Gone (31 page)

From what they could piece together, Danicic had concocted his plan not for the ten grand, but to cast himself as the hero in a real-world drama that would catapult him to instant fame. Through his selfless efforts, he would single-handedly help police officers negotiate the rescue of two innocents. Tragically, the victims would already be dead by the time investigators arrived at the scene, cruelly locked up in the basement and left to drown. This would allow Danicic to appear mournful as he embarked on his nationwide media tour, cultivating a new personality as an expert on violent crime who would soon become a permanent fixture on the cable news channel of your choice. Basically, Danicic hadn’t been motivated by quick money. He’d been looking for a whole new lifestyle.

In the attic of his house, they found box after box of books. Case studies of violent offenders. Textbooks on police procedure and the latest forensic techniques. Printout after printout cataloguing famous kidnappers and where they had gone wrong. In many ways, the kidnappings had been his life’s work.

As for why Rainie and Dougie, Kincaid still wasn’t sure. Maybe they were back to Quincy’s point: A woman and small child seemed less threatening targets. Maybe it was opportunity, because Danicic had struck up a friendship with Dougie and quickly realized how easily the troubled boy could be manipulated. Maybe because Rainie’s spouse and occupation would lend the case that much more media interest.

They could only guess; Danicic wasn’t alive to tell them.

One week later, Quincy had a phone call out of the blue. Special Agent Glenda Rodman wanted to let him know that Andrew Bensen had been located in Canada, where he was seeking special status as a conscientious objector of the war. She thought Quincy would like to know.

And two days after that, Quincy finally got the call he’d been waiting for.

Afterward, he found Rainie outside, staring at the mountains, sipping a cup of tea with hands that still had a tendency to tremble.

“Let’s go,” he said, and headed for the car without another word.

Quincy was the one known for his silence. But in all the years he had spent with Rainie, he’d come to understand her quietness as well. The way she could sink deep within herself, shoulders hunched, chin down. The way she would stop making eye contact, her gaze going more and more to the grand outdoors, as if she would like to disappear into that towering bank of firs, as if she could will herself to cease to exist.

By the time they had arrived in Astoria, she was curled up in a ball, knees by her chin, arms around her legs for support. Her eyes had taken on a bruised, haunted look.

He wondered sometimes if this was how she had looked when her mother struck her. And sometimes, the image was too sharp in his head. A younger, more defenseless version of Rainie curled up on the floor. And an older, drunken version of Rainie, pounding away. Two sides of his wife. A past she was seeking to escape. A future she was desperate to avoid.

They arrived at the cemetery. Rainie knew where they were. She’d come here before with Quincy and, he would guess, many more times on her own.

She walked straight to the grave. Looked down at the stone angel. And then, as if unable to help herself, stroked the granite cheek with her fingers.

“Charles Duncan was arrested today,” Quincy said. “I wanted you—and them—to hear the news from me. Duncan confessed to killing Aurora and Jennifer Johnson. Sanders has a signed statement, as well as a confession on tape.”

“He confessed?” Rainie asked, sounding bewildered.

“It was Mac’s idea. With all the forensic reports now done, Sanders and the experts have a fairly clear idea what happened that night. Order of events, details of the rampage. So Sanders picked Duncan up. Told him they had a new development: They’d found a receipt in Jennifer’s papers for a nanny cam. Turns out there was a camera stuffed in a bear in Aurora’s room.”

“Really?”

“No. This was Mac’s gambit. I believe it’s called blindman’s bluff. It’s not the easiest thing in the world to pull off, but again, this is where the evidence reports made the difference. Sanders dangled a few details. Duncan cracked. Good thing, too. Sanders found a Peeping Tom report filed away—Duncan’s taken to following and spying on a checkout girl who works at his neighborhood Safeway.”

“Oh, thank God.” Rainie’s hand went over her mouth. “It’s over. He did it. It’s done.”

“Yes,” Quincy said, and in spite of himself, his own voice grew hoarse. “It’s over, Rainie. It’s done.”

“I don’t want to have nightmares anymore.” Rainie started to cry. “I don’t want to keep reaching out for a little girl I can’t save. The world is cruel. Our jobs are hopeless. I don’t even know how to love anymore. I just need to hate.”

She collapsed in his arms, still weeping, still talking. Half of it made sense. Half of it didn’t. He held her, let her get it all out. And then he stroked her back, playing with the short, feathery wisps of her hair. He willed his strength into her, as if one man’s love could heal his wife. And he wasn’t surprised when she stepped away from him and wiped her eyes.

They went back to the car in silence. They drove home in silence.

And later that night, when she said she was going to see Dougie, Quincy let her go, and prayed for his own sake, as much as anyone’s, that she wasn’t actually going to a bar.

Dougie’s room had a new decoration: the yearbook photo of his mother, blown up to an eight-by-ten and nicely framed. Laura of all people had had it done. In return, Dougie had started using words such as “please” and “thank you” when the older woman was around. It gave Rainie a surreal feeling every time she came to the house.

He must have had a good day, because he was playing in his room with a new toy car when she drove up. Outside, it was pitch black with the threat of freezing rain, so even Dougie was in for the night.

Rainie sat cross-legged on the floor, while Dougie drove the car all over his mattress. “Vroooooom. Vroom. Vroom. Vroom.”

“So, what did you think of Dr. Brown?” she asked.

The boy shrugged. “He’s all right.”

“Good toys?”

“Too many Spider-Men,” Dougie said seriously. “What’s so great about Spider-Man? Now Beetle-Man, that would be a hero. Vrooooom.”

“Maybe you can help him see the light. When do you see him again?”

Dougie stopped driving his car, looked at her perplexed. “See him again? But I went!”

Rainie had to laugh. “It’s therapy, Dougie. It takes more than one session to figure things out. You have to give it time.”

“But it’s
talking.
”

“Well, maybe you’ll come to like Spider-Man.”

Dougie gave her a skeptical look and resumed racing his car around the mattress.

Driving home, Rainie thought of Dougie and smiled. The boy was doing okay in his own way. He still antagonized Stanley. He still talked longingly of fire. But he was now more and more inside the house, playing, relaxed, part of the family, whether he realized it or not. She liked that he had the picture of his mother back. She liked that from time to time, he would tell a story from when he was a baby. Some of his tales sounded like fantasy to her, but in his own way, Dougie was reclaiming his past. It seemed to settle him, give him a first glimpse of the future.

He had hope. Unlike so many other children. Unlike Aurora Johnson.

The thought bruised her, hurt her all over again even after all these months. And she could feel the darkness rear up in the back of her mind, feel the telltale heaviness settle in her shoulders. And her thoughts, of course, fed on the darkness from there.

All the children out there who never had a chance. The child predators on the prowl right now. What eight-year-old was being tucked into bed right now who would never live to see the morning? What young girl was about to be snatched from her own home while her parents slept unaware down the hall?

And Rainie was left hurting, aching, reeling from the sheer hopelessness of it all.

Think happy thoughts, she told herself, almost inanely. Yellow-flowered fields, smooth-flowing streams. Of course, none of it worked.

So she thought of Dougie again. She reminded herself of the satisfied look on his face as he raced his car around the room. And she thought of all the other children out there who were bruised and battered, but somehow—somehow—found a way to survive.

She wanted so much for those children. Fiercely. Passionately. For them to grow up. For them to be free. For them to break the cycle of abuse, to find the unconditional love every person was entitled to. For them to be happy.

And she wondered how she could want so much for them, yet so little for herself. She was one of those children, too. She was a survivor.

And then, for the first time in a long time, she knew what she had to do.

She drove up the gravel driveway. She strode through the stinging rain into her house. She found Quincy sitting in front of the fire, a tight look around his mouth.

“Dougie says hi,” she volunteered loudly. “He earned himself a new toy car.”

And that quickly Quincy’s shoulders came down, the tension eased in his face. She knew what he’d been thinking, what he’d been worrying, and it brought tears to her eyes.

She stood there for the longest time. Minutes. Hours. She didn’t know. She looked at her husband and she knew she was seeing him again for the very first time. The gray that was now more visible than the jet in his hair. The fresh lines creasing the corners of his mouth. The way he sat so stiffly in his own home before his own wife, as if he were steeling himself for what she’d do next.

She strode forward before the momentum left her. She dropped to her knees in front of him. She reached out her hand. She said the words that needed to be said: “My name is Rainie Conner, and I am an alcoholic.”

The look on his face was so grave, it nearly broke her heart all over again. He took her hand. “My name is Pierce Quincy, and I’m the man who still loves you. Get off your knees, Rainie. You never have to bow before me.”

“I’m so sorry—”

“Shhh.”

“I want our life back.”

“Me too.”

“I don’t know where to start.”

“Tell me you still love me.”

“Oh, Quincy, I love you.”

“Tell me you won’t drink again.”

“I’ll join a program. I’ll do what needs to be done. I won’t ever drink again.”

He drew her up onto his lap, buried his face against the soft wisps of her newly grown hair. “Congratulations, Rainie. You’ve just taken the first step.”

“It’s a very long road,” she whispered softly.

“I know, sweetheart. That’s why I’m going to hold your hand all the way.”

Acknowledgments

My favorite part of writing any novel is easily the chance to pester a bunch of fine folks who have the misfortune to answer their phones, or in this case, their e-mail. Each book brings me a bunch of new research topics. And each research topic brings me a bunch of new experts to harass.

This time around, I’m deeply indebted to the patient men and women of the Oregon State Police. In particular, Lieutenant Gregg Hastings, for helping me understand the inner workings of the department, as well as life as a public information officer; Lieutenant Jason Bledsoe, who has a mind even more devious than my own and challenged my fictional crime over and over again until I finally got it right; and Lieutenant Beth Carpenter, Portland Crime Lab, who graciously permitted my husband and myself to tour the new, state-of-the-art facility, which at the time was decorated with the wackiest decorations I’ve ever seen (shotgun-shell Christmas tree lights, anyone? Or how about the latent-prints Christmas tree, which was decorated with fake thumbs?).

Of course, I also harassed my pharmacist of choice, Margaret Charpentier, for her yearly contribution to my fictional murder and mayhem. And I pressed my dear friend Dr. Greg Moffatt, whose brilliant insights into troubled minds allow my characters to reach new levels of twistedness.

As always, these people shared with me accurate and precise information. I, of course, abused, corrupted, and heavily fictionalized everything from there.

Finally, on a personal note, I never could have completed this novel without proper care and feeding from others: my husband, who once more provided his fine engineer’s eye for detail and who volunteered to ply his wife with chocolate only to be thwarted by her decision to start the South Beach diet two weeks before deadline (what was I thinking?); Sarah Clemons, who takes such enormously good care of all of us; Brandi Ennis, for easing a working mom’s guilt by loving my daughter nearly as much as I do; my daughter, who is addicted to the Care Bears soundtrack and thus taught her mother the valuable lesson of how to craft a crime novel with
Journey to Joke-a-Lot
running through her brain; and my two adorable dogs, who bark so much it is a miracle I can think anyway.

Last but not least, my heartiest congratulations to Alane Grove, winner of the second annual Kill a Friend, Maim a Buddy Sweepstakes at
www.LisaGardner.com
. Alane won the honor of naming the person of her choice to die in this novel. Alane nominated herself and more power to her. Hope you enjoy your role as a lucky stiff, Alane.

And to all those out there still waiting for their shot at literary immortality, never fear. I’m already working on the next novel, which means I need more experts to harass, and more contest winners to kill.

Happy reading, everyone.

Lisa Gardner

PROLOGUE

Who do you love?

It’s a question anyone should be able to answer. A question that defines a life, creates a future, guides most minutes of one’s days. Simple, elegant, encompassing
.

Who do you love?

He asked the question, and I felt the answer in the weight of my duty belt, the constrictive confines of my armored vest, the tight brim of my trooper’s hat, pulled low over my brow. I reached down slowly, my fingers just brushing the top of my Sig Sauer, holstered at my hip
.

“Who do you love?” he cried again, louder now, more insistent
.

My fingers bypassed my state-issued weapon, finding the black leather keeper that held my duty belt to my waist. The Velcro rasped loudly as I unfastened the first band, then the second, third, fourth. I worked the metal buckle, then my twenty pound duty belt, complete with my sidearm, Taser, and collapsible steel baton released from my waist and dangled in the space between us
.

“Don’t do this,” I whispered, one last shot at reason
.

He merely smiled. “Too little, too late.”

“Where’s Sophie? What did you do?”

“Belt. On the table. Now.”

“No.”

“GUN. On the table. NOW!”

In response, I widened my stance, squaring off in the middle of the kitchen, duty belt still suspended from my left hand. Four years of my life, patrolling the highways of Massachusetts, swearing to defend and protect. I had training and experience on my side
.

I could go for my gun. Commit to the act, grab the Sig Sauer, and start shooting
.

Sig Sauer was holstered at an awkward angle that would cost me precious seconds. He was watching, waiting for any sudden movement. Failure would be firmly and terribly punished
.

Who do you love?

He was right. That’s what it came down to in the end. Who did you love and how much would you risk for them?

“GUN!” he boomed. “Now, dammit!”

I thought of my six-year-old daughter, the scent of her hair, the feel of her skinny arms wrapped tight around my neck, the sound of her voice as I tucked her in bed each night. “Love you, Mommy,” she always whispered
.

Love you, more, baby. Love you, more
.

His arm moved, first tentative stretch for the suspended duty belt, my holstered weapon
.

One last chance …

I looked my husband in the eye. A single heartbeat of time
.

Who do you love?

I made my decision. I set down my trooper’s belt on the kitchen table
.

And he grabbed my Sig Sauer and opened fire
.