Danicic’s front door, claiming that he couldn’t work with the assembled task force. Why?”

Kincaid shrugged. “Confuse matters. Rattle our chains. Once more have a good laugh at our expense.”

“True. But it’s certainly no way to get rich. He hasn’t even made contact by pay phone.”

“You said it yourself: His primary motivation isn’t money.”

“He’s playing a game.”

“Son of a bitch,” Kincaid agreed.

“But all games have an end.”

“Theoretically speaking.”

“Then where is this game headed, Sergeant? What don’t we see?”

Kincaid didn’t have an answer. He shrugged, just as Candi appeared in the doorway.

“We have activity,” she reported.

“The UNSUB’s made contact?” Kincaid was already running for the conference room.

“No, but Trooper Blaney just radioed in. He’s at the Wal-Mart. He can’t find any trace of Detective Grove.”

“What?” Kincaid drew up short.

“He’s searched inside and outside the store,” Candi reported. “Best he can tell, Alane is gone.”