Lisa Gardner - Gone

“I think we’ll only need another ten. Assuming, of course, you brought a shovel.” Quincy pointed to the ground. Kincaid made a small “o” with his mouth, then headed for the trunk of his car.

Tuesday, 11:19 a.m. PST

QUINCY HADN ’T NOTICED IT AT FIRST. Neither had Kincaid. But upon further inspection, not all the ferns around the base of the cross-shaped monument were created equal. Four of them were common woodland ferns, short, a bit yellowed from too much sun, and spotted around the edges. The fifth, however, was greener, richer, and unblemished. A household fern, Quincy determined upon closer inspection. Probably purchased from any florist or greenhouse and plopped next to the grave marker to cover signs of recent digging.

He felt around its edges with his fingers, but couldn’t come up with any sign of a plastic pot. The soil was looser, however, loamy, a commercial potting-soil mix.

Quincy used his hands to start digging. The fern came up easily, its roots still molded into the shape of a flower pot. As he’d feared, however, the loose muddy soil promptly rolled back into the hole, obscuring its depth.

Kincaid returned with a midsize shovel, like that a small child might have. He saw Quincy’s questioning glance and shrugged. “Sometimes you gotta dig out around here, and this size fits nicely in the trunk.”

“We’re going to need a plastic sheet,” Quincy told him. “Two of them. Do you have an evidence kit in your trunk?”

“Hey, I’m a state cop. I got everything in my trunk.”

Kincaid disappeared again. Quincy used the opportunity to stick his fingers back into the hole. He felt around fast, furtive, feeling a little guilty. He wasn’t sure yet what they were looking for, and as the lead detective in the case, Kincaid owned the evidence. But Quincy needed it more. It was his only link to Rainie.

His fingers finally touched something, solid, hard, like a rock. His fingers moved along the edges until the shape became unmistakable.

He leaned back on his heels then, plopped down on the wet grass. He had mud on his hands, streaks of moss across his pants. For the first time, he could really feel it-his damp clothes, his wet hair, the endless string of sleepless nights.

His eyes stung. He tried to swipe at them, tried to pull himself together before Kincaid returned, but only succeeded in smearing more dirt across his face.

Kincaid was back, armed with a box, and staring at him with an expression that was hard to read. Quincy cleared his throat. His eyes still smarted; his voice came out gravelly and rough.

“Have you excavated evidence before?”

“Yeah.”

“The trick is to take the whole side of the hole, one spadeful at a time. Then dump the dirt on the plastic, hole side facing up. We’ll cover it with another sheet of plastic, and that will preserve it for the evidence technicians to process. You never know what the UNSUB may have transferred to the site. Soil samples from his own spade, bits of hair, carpet fiber from the trunk of his car-”

“I know.”

“It’s important to do it right,” Quincy whispered.

“I know, man. I know.”

Kincaid took over. Quincy sat there like a lump. He should stand up. He couldn’t summon the energy. Instead, he listened to the rhythmic scrape of spade against dirt while watching the rain clouds gather in the north. He could see the angry gray line forming on the horizon, the wall of rain looking like a dense fog about to sweep across the valley. A rainy day after a rainy night.

He felt the moisture on his face and told himself it was only the clouds that were weeping.

“I got it,” Kincaid said.

Quincy turned. The sergeant stood in front of an arc of plastic sheets piled with dirt. In front of him lay two objects. One was a plastic container. The other was a gun.

Kincaid was pulling on a pair of latex gloves. He pointed to the gun first.

“Hers?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’d have to check the serial number to be certain, but that’s a Glock forty, slightly older model…”

“Yeah, okay.” Kincaid worked the container. “GladWare,” he reported. “Watertight, but disposable, cheap. He’s a thoughtful one.”

Quincy merely nodded. He hadn’t realized how much he’d been hoping that Rainie still had her gun until this moment. If it had been a random abduction, if the kidnapper really had been Joe Schmo amateur, unaware of who he’d grabbed…

Maybe she’d been tipsy, Quincy had been thinking in the back of his mind. But once she figured out what was going on, got her wits about her…

He had been holding fast to his memory of his wife the fighter, his wife the survivor. Of course, since the Astoria case, he wasn’t sure that woman existed anymore.

“It’s another note,” Kincaid said. “Little shit.”

Quincy stood up. He shook the raindrops from his coat and forced himself to cross to Kincaid. “What does it say?”

“Another rendezvous, four p.m. Follow the instructions for the ransom drop.”

“This is how he ensures we’ve taken his first note seriously,” Quincy said quietly. “Without it, we wouldn’t know where to go for the drop.”

“Gets the job done.”

“It’s also getting to be a bit of work for ten thousand dollars.”

“It’s in our favor, though.” Kincaid held up the note triumphantly. “Look-this one’s handwritten. We just got ourselves more evidence.”

Quincy, however, was already shaking his head. “Don’t bother. I can already tell you who wrote the note. It’s his proof of life, after all; the handwriting is Rainie’s.”

Tuesday, 11:58 a.m. PST

S HE IS DREAMING. She is walking up the steps, through the door, into the gloom. Water drips from her hood onto the threadbare carpet.

“Stop right there,” a young-faced uniformed officer instructs. “Orders are no shoes, no hair.” The female deputy points to a corner of the small breezeway. There is a long, low shelf that probably holds the homeowner’s boots and sandals and all that dirty outdoor stuff, now covered in tarp. On top of the tarp rests a pile of crime scene smocks, disposable feet booties, and hairnets.

Quincy and Rainie exchange glances. Hazmat gear is generally only worn when there is a high risk of cross-contaminating bodily fluids. It’s their first clue that this scene is going to be a really bad one.

Wordlessly, they fold up the umbrella, strip off their raincoats and shoes. They put on the smocks, the footies, the hairnets. Quincy is done first; Rainie has to work to get the full mass of her long, heavy hair contained beneath the net.

Outside it is still pouring. It’s eleven in the morning, but the summer thunderstorm has rendered the inside of the old duplex nearly pitch black.

Quincy holds the door for Rainie. A habit so ingrained, he never thinks not to do it at a crime scene. She finds it both charming and a little heartbreaking. Kindness doesn’t seem to belong in a place like this.

She walks through the door and the smell hits her first. The rusty scent of blood, underlaid with the foul odor of loose bowels, exposed intestines. Rainie has visited so many crime scenes, her nose can tell her nearly as much as her eyes. So she immediately understands, still standing just one foot inside the door, that this one’s a slasher. Knife, big blade, extensive postmortem mutilation.

The shoe booties, she deduces. The UNSUB made a big mess, then stepped in it, leaving behind bloody footprints. It’s the kind of evidence even the locals know better than to fuck up.