Lisa Gardner - Gone

And because Quincy knew Rainie better than he knew his own heart, he could look at each item in the room and see clearly what must have transpired in the middle of the night. The tossed covers from another bad dream. The skewed lampshade from when she’d fumbled for the light.

Her trek to the bathroom, kicking aside socks and jeans along the way. The mess around the sink as she tried to clear the dream from her mind with water on her face.

The water hadn’t worked, though. At least it hadn’t when Quincy had still been around. She’d scrub her face while he watched her from the open doorway.

“Would you like to talk?”

“No.”

“It must have been a bad one.”

“All nightmares are bad, Quincy. At least they are for us mere mortals.”

“I used to have bad dreams after Mandy died.”

“And now?”

“Now it’s not so bad. Now I wake up and reach for you.”

He wondered if that’s when she grew to hate him. Because her love gave him comfort, and his love, apparently, gave her nothing at all.

Kincaid was finished in the bathroom. He moved around the dresser, opening each drawer, then checking the nightstands.

“When Rainie was at home, where did she keep her weapon?”

“We have a gun safe.”

“Where?”

“The study.”

Quincy led Kincaid back to the wood-paneled room. He gestured to a print on the wall, a black-and-white portrait of a little girl peering out from behind a white shower curtain. Most people thought the picture was mere art, purchased, perhaps, for the whimsical quality of the girl’s gap-toothed smile. In fact, it was a photo of Mandy taken when she was six years old. He used to carry it in his wallet. Years ago, Rainie had had it enlarged and framed for him.

And sometimes, when a case was particularly bad, say the Astoria case, Quincy would sit in here and simply stare at the photo of his daughter. He would think of the wedding she never got to have, the children she never got to bear. He would think of all the life she never got to lead and he would feel the sorrow press down upon him.

Some people believed there was a special home for children in heaven. A place where they never felt sickness, or pain, or hunger. Quincy didn’t know; his relentlessly analytical mind didn’t do well with matters of faith. Did the children who had loving parents or grandparents get to be reunited with them? What about the newborn who starved to death while her mother went on a weeklong drinking binge? What about the five-year-old thrown down the stairs by his father? Were there foster parents in heaven?

Or did these children spend eternity all alone?

Quincy didn’t have these answers. He just got up and went to work each day. It was what he did.

Kincaid took Mandy’s photo down from the wall. The safe was mounted behind it.

Quincy gave the combo. Kincaid turned the dial. The door opened and they both eyed the contents.

“I count three handguns,” Kincaid said with a trace of triumph, while Quincy said:

“It’s not there.”

“But look-”

“All backups. That’s a twenty-two, a nine-millimeter, and my old service revolver. I don’t see her Glock.”

“Would she have left it anyplace else?”

“No. The rule is when at home, the gun is locked in the safe. We wanted to make sure we were in the habit. You know.” For the first time, Quincy’s voice cracked. He caught it, soldiered on. “For when we adopted our child.”

“You’re adopting a child?” Kincaid sounded honestly flabbergasted.

“Were. Past tense. It fell through.”

“Why?”

“The DUI. That event, coupled with a few things from Rainie’s past, made her look emotionally unstable.”

“No shit,” Kincaid murmured.

“The system isn’t meant to be easy.”

“But you thought you were adopting? Right up into September?”

“For a while, Sergeant, we had a picture of the child.”

“Damn,” Kincaid said. He looked back at the safe, mental wheels obviously churning: Burnt-out investigator, overwhelmed by failed marriage, failed adoption, takes her own life. In policing, once again, you had to play the odds.

“Well,” Kincaid said philosophically, “morning’s here, conditions are improving. I think the thing to do now is get some dogs in the woods. Do you have any family?”

“My daughter’s coming.”

“Good, good. That’s probably best.”

“Don’t give up on her,” Quincy said tightly. “My wife is a former member of law enforcement. She deserves better than to become just one more neglected case piled on the desk of an overworked Major Crimes sergeant-”

“Whoa-”

“I have resources, too, Sergeant. Hasn’t that occurred to you yet? Say the word, I can call in old favors. There are people in this town who know and love Rainie. They believe in her. They’ll plow through those woods, they’ll slog through the mud and the rain-”

“Hey, I’m not giving up on this case!”

“You’re already jumping to conclusions!”

“As an objective outsider-”

“You didn’t know my wife!”

“Exactly!”

Kincaid was breathing hard. Quincy, too. For a long time, the men stared at each other, each one waiting for the other to back down.

Then Quincy’s phone rang.

He glanced at the screen and immediately held up a silencing hand.

“Is it-?”

“Shhh. It’s Rainie.”

Tuesday, 8:04 a.m. PST

“HELLO? ”

Static. A beeping sound. Then a click as if the call had been disconnected.

“Hello?” Quincy tried again, voice more urgent, hand white-knuckled on the phone.

The call was lost. He cursed, tempted to hurl the tiny phone across the room, then it rang again. He flipped open the phone before the ring completed its first musical chime.

“… morning paper.”

“Rainie? Where are you?”

“She can’t come to the phone right now.” The voice sounded distorted, mechanized.

“Who is this?”

“You must read the morning paper,” the voice intoned.

“This is Investigator Pierce Quincy. I’m looking for Rainie Conner. Can you tell me where she is?”

“You must read the morning paper.”

“Do you have her? What is it that you want?”

“What everyone wants-fame, fortune, and a finely baked apple pie. Goodbye.”

“Hello? Who is this? Where are you?”

But the caller was gone. Quincy knew it before the first syllable left his mouth. He immediately returned the call, but on the other end, Rainie’s phone just rang and rang and rang.

“Who was it? What’d she say?” Kincaid was standing over him, looking as agitated and impatient as Quincy felt.

“It was a man, I think. Using some kind of voice-distortion machine. He kept saying I must read the morning paper. Word for word. ‘ You must read the morning paper.’ Quick-pen, paper. While it’s fresh, we need to write this down.”

Quincy fumbled around his desk, jerking open drawers, scattering a tray of pens.

Kincaid was behind him, rifling a second drawer in search of a notepad. “Why read the paper?”

“I don’t know.”

“Which paper?”

“I don’t know. ‘Read the morning paper.’ That’s what he said . ‘Read the morning paper . ’ ” Quincy finally got a pen. His hand was trembling so badly, he could barely grip it between his fingers. Too many thoughts were in his head. Rainie kidnapped. Rainie hurt. Rainie… So many things that were far, far worse.

Nine years ago, Bethie on the other end of the line. “Pierce, something’s happened to Mandy. You’d better come quick.”