The Third Victim (Quincy / Rainie)

  Did he get tired? She was tired. She was restless and back to the kind of mood where she didn’t trust herself. George Walker’s words echoed in her head. So did Officer Carr’s nervous look when he tried to figure out how to mention the accusation that she’d killed her own mother. She should have a thicker skin. Tonight she didn’t. She felt vulnerable and weary, sick of pretending she knew what she was doing, when she hadn’t known for days and the case was only getting worse.

  She was soft tonight, a little bit aching. She looked at the hard plane of Quincy’s chest, the exposed smattering of dark chest hair, and she wanted to lay her head on his shoulder. A strong, capable man. She wondered how his heartbeat would sound against her ear. She wondered if he would curl his arms around her and hold her the way leading men always held leading ladies in the movies.

  She had never been held. Slapped on the shoulder in good-natured ribbing. Even patted on the butt in pickup games of hoops. Lack of comforting touches wasn’t something she dwelled on. But tonight it bothered her.

  Rainie got out a beer. She tossed a bottle to Quincy, placed her own against the top edge of the bedside table, and whacked it once with the base of her palm to pop the top off. A cool mist rose immediately from the neck. She took a deep breath, pulling the scent of hops inside her mouth and rolling it over her tongue. Damn. What she would give for just one drink. One long, soothing, numbing drink.

  She slouched back against the old wooden headboard instead and cradled the bottle against her belly.

  Quincy’s own bottle was unopened in his hand. He was watching her with a tight, dark look in his eyes.

  “Talk to me,” she murmured.

  “Rainie, that display had nothing to do with conversation.”

  “Shut up and talk to me.”

  He arched a brow pointedly at that clear statement.

  “What’s your ex-wife like?”

  “Christ, you’re trying to kill me.”

  Rainie sat up. She gazed at him more frankly. “I mean it. What’s your ex-wife like?”

  Quincy sighed. Apparently he decided she was serious, for now he took the cap off his beer bottle and drank deeply. Then he settled back on his elbows in the middle of the queen-size bed. Her curled feet loosened enough to nestle against the side of his hip. She admired the line of his throat against the open collar of his white dress shirt.

  “Bethie’s a good mother,” he said finally. “She takes wonderful care of our daughters—daughter. Daugh-ters.”

  “How did you meet?”

  “College, when I was pursuing my doctorate in psychology.”

  “Is she a psychologist?”

  “No. Bethie’s from a wealthy family. College was a means of meeting an appropriate husband. A shame—she has a wonderful mind.”

  “Is she pretty?” Rainie asked.

  Quincy took more care with his answer. “She has aged well,” he said at last, his voice neutral.

  “Pretty, smart, and a good mother. Do you miss her?”

  “No,” he said firmly.

  “Why not?”

  “My marriage is old news, Rainie. When we met, Bethie admired my background as a Chicago cop, while fully expecting me to settle into a more socially elevated lifestyle as a private-practice psychologist. Hell, I expected the same thing. But then the Bureau started recruiting me. I didn’t say no. And poor Bethie ended up with an armed FBI agent for a husband. If I wanted to be fair to her, I should’ve stayed a psychologist. But I was true to myself. I got into this stuff, and then my marriage faded away.”

  “Why don’t you say anything bad about her?”

  “Because she’s the mother of my children and I respect that.”

  “You’re a gentleman, aren’t you?” Her voice suddenly gained an edge. She didn’t plan on sounding bitter or looking for a fight, but she took a step down that road anyway. Fighting was what she did best, conflict more second nature to her than kindness. She thought of George Walker again and her eyes began to sting. She wished they would stop.

  “I believe in the importance of civility,” Quincy said quietly. “I see enough inhumanity in my job without needing to add to it.”

  “I’m not civil.”

  “No.” He smiled wryly. “But somehow it works for you.”

  Rainie stuck her beer on the nightstand. Her movements were restless. He had given her a gracious out. She couldn’t take it. The mood ruled her now, and she only knew how to go toward dark and dangerous places.

  “You come from money, too, don’t you, Quincy? The nice suits, the expensive cologne. This stuff isn’t new to you.”

  “I don’t come from money. My father is a Yankee swamp rat, born and bred. Owns hundreds of acres of God’s own land in Rhode Island, works it with his own sweat and will take it with him to the grave. He taught me the importance of manners. He taught me to love fall, when the leaves change and the apples grow crisp. And he taught me never to tell the people close to you that you care.” The corner of his mouth twitched wryly. “The suits I picked up on my own.”

  Rainie got on her hands and knees on the bed. Her gaze was locked on his. She moved closer. “I’m white trash.”

  He didn’t take his eyes from her. “Don’t degrade yourself.”

  “I’m not. I’m telling you who I am now, so you can’t hold it against me later.” She kept advancing. He didn’t retreat. “I’m not civil. I hate to apologize. I have a bad temper, bad dreams, and a bad mood, and I shouldn’t be doing this, but dammit, I’m going to do it anyway.”

  He said quietly, “Liar.” Then he reached up with his broad hand, cupped the back of her head, and dragged her down to his mouth.

  She’d invited the kiss, but the first contact still shocked her. She felt cool, strong lips against her own hot, angry mouth. She tasted hops, smooth golden hops, and she opened her lips greedily, as if she would gladly get drunk off him. Then his tongue pushed into her mouth, strong and commanding, and in spite of her best intentions, the old panic reared hard.

  She drove her fingernails into her palms. She did her best to control her mind. Yellow-flowered fields. Smooth-flowing streams. So many techniques she’d learned over the years. Keep it simple. Keep it quick. Never lose control. No one was ever the wiser.

  Quincy’s palm was rough against her cheek. It tickled her and brought a flood of unexpected heat low in her stomach. She halted, a bit frightened. His lips whispered across her neck. She let her head fall back. She exposed her throat to him. His breath was warm and tantalizing across her collarbone.

  He’d go lower, she thought. Must remember to moan. Yellow-flowered fields and smooth-flowing streams. She could feel his lips, firm and skillful. But she could also feel the dark places hovering just out of sight. Yellow-flowered fields and smooth-flowing streams. He would touch her breast. She would arch her back. Get it over with. Get it done.

  She felt suddenly, unspeakably sad. She had started this, but it would not be what she needed in the end. And she’d been wrong to do this with Quincy. He wasn’t like the other men. With them it had been cheap and mindless. With this man, it would be blasphemy.

  She lowered her head. Don’t let him see her eyes. Don’t let him see her stark and gray and thinking so hard about yellow-flowered fields and smooth-flowing streams and Danny O’Grady holding the shotgun that had blown off her mother’s head.

  She ached. She suddenly ached so hard she didn’t know where the pain ended anymore and Rainie Conner began.

  Quincy’s hands came up. He feathered back her hair with his fingers. He swept the long, fine strands from her face. And then he kissed the corner of her eye where the first of her tears had gathered.

  Rainie scrambled off the bed. “For God’s sake, don’t be so damn nice.”

  She came to a halt in front of the rickety table, holding the collar of her shirt shut with her hand and breathing much too hard.

  On the bed, Quincy sat up slowly. His dark hair was mussed. She didn’t remember doing that. His cheeks were rasp
y with five o’clock shadow. She slapped a hand against her throat and belatedly felt the warm flush of whisker burn.

  Shit. She was an idiot. She just was. And now she was going to cry, and that would be adding insult to injury. How could one person be so dumb? That was it. She grabbed her coat and headed for the door.

  “Stop!”

  Quincy snapped the word, shockingly loud in the silent room. Rainie froze.

  “Please sit down,” he said more quietly.

  “No.” She had her hand on the doorknob and she wasn’t letting go.

  “Dammit, sit down!”

  She sat in the hard wooden desk chair by the door.

  “I’m sorry,” Quincy said shortly. “I didn’t mean to yell at you. I didn’t mean to let things get this far. I didn’t mean a lot of things tonight.”

  That made her feel better. Rainie pasted a smile on her face that could’ve shattered glass and said, “Ah, thanks, fed. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.”

  “Shut up, Rainie. And give the attitude a rest.”

  Quincy rose tiredly off the bed. For the first time Rainie noticed that his hands were trembling. The lines were more pronounced around his eyes. His mouth carried a fresh, grim set. The sight of him like that hurt her. She had done that to him, and she knew it was wrong of her.

  She wished she was the type of person . . . She wished she could erase the grimness from his face.

  Instead, she sat, like a bad pupil who’d been caught red-handed and now waited for the blow to fall.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he said impatiently. “I’m not your mother, I’m not some abusive husband. Sometimes I feel like wringing your neck, but I’m not going to hit you.”

  “Too well bred for that, Quincy? Don’t know how to get down and dirty?”

  A muscle leapt in his jaw. She thought she might have pushed him over the edge and she actually felt triumphant. What the hell are you doing, Rainie? Why won’t you just shut up?

  She couldn’t help herself. She rose out of her chair, driven by demons she was smart enough to explain but too worn down to control. She walked toward him slowly, watching his eyes narrow again, feeling powerful because of the way his gaze fell to her lips. She undid the button at the top of her breasts.

  “No more foreplay,” she whispered. “Let’s just do it. How do well-bred Yankees fuck? Missionary? On top? On bottom? Doggy-style? Sixty-nine? Oh, what would your daddy say?”

  She slid loose another button, revealing her worn white cotton bra. Her hands weren’t shaking anymore. She felt giddy. Not part of her body, but far, far away, where she could watch it all unfold as if they were merely characters in a play. How many times before? It didn’t matter. There was always the morning for repentance.

  Quincy caught her hand in a tight grip. She smiled and pressed her body against his, wriggling her pelvis suggestively against his erection.

  “Fuck me, Quincy,” she murmured in a voice she barely recognized. “Fuck me good.”

  And he said harshly, “What was his name? How old were you? Did your mother know, or was she too drunk to care? Goddammit!” He broke off contact, shoving her away and striding across the room as if he could barely contain himself. One moment she was next to his hard form. The next he was gone. She had to put out her hands to steady herself.

  “You’ve never told anyone, have you?” he de-manded. “And now here I am, and I need to be impartial to help you and there’s not an impartial bone in my body. I want to hunt him down. Christ, I want to break every bone in his body. How many of these assholes can I put away, and it still isn’t enough!”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Do you treat all your women this way? No wonder your life is all work and no play.”

  “Rainie, what happened fourteen years ago?”

  “Look at the time. Clock has struck midnight. Gotta run.”

  “Fourteen years ago. So long, but not long enough, is it, Rainie?”

  “Are you going to be around in the morning? We have a lot of work to do, but then you’re not really part of this case team, are you? One phone call and you’re out of here, and we both know it.”

  “Rainie—”

  “Let it go, dammit! Why the fuck can’t you let it go?”

  “Because I’m me! Because I’m not stupid and, so help me God, I’m interested in you! And because some part of you is interested, too, or you wouldn’t keep coming back to my room night after night, looking for conversation. Now here we are. Let’s have the conversation, Rainie. You need to talk. I need to listen. Let’s go. Let’s get it done!”

  “I don’t believe this crap.”

  “And I don’t believe that you forgot the name of the man who supposedly killed your own mother.”

  He delivered the words with brutal force. Rainie drew up short. For a moment she thought she’d heard him wrong. He couldn’t. Nobody— How did—

  Her heart hammering so loud in her chest.

  But he was Quincy, of course. That’s how he knew. Because he was Quincy, Quantico’s best of the best, and she kept coming to him night after night, feeding him bits and pieces.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said weakly.

  Quincy just looked at her.

  “I’m not going to simply stand here and take this,” she tried.

  Quincy set his lips.

  “This is bullshit! I’m going home.” She strode for the door.

  He still didn’t say a word.

  She got the door open. She threw her coat over her arm with more force than necessary. And she realized for the first time that she wasn’t looking out into the night. For all her bold words, her attention was focused behind her, in the room, on Quincy, who still stood quiet and motionless in the middle of the floor.

  So help me God, I’m interested in you . . . and some part of you is interested, too.

  Call me back, she thought suddenly, wildly. That’s what I needed to hear; I just didn’t know it at the time. So call me back. One more time. I can’t do it on my own. I’ve spent too long keeping everything under control. And I’m tired and there was this man on my back deck last night, in black, and you don’t know what that did to me.

  The yellow-flowered fields. The smooth-flowing streams.

  She was crying. She felt the tears trickle down her cheeks, and it shamed her. She hated tears. Her mother had told her years ago there was no use in crying, and she’d been right. Tears didn’t change a thing. Oh God, they didn’t change a thing.

  The yellow-flowered fields. The smooth-flowing streams.

  Call me back. . . .

  Quincy remained silent. And then she realized she wasn’t in the doorway anymore. She stood alone in the parking lot. Her coat was on and the hotel room door was shut. Once more her subconscious was working faster than she was.

  The night was thick and cold around her. She looked up and counted the stars until the tears dried on her cheeks.

  The vast night in the vast world. She was probably one of the only people on the planet who was comforted by feeling small.

  Call me back. . . .

  Rainie crawled into her patrol car. She realized there was crap all over her window. Someone had glued newspaper over the driver’s side and written: We’ll show you justis, bich!

  Rainie got out of the car. She used her keys to tear the love letter from her windshield. Night still silent. No movement from Quincy’s room.

  She drove home.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Saturday, May 19, 1:44 A.M.

  THE DIRT DRIVEWAY leading up to Rainie’s house twisted darkly through a river of night. She’d forgotten to turn on the outside lights again and with her glue-smeared windshield she couldn’t see a damn thing. Maybe she’d take a wrong turn and die in a fiery car crash twenty yards from her front door. Or hit a tree and wind up paralyzed. She could be the next Ironside.

  Christ, she needed sleep.
>
  Finally pulling up to her home, she retrieved a flashlight from the glove compartment and used it to trek around in the overgrown weeds until she found her hose. Her lawn needed to be mowed. The edges could use some quality time with a weed whacker. Her kitchen still didn’t contain any food. Someday soon she was going to have to return to the more mundane matters of life.

  Now she stood outside at two in the morning and rinsed sticky glue and old newspaper from her patrol car, until it gleamed faintly beneath the scrutiny of her flashlight.

  Once she was done, the weariness hit her hard. She returned the hose slowly. She let the loose coil fall against the earth. She dragged herself to her front steps.

  In the last few days she’d let post-traumatic stress syndrome get the better of her. She’d realized this during the drive home. She’d gone too long with too many nightmares and not enough sleep. She’d stopped eating well and started turning toward Quincy as if he could magically make it all go away. Big mistake. But what was done was done.

  Tonight she had bottomed out. Tomorrow she would get back on her feet. She’d been here before and she knew how these cycles worked.

  She mounted the front steps and, after a bit of fumbling with her keys, got the door open. She was struck all at once by the cross breeze that hit her face. What the—

  She snapped on the hall light, her hand reaching automatically for her sidearm as she searched for other signs of danger. Her gun hand came up empty. She’d locked the 9-millimeter and her backup piece, a .22, in the trunk of her patrol car. Nothing she could do about that now. She flipped the light back off and waited for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. Still no sounds out of place. Just the breeze upon her face. She finally pinpointed its source—her sliding glass door was wide open. She could peer straight through to her back deck.

  Shep?

  He’d turn on a light and sit in plain sight. He would know better than to risk getting himself shot as an intruder.

  Dave Duncan.

  Rainie slid along the wall until she came to the open space of her kitchen and adjoining family room. Two bedrooms and a bathroom to her left, one big space to her right. No sign of life.