Laura laughed; the sound hurt Candi’s ears. “I can get pregnant. That was never the problem; I just can’t seem to carry ’em to term. First time, you blame nature. Second time, you blame yourself. Third time, you blame God. Four, five, six times later, I think a smart woman stops blaming anyone and simply takes the hint.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Ever think of having children? Maybe it doesn’t mix well with the career. Then again, you’re young, you have plenty of time left.”
“I don’t know,” Candi told her honestly. “I grew up the oldest of seven cousins. Some days, I think I’ve spent enough time changing diapers. Other days, I’m not so sure.”
“Got a husband?”
“Haven’t met anyone who could keep up with me yet.”
Laura smiled, finished off her cigarette. “Why don’t you come inside, Miss Rodriguez. Ask me what you really want to know.”
She picked up her cigarette stubs, deposited them in a plastic bag she had in the back pocket of her jeans. The pack of cigarettes went up high, tucked behind the downspout of the gutter. The matches she returned to the grill.
Laura had spent some time perfecting her deceit. Inside, she whipped out the Lysol spray. Then she excused herself.
“These are my smoking clothes,” she said by way of explanation before retreating to her bedroom.
Left alone, Candi wandered the small space. Nineteen seventies kitchen with dark stained cabinets and gold Formica countertop. Eat-in kitchen with round pedestal table and four solid wood chairs. An oversized TV, easily the most expensive item in the room, wedged on top of a rickety microwave stand. Surround-sound speakers were plunked in every corner. Candi wasn’t sure why anyone needed surround sound in a space this tiny, but she supposed boys wanted their toys.
The walls were covered in dark wood paneling and dotted with pictures of the high school’s football teams, spanning ten years. Two mounted shelves displayed the decade’s bounty—various trophies in metallic shades of red and green and gold.
Candi ducked her head into one small room, discovered a bathroom. Pushed back a second door to find a tiny office. Third time was the charm: She saw a bare mattress topped by a single white sheet. So this was Dougie’s room.
No pictures on the walls, but three impressive holes. No clothes in the closet, but a two-quart bucket. No toys of any kind. The room reminded Candi of a prison cell.
“Got a good enough look?” Laura asked from behind her. She had changed into another pair of jeans and a fresh baggy sweatshirt—this one dark green. She’d done something to her hair—probably splashed it with water—then wrapped it in a turban to disguise the cigarette smell. She really was pretty good, if you didn’t consider the nicotine stains on her fingers or the state of her teeth.
“Where’s his stuff?”
“Dougie doesn’t have any stuff. It’s part of the program. Kid starts with nothing, then earns things back bit by bit.”
“He doesn’t even get clothes?”
“He has clothes. They’re in our room. I provide him with one outfit a day, my choosing. If he wants his own clothes, again, he’s gotta behave.”
Candi arched a brow. Laura merely shrugged.
“With a boy like Dougie, what else are you gonna do?”
“Do you like Dougie, Mrs. Carpenter?”
“Not really.”
“Have you ever hit him?”
Laura’s gaze remained level. “My mama whacked me most days of my life. I don’t feel a need to return that favor.”
“And Stanley?”
“I’ve never seen him raise a hand to the boy.”
“What about to you?”
Laura raised a brow. “Stanley has his faults; that’s not one of them.”
“So what are his faults?”
“He’s a man. What are all men’s faults? Pigheadedness, self-centeredness. He wants what he wants, no matter what anyone else says.”
“Like he wanted Dougie.”
“Like he wanted Dougie.”
“So you just go along with it?”
Laura cocked her head to the side. She studied Candi for a full minute. “I know what you think, Miss Rodriguez. I know what you all think when you traipse through here. Look at that poor woman, with her face like a hundred miles of bad road. Look at that ugly little house with its ugly gold carpet and cheap Wal-Mart furniture. How can she live like that? How can she keep any man happy?
“You want to know the truth? I don’t always keep my man happy, but I always keep him. We’re no Catherine Zeta-Jones and Michael Douglas, but we understand each other. We’ve known each other since we were five. And compared to the trailer park where we grew up, we are living in a fucking mansion and this is our slice of paradise. Maybe no one else wants it, but for us, our life is doing just fine.”
“You’re taking care of a child you don’t even like,” Candi said bluntly.
“I’m taking care of my responsibilities.”
“He’s lost.”
“He ran away.”
“Or is kidnapped.”
Laura snorted. “Honest to God, not the devil himself could make that boy do something he didn’t want to do.”
“Then why are you raising him?”
“Because my husband asked me to.”
“And you always do what your husband wants?”
Laura exhaled sharply. For the first time since Candi had arrived, the woman appeared angry. “You people,” she said suddenly. “You keep coming here, searching, searching, searching. I’ve never seen so many people look so hard for something that’s right in front of their faces. Come here!”
Laura marched into the family room. Candi followed in her wake. The woman jerked down a photo album, flipped it open, then stabbed at a photo with her finger.
“That help you any?”
Candi could barely believe what she was seeing. “No way.”
“Yes way.”
“But . . .”
“Big men don’t always start out as big men.” Laura gazed down at the photo. She looked like she could use a cigarette again. “He honestly loves that boy,” she murmured. “Stupid son of a bitch.”
40
Wednesday, 12:02 p.m. PST
FIFTY-EIGHT MINUTES BEFORE DEADLINE, Kimberly and Shelly screeched into the parking lot of the local credit union. Shelly dashed inside, flashed her badge, signed two forms in triplicate, then dumped seven thousand dollars in cash into a brand-new Wal-Mart duffel bag.
The manager stared at her, dumbfounded.
Shelly yelled, “Thanks” over her shoulder and bolted for the door. Abrupt about-face, grabbed two lollipops from the bowl next to the teller, then ran once more.
Back in the SUV, she jerked the vehicle into drive and pulled onto the road. Kimberly watched the rearview mirrors. One car behind them, then another, then the white surveillance van. Entourage was complete.
Shelly passed over a grape lollipop. Kimberly welcomed the sugar rush while cracking open the Tillamook County map.
“Okay, looks like we have five more miles, then we’ll come to an access road on the left. Leads out to the cliff and boom, we got a lighthouse.”
Kimberly folded up the map and went to work on the money. Mac had secured the original twenty thousand, dutifully recording each serial number as provided by the bank. Of course, there hadn’t been time to record the new deposit, not for the bank or for the officers. Instead, Kimberly mixed in the new twenties with the previously recorded bills. If the subject went to pull out a wad of cash, chances were at least some of the documented bills would wind up in circulation, helping them beat a path to the kidnapper’s door.
For the record, twenty thousand dollars in small bills was a fairly impressive sight. Broad. Tall. Heavy. The front cab of the SUV filled with the smell of printer’s ink. Kimberly ruffled the stacks with her thumb. They felt cold and silky to the touch.
“Time?” Shelly asked tersely.
“Forty-eight minutes till deadl
ine.”
Shelly grunted. “We can do it. Ten-minute drive, five-minute walk, then we’re there.”
“Assume another ten minutes to find the precise spot for depositing the money . . .”
“We still have twenty-three minutes to spare.”
“I want to watch,” Kimberly said abruptly. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. Might even be better if it’s only one of us. But I want to find a hidey-hole. There’s gotta be someplace I can take up position.”
“You don’t trust him?”
“Not for a minute.”
“Of course, he might be watching,” Shelly mused. “He’s had more time to set this up. For all we know, he’s in place and if he sees you staying behind . . .”
Kimberly scowled, chewed on the inside of her cheek. “I’ll think of something. There’s always something.”
Radio crackled to life. Dispatch came on, requesting Sheriff Atkins. With a frown, Shelly answered the call.
Neither of them was quite prepared for the news they heard next. Reports of an unidentified female body, located on Hal Jenkins’s farm. Signs of blood in the man’s vehicle. Immediate request for the ME’s office.
Kimberly grabbed the dash. She didn’t know why. To support herself as the world took an unexpected turn? To brace herself for the news she’d always feared to hear? To simply hold on to something, because this couldn’t be happening? Not after how hard they had tried and all the steps they were taking. And dear God, hadn’t her father had enough bad luck in his life? Couldn’t he catch a break, just this once?
“We have to go back,” she whispered.
“No.”
“But my father . . .”
“Wouldn’t want us to jump to any assumptions.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sakes, you’re the one who arranged the search of Jenkins’s property. You’re the one who suspected he might be involved!”
“I’m also the one who interviewed Hal at five p.m. yesterday. Around the same time Dougie Jones went missing.”
“Maybe he’s working with an accomplice.”
“Hal?” Shelly snorted. “He’s too greedy to share.”
“But if he didn’t do the kidnapping . . . He just randomly killed a woman around the same time two people were already missing?”
The expression on Shelly’s face grew sad. “I don’t think it was random.”
And then, Kimberly got it, too. “Detective Grove,” she whispered.
“He already knew about the ransom. Imagine him showing up at Wal-Mart, seeing a lone female officer, duffel bag slung over her shoulder. That kind of opportunity . . .”
“Ah, Jesus.” Kimberly turned toward the window. She stared at the passing miles of gray asphalt, the impenetrable mist of rain. “You know what’s worse than thinking Rainie is dead?” she asked brusquely.
“What?”
“Thinking it might be a fellow officer and feeling grateful.”
“Well, we’re going to have plenty of time to put bad news into perspective.”
“Why?”
“We just passed our access road—it’s closed.”
Shelly hurtled them into a U-turn, tires squealing on wet pavement. An oncoming car blared its horn. Kimberly had a glimpse of wide, panicked eyes. Then the vehicle rushed past as Shelly cranked their SUV around in the dirt. Minutes later, they were parked in front of a narrow asphalt road, barred shut by a heavy metal gate. The orange construction sign read: Closed for Repairs, September 1– December 15.
“Think the Parks Department could’ve mentioned this by phone,” Shelly muttered tightly.
She slid out of the SUV and rattled the gate. The padlock held, and there wasn’t enough room to go around. A hundred yards back, Mac and Deputy Mitchell pulled over in the white surveillance van, waiting to see what they would do.
“Looks like three miles,” Kimberly reported, eyeing the map.
“We can’t drive,” Shelly declared.
“And we don’t have time to walk.”
Which left only one option. Kimberly slid out of the van, hefting the duffel bag around her shoulders like a backpack. She staggered briefly under the weight of twenty grand, then found her footing.
“I got the first mile,” she said.
They slid around the steel gate and started to run.
Wednesday, 12:15 p.m. PST
CANDI CALLED THE COMMAND CENTER. With no one else around, Quincy answered the phone.
“You’re never gonna believe this,” Candi said.
“Try me.”
“Stanley Carpenter is Dougie’s biological father.”
Quincy paused. “You win.”
“I got the wife talking. According to Laura, she and Stanley have known each other since they were kids and are a genuine love match. No abuse, just the normal, run-of-the-mill marital discord. He doesn’t like her smoking. She’s a bit peeved to learn he cheated on her with a high school girl.”
“Dougie’s mother.” Quincy’s eyes grew wide. And all of a sudden, he could see the possibilities. “Who knew?”
“Well, Laura found out about it, obviously, though apparently not until after Dougie’s mother died. According to her, Stanley brought home Dougie’s picture, saying he wanted to adopt this boy, and Laura knew immediately. She showed me Stanley’s second-grade photo—honest to God, Dougie could be his twin.”
“Obviously Stanley’s growth spurt was late in life,” Quincy said drolly.
“Apparently. Naturally, Laura wasn’t so thrilled to learn that her husband had impregnated someone else. According to her, however, what really had her steamed was that Stanley hadn’t faced up to his responsibilities. If he’d fathered the child, then of course they would take care of him. To hear her talk, she was simply angry he hadn’t told her sooner.”
“How very enlightened of her.”
“Not that she’s a big fan of Dougie’s. Frankly, she thinks the boy is trouble with a capital T. But she swears neither she nor Stanley have ever raised a hand to him. In fact, Stanley is positively guilt-stricken over everything Dougie’s been through and desperate to make amends.”
“What a noble guy.”
“Laura believes he may have supported Dougie financially.”
“Willingly or unwillingly?” Quincy murmured.
“That we may never know. But after Laura learned of Dougie’s existence, she went through the checkbooks. The year Dougie was born, a lot of cash withdrawals were made. Always small amounts, so she didn’t think much of it at the time. But lots of transactions. She figures Stanley’s been withdrawing an extra two grand a year, without explanation.”
“Is withdrawing two thousand a year? Dougie’s mother died three years ago.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Laura didn’t have an answer. Maybe he’s been paying the foster families or supplying presents on the side. You’d think Laura could just ask about it, but then again, you can’t always talk to your love match.”
“Dougie has been in the foster system for three years,” Quincy considered out loud. “If Stanley is still paying money, then somebody has to be keeping him informed. Which means . . .”
“Someone else had to know of his interest in Dougie.”
“Which presumably means that person knows Stanley is the father.” Quincy sighed heavily. He could see only one explanation: “I believe Peggy Ann Boyd has been holding out on us.”
“Peggy Ann Boyd?”
“Dougie’s social worker. Who knew his mother, Gaby, and has taken a great deal of personal interest in his case.”
There was a moment of silence. “Call me cynical,” Candi said slowly.
“But what if the money wasn’t for Dougie?” Quincy provided. “What if it was for Peggy Ann? I believe I’m just as cynical as you.”
“Two thousand dollars would sure buy a lot of personal interest. And it’s a fairly cheap price to pay for a whole town not to learn that you—the respected football coach—had gotten an underage girl pregnant.”
Quincy continued that line of thinking: “The system has lasted for seven years. But now some things have changed. One, Stanley is trying to actually take care of his son, straining his marriage and no doubt his sanity. Two, Dougie has accused Stanley of abuse, inviting in an outside investigator.”
“She found out,” Candi said quietly. “Oh my God, Rainie figured out that Stanley is Dougie’s biological father. Did she mention anything to you?”
“No, but she wouldn’t. It would’ve violated the laws of confidentiality.” Quincy’s mind was already racing ahead. “But she might’ve spoken to Stanley. Or followed up directly with Peggy Ann.”
“Now they have a liability—someone knows. And it’s not just one career, it’s two. Stanley’s name will get dragged through the mud; Peggy Ann is guilty of corruption. They’re both on the hook.”
“On the other hand,” Quincy said quietly, “if something happened to Rainie . . .”
“Her husband, a former FBI profiler, would no doubt tear the town apart looking for answers,” Candi said bluntly. Then filled in the rest of the pieces: “So they gave you one: a stranger, kidnapping people for money. And they inverted things. Rainie isn’t kidnapped because of Dougie—Dougie is kidnapped because of Rainie.”
“Tying up two loose ends. The incorrigible boy who is proof of the liaison, and the court-appointed representative who made the connection.” Quincy closed his eyes, not liking what he was thinking, but thinking it nonetheless. “It would fill in the blanks. Why Rainie was kidnapped. How the subject knows so much about her. The persistent attempt to mislead us by stating the kidnapper isn’t local, doesn’t know Rainie, just wants money. It’s all part of a carefully crafted scenario, engineered to keep me—and everyone else—in the dark.”
Quincy glanced at his watch. Forty minutes until one o’clock. “We need to speak to Stanley Carpenter.”
“He’s not at home. Laura claims he’s still looking for Dougie in the woods. For the record, however, his truck’s not in the driveway. I looked on my way out.”
“We’ll pull Stanley’s records from the DMV, get an APB out on his license plate. That ought to round him up.”
“Hot damn!” Candi said, and Quincy could hear the sound of her hand slapping the steering wheel. “Now we’re cooking with gas. Okay, I’m coming in.”