Gone

  Hal coughed three times, not bothering to cover his mouth. His own ploy to gain real estate. Shelly didn’t budge, though she’d seriously have to consider burning her clothes later today.

  “Need cough syrup?” she asked idly. “Bet you have some in the house.”

  “Bet I do. All this rain, a man’s bound to get a cold.”

  “So that’s why you buy it by the case?”

  Hal just grinned. Some over-the-counter cough syrups contained the chemical compound pseudoephedrine, needed to make methamphetamine. First sign of increased meth activity in an area was the sudden shortage of cough syrup in the local pharmacies, making drugstores a new and interesting arena in the war against drugs. First, stores were asked to report bulk orders. Budding illegal chemists simply started “cherry-picking” their local markets, buying a bottle here, a bottle there, etc.

  At law enforcement urging, stores then stopped carrying the over-the-counter drugs, well, over-the-counter. You wanted children’s Sudafed in Oregon, you had to personally request it from a pharmacist. Even this method wasn’t foolproof, however, so for the latest round of combat, the giant pharmaceutical companies had promised cough syrups that were pseudoephedrine-free just for these kinds of markets. Would still treat the common cold, without endangering half the teenage population.

  Of course, that still left online pharmacies, drug runs to Canada, etc., etc. Criminals were stupid, but never as overwhelmingly stupid as law enforcement would like them to be.

  “I heard you owe some money,” Shelly said, trying to jump-start things by dangling a little bait.

  “Me? No way. Never a borrower or lender be.”

  “Why, Hal, you’re quoting Shakespeare.” Shelly batted her eyes.

  Hal grinned. Not a good look on him, considering what years of tobacco chewing had done to his teeth. “Shakespeare? Hell, my old man told me he wrote them words himself. Son of a bitch; shoulda known he was lying.”

  “More like plagiarism. So you ever gonna fix this place up?”

  “Why? Guy like me always has a few people who think I’ve done ’em wrong. New windows will just make new targets.”

  “Did you do them wrong?”

  “Ah, Sheriff, I just want to eat my Chinese food and repair another stove. Can’t a guy make a living?”

  Shelly nodded, chewing on the inside of her lip. Hal was blocking her view of the house as well as stalling the conversation. Definitely a guy with something to hide, but then again, that’s why they’d come here. Hal would always be hiding something, and he was right about not bothering to replace the windows.

  “What about some guys who may have done you wrong?”

  This was a new tactic. Hal frowned, squirreled an eyebrow, and tried to figure it out. “What’d you hear?”

  “I hear some guys are looking to score some quick cash. Doing all sorts of crazy-ass stuff. Kind of activities that bring the state police into the town, and soon, the FBI. That sort of thing fucks it up for everyone, don’t you think?”

  Hal finally put two and two together—and proved he’d read the most recent edition of the Daily Sun. “The kidnapping,” he murmured.

  “Yes, sir.”

  For a change, Hal’s reply was immediate and forthcoming. “Ah, no way. I do not go there. Abducting some woman, making ransom demands. All for a lousy ten grand? That is crazy-ass. I can barely stand being around some chatty female long enough for sex. Like hell I’m locking one up in my house.”

  “Well, you do have a barn.”

  “Ah jeez.”

  “Just let us take a quick tour. Then we can remove you from the suspect list and save you the same visit from the FBI.”

  “As long as the FBI is packing the same warrant you are, I got nothing to worry about. Time for my dinner—”

  Hal moved to slam the door. Shelly stuck her foot in the way. “We’re serious about this,” she said quietly. “It’s not the same old shit, Hal. One word, one whisper she is anywhere near here, and a judge will grant us permission to tear your place apart board by board. Forget the windows, you won’t have a house when we’re done with you.”

  “I don’t deal in bodies.”

  “You know who might?”

  Hal stared at her. Shelly stared back. “All I need is a whisper . . .”

  “All right,” he said abruptly. “You got some paper? I’ll write you a goddamn list.”

  Ten minutes later, Shelly and Dan both climbed back into the department’s SUV. The vehicle had sunk down, the tires stuck. Hal cursed them both when he came back out of the house. He grabbed a hammer, yanked the MDF off the windows, and used the boards as giant planks behind each wheel.

  They got traction. Hal got covered in mud. Last glimpse Shelly had was of a tall, morose man, plucking wood out of the dirt and preparing to board it once more to his windows.

  “What do you think?” she asked Dan.

  “Third barn in the back shows a lot of work that’s new.”

  “Good place to stash Rainie Conner?”

  “He could, but given the size and location, he’d make a lot more money with a lab.”

  “My thought, too. Definitely a criminal, but not our criminal.”

  Dan glanced at his watch again.

  “OT pays better than milking, Dan.”

  “Yeah, but on days like this, I miss the cows.”

  20

  Tuesday, 5:08 p.m. PST

  THE VOICE ON THE OTHER END of the phone was once again flat, eerily mechanized. “I don’t like crowds.”

  “I prefer smaller parties myself,” Quincy said. His mind was racing. He wished he had notes in front of him, a more thorough analysis of the case. He was supposed to be an outsider, flown in for these situations. Handed a file that contained names and photos of people who meant nothing to him. Then he could coldly dissect the facts and outline key message points, before retiring to a back room to watch others implement his strategy.

  A profiler was accustomed to working after the fact, when the damage was already done. He read other people’s notes and determined other people’s actions. He didn’t get involved himself. He didn’t, say, speak on the phone with an UNSUB who had kidnapped his wife.

  Quincy sat on the edge of the metal chair, his voice containing a quaver he couldn’t afford.

  “You did not follow my instructions,” the voice intoned.

  “I want to pay you the money,” Quincy said steadily. Mollify, do not challenge. Appease, then coerce. “I’m trying very hard to do as you ordered. The bank, however, could not give me that much cash at once. There are banking laws—”

  “You lie.”

  “I went to the bank—”

  “You lie!” The mechanized voice grew shrill.

  Quincy broke off his next sentence, already breathing hard. He had erred. The abductor knew something, had access to more information than they had anticipated.

  “You did not go to the bank,” the abductor accused.

  Kincaid started making furious hand gestures, pantomiming holding a phone to his ear. He wanted Quincy to say he called the bank? Quincy shook his head. Too many unknowns. Maybe the kidnapper had staked out Quincy’s bank. Or maybe he had an inside connection, or worse, he even worked there. They had not done their homework, and now they were paying for it.

  “I have cash,” Quincy said abruptly. “In my house. From . . . activities I wouldn’t care to discuss.”

  His innuendo worked. The voice laughed tinnily.

  “I thought it would be enough,” Quincy continued quickly. “I could pay you, no one would be the wiser. But when I counted the money, it wasn’t enough. And I was afraid if I showed up with half the money, you would be mad. I don’t want to make you mad.”

  “You involved the police.”

  “I did not involve the police. The Bakersville Daily Sun involved the police after receiving your note. The police then came to me. I am trying to work with you. I am willing to do as you ask.”

  “Why?”

>   The question startled Quincy, broke his concentration. “She’s my wife,” he heard himself say.

  “You left her.”

  He couldn’t summon a reply. How did the UNSUB know that? Had Rainie told him, tried to offer it as a bargaining chip? You don’t want to kidnap me; my only family is my estranged husband and he sure as hell won’t pay to have me back.

  Or maybe the kidnapper wasn’t a stranger after all. Maybe he was someone they both knew, an associate or even a friend. Quincy had an uncomfortable suspicion then. One he didn’t like having at all.

  “Do you love your wife?” the mechanized voice intoned.

  Quincy closed his eyes. It was not a good question. He could feel the menace behind it, the promise of future pain.

  “Rainie has always been a wonderful wife,” he said quietly. “We’ve been looking forward to adopting a child together. She’s very active in the community. In fact, she’s been working on a memorial for a little girl in Astoria who was murdered this summer. Perhaps you’ve heard about that?”

  The UNSUB didn’t take the bait. “She cares,” the voice mocked. “She is compassionate. She is a credit to her kind.”

  “You say you are not a monster. I would think these things matter to you. May I speak to Rainie? Put her on the phone. Prove you are also operating in good faith.”

  “You did not pay.”

  “I have money—”

  “It is not enough.”

  “I’ll get the full ten thousand—”

  “It is not enough. You disobeyed. You will be punished. I am a man of my word.”

  The caller was hanging up.

  “Wait,” Quincy said frantically. “Put Rainie on the phone. Let me talk to her. If I know she’s all right, I can get you more money. I have assets I can cash in, money in the bank. I love my wife. I am willing to pay!”

  “There is no such thing as love,” the voice intoned. “Goodbye.”

  And then the voice was gone. Game over.

  “FUCK!” Quincy hurled the phone across the room. It wasn’t enough. He snatched the metal folding chair, thrust it high above his head. Mac grabbed for his left arm, Kincaid reached for his right. He fought them both. He was tired and cold, splattered with mud and cow shit. He could hear that horrible voice chiming in his ear. He could feel the tears now streaming down his face.

  He had failed. Not asked enough questions, not done enough homework. He should have withdrawn the money, or even part of the money if that was their story. It was a simple precaution, just in case someone was paying attention, but he’d been too busy arguing with Kincaid, too busy promoting his own expertise, too busy telling himself he was still brilliant to take a few basic steps.

  He was a fool, and now Rainie would suffer. And she would know that he had failed her. She, of all people, would understand what it meant when her kidnapper approached her with a knife.

  They had him on the floor. Dimly he was aware of the cold wood pressed against his cheek, the weight of two men trying to keep him under control.

  “Call nine-one-one,” Kincaid was yelling. “Get a doctor, quick!”

  Stupid ass, Quincy thought. Rainie was the one who needed help.

  And then, interestingly enough, the world went black.

  Tuesday, 5:43 p.m. PST

  KIMBERLY WAS HEADED FOR the command center at Fish and Wildlife when she saw the ambulance pulling out of the fairgrounds parking lot. She hit the brakes, went swinging into the circular drive, and was half out of the car before it even stopped. A crowd of uniforms loitered in front of the large metal doors to the left. She pushed through, searching frantically for signs of Mac, her father, or Rainie.

  “What happened, what happened?”

  Mac spotted her first. He moved quickly, looping his arms around her waist before ever saying a word.

  “Dad? Dad? Dad?”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Take a deep breath. You gotta pull it together. Easy.”

  She would not take it easy. Her father was on the floor. He was covered in blankets, his face ghostly pale, his toes pointed straight up, while an older man with a dark funeral suit and a stethoscope gazed down upon him. It was not supposed to be like this. Dear God, she had only left him for a moment.

  “What the hell happened?” Her strident voice boomed across the hollow space. Mac covered her mouth with his hand, pressing her hard against his chest, as if his mere presence could make such a scene go away.

  “Babe, babe, babe, it’s not as bad as it looks. Your father’s had an episode. Kincaid called the EMTs, then Sheriff Atkins summoned a doctor. The doctor’s with him now.”

  “But the ambulance just left. If he’s had an ‘episode,’ shouldn’t he be in the ambulance? Shouldn’t he be going to a hospital? Isn’t that what an ‘episode’ means?”

  “He refused to go.”

  “Son of a . . . I will kill him.”

  “Easy.” Mac rubbed her arms with one hand, the other still wrapped tightly around her waist. She realized now that she was trembling, shaking like a leaf. If Mac hadn’t been holding her, she would’ve fallen.

  “He got a call,” Mac murmured under his breath, words for only her ears, “from the kidnapper. It didn’t go well. The UNSUB implied that since the ransom demands weren’t met, he’s going to punish Rainie.”

  “Oh no.”

  “Your father became . . . emotional. When we tried to calm him, something went. Honest to God, it’s like he blew a fuse.”

  “His heart?” she asked in panic.

  “I don’t know, babe. I’m not the doctor. But physically, your father could really use some rest.”

  She nodded against his chest. She held him as tight as he held her, and still she couldn’t get over the image of her father lying so still on the floor. “I’ve never seen him look this old,” she whispered.

  “I know.”

  “He and Rainie were going to slow down, adopt a child. I always thought of him as having this whole other life left to live.”

  “I know, babe.”

  “Oh, Mac,” she sighed. “Poor Dad.” And then, a heartbeat later, “Poor Rainie.”

  Tuesday, 6:04 p.m. PST

  THE DOCTOR FINALLY FINISHED UP. At his request, Mac brought around Quincy’s vehicle. He and Kincaid helped Quincy out to the car, getting him arranged in the backseat, where he could rest more comfortably. Kimberly tried to peek in on him twice. Both times, Mac had steered her away.

  “Not before speaking with the doctor,” he instructed her.

  “You’re just afraid I’m going to yell at him.”

  “I know you’re going to yell at him. Not before speaking to the doctor.”

  Now the doctor was finally available to talk and Kimberly already did feel like yelling.

  “Was it a heart attack?” she needed to know.

  “His blood pressure is elevated, his pulse is arrhythmic, and his color isn’t good,” the doctor reported. “That leads me to be concerned about the possibility of a cardiac event. I would need to run some tests, however, before making any determination.”

  “Then run the tests.”

  “Your father would have to be admitted to the hospital.”

  Kimberly narrowed her eyes. “He’s still refusing to go?”

  “Your father feels it was a simple anxiety attack—which, for the record, is also a possibility.”

  “So my father is now a medical doctor?”

  “Your father is a man of very strong opinions.”

  “Did someone take his sidearm? Because if he doesn’t have his gun, then that makes me the only member of the family who is armed, in which case I think I should get my way.”

  The doctor took a discreet step back. “One thing to consider would be family history. Do you know if either of your grandparents suffered from heart problems?”

  “My father’s mother died young. Cancer, I think. And my grandfather . . .” She hesitated. “Alzheimer’s,” she said at last. It was close enough.

  “And their
parents, your great-grandparents?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The doctor considered the news. “In my professional opinion, the safest course of action would be to proceed immediately to the hospital for a series of tests. If the patient is absolutely unwilling, however”—the doctor rolled his eyes—“I would at least recommend plenty of rest, a hot shower, dry clothes, and no undue exertion for the next forty-eight hours.”

  “Yeah, right.” Kimberly looked around her, sighed heavily. “Do you know why all the police officers are here?”

  “I understand this is a very difficult time.”

  “As long as his wife is missing, there is no way I will get him to relax at home.”

  “Then at least get him more comfortable. Dry clothes, hot soup, a few hours’ rest. If he complains of indigestion, call nine-one-one immediately. And Ms. Quincy—I wouldn’t let him out of your sight.”

  The doctor packed up his things. Kimberly walked over to the car. Her father’s eyes were closed, but she didn’t believe for a moment he was sleeping. She slid into the backseat, putting his feet up on her lap, rubbing his ankles. She studied his face, relieved to see at least some hint of pink now blooming beneath the ash.

  “We’re going to keep trying,” she said softly. Then, “Rainie knows you love her, Dad.”

  Quincy finally opened his eyes. “No, honey, that’s always been the problem. She’s never believed me at all.”

  Kimberly leaned over and hugged her father. For once in his life, he didn’t pull away.

  Tuesday, 7:04 p.m. PST

  THE NOTE ARRIVED AN HOUR LATER. Daily Sun reporter Adam Danicic claimed he’d slogged back the half mile to his parked car only to discover the sealed plastic bag on his windshield.

  In the spirit of cooperation, he assured Kincaid by phone, he was bringing the package right over. That he would photocopy the note first, Kincaid figured, was implied.

  Once produced, the package appeared to have two parts: a thin, Saran-Wrapped note and a bigger, freezer-sized Ziploc bag, full of something dark and sinister that had a tendency to twitch. Both items were covered in droplets of water, making it difficult to peer inside.

  “We’ll do the note first,” Kincaid spoke up finally. He stood at the head of the conference table in the op center, Sheriff Atkins beside him, Quincy, Kimberly, and Mac over in the corner. Since his “episode,” Quincy had been very quiet. Kincaid understood this made his job easier, but he still felt bad for the man. Not that they made Hallmark cards for these kinds of things, but Kincaid was starting to genuinely like the former feebie. And he sure as hell was worried about what would happen with the man’s wife.