Lisa Gardner - Gone

Shelly Atkins had deep brown eyes set in a no-nonsense face. Quincy pegged her age close to his, with the lines crinkling her eyes to prove it. No one would call her a looker, and yet, her features were compelling. Strong. Frank. Direct. The kind of woman a man would feel comfortable buying a beer.

“Pierce,” Quincy murmured, returning the handshake. Preliminaries done, the sheriff released his hand and moved to the oak conference table. Quincy remained watching her. He was still wondering why he had said Pierce, when he had always gone by Quincy.

“Where are we?” the sheriff asked.

At the head of the table, Kincaid finally looked up from the stack of paperwork he was sorting. The room already contained numerous state and local officers. With Sheriff Atkins’s arrival, however, their party could apparently get started. Kincaid picked up the first pile of papers and started passing.

“All right, everyone,” Kincaid’s voice boomed around the room. “Let’s have a seat.”

Since no one had said otherwise, Quincy took the empty chair closest to Kincaid and did his best to blend in.

The handouts included copies of the first two notes from the UNSUB, as well as a typed transcript of the caller’s conversation with Quincy. In addition, Kincaid had worked up a rough time line of events and a pitifully small list of what they currently knew about “UNSUB W.E.H.”

Nothing in the handouts was new to Quincy. He skimmed the four pages briefly, then turned his attention to the task force instead.

With the operation ramping up, Kincaid had been busily summoning his troops. In addition to him, Detective Ron Spector, OSP Portland Office, had arrived, along with a young female, Alane Grove, who operated out of Tillamook County. Detective Grove appeared barely a day over eighteen in Quincy’s opinion, but he probably appeared just a shade younger than dirt in her eyes, so he supposed the bias was mutual.

The PIO-public information officer-Lieutenant Allen Mosley, was also at the table. Older, solidly built with short-cropped silver-blond hair, the lieutenant wore the uniform of the OSP and would serve as the official mouthpiece of the investigation. Quincy already understood that kidnappings were rare enough and sexy enough to spark the public’s appetite for coverage. Given that this kidnapping involved a former FBI profiler’s wife, the case would be nothing short of sensational. Forget the investigation; Quincy should hire an agent and start negotiating book and movie deals.

Quincy wished he didn’t feel quite so angry. He didn’t want to be sitting here, discussing insignificant details of a thus-far insufficient investigation. Mostly, he wanted to plant both hands on the wooden table and scream at Kincaid, “Stop fucking around and find my wife !”

He reshuffled the papers and worked hard on taking deep breaths.

Kincaid took up position in front of a whiteboard. More uniforms were arriving-OSP troopers, county officers, Bakersville deputies-and the sergeant seemed genuinely jazzed.

“So this is what we got,” he was explaining. “At approximately two this morning…”

Had Rainie gone to a bar? That’s the thing Quincy didn’t understand. Given the storm, the conditions. Had she been that desperate for a drink? He had hoped his absence would shock her into sobriety. He hadn’t fully contemplated that it might simply push her over the edge.

Maybe it wasn’t an ambush. Maybe she’d never had to fight. Maybe it was merely a case of a lonely woman, sitting in a lonely bar, then seeing the right/wrong kind of man.

Quincy pinched the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb. He didn’t want to think these things. He didn’t want to have these pictures in his head.

“So upon finding proof of life,” Kincaid was intoning, “we also discovered a second note enclosed in a GladWare container. This second note includes instructions for an upcoming money drop. If you will please take a moment to read.”

Quincy obediently shuffled Exhibit B to the top of the pile. The note said:

Dear Police:

If you have made it this far, then you know how to follow instructions. Good. Keep following instructions, and you will find the woman alive. I am not a monster. Do as I say, and everything will be all right.

The contact must be a female. She will bring $10,000 to the fairgrounds. Cash. Nothing larger than a twenty.

She must carry Pierce Quincy’s cell phone. I will make contact. The moment I get the money, you get the hostage. 4 p.m. Don’t be late. Failure to follow orders will be fatal.

Remember, I am a man of my word.

Sincerely, Bruno Richard Hauptmann

Detective Grove was the first to finish the note. She looked up with a frown. “He signed his name?”

Quincy was about to open his mouth, but Sheriff Atkins surprised him by beating him to the punch. “Not unless you believe in reincarnation. Hauptmann was executed in ’36. After being found guilty of kidnapping and killing Charles Lindbergh’s son.”

“Hauptmann was the one who stole the Lindbergh baby?” Lieutenant Mosley this time, sounding equally shocked.

Sheriff Atkins nodded, looking at the first note again, then pinning Quincy with her stare. “This first note-the Fox. Was that somebody, too?”

“Yes. William E. Hickman. Also a fairly notorious kidnapper.”

“From the thirties?” Detective Grove queried.

“The twenties. There were a series of high-profile ransom cases during the twenties and thirties. All involving wealthy families. All ending in tragedy.”

Everyone absorbed that news.

“Maybe he thinks by using other names, it will throw us off track,” Grove speculated, the young detective sounding tentative. “We’ll waste time chasing ghosts.”

“Maybe he’s obsessed with the past,” Mosley offered. “Misses the good old days.”

“It’s gamesmanship,” Quincy said abruptly. He was aware of Sheriff Atkins, still regarding him frankly. “He’s taunting us, trying to show off what he knows. On the one hand, he does things that make him appear amateurish-handwritten notes, crude maps. On the other hand, he wants us to know that he’s done his homework.”

“He knows your name,” the sheriff said.

“I gave it to him. First time he called, I introduced myself.” Quincy faltered, realizing too late how much information he had needlessly given away to the kidnapper. Rookie mistake; he was ashamed.

“Is he experienced?” Sheriff Atkins asked steadily.

“I don’t know.”

“Leaving a handwritten note isn’t so bright. Gives us something to trace.”

“It’s not his handwriting. It’s the victim’s.” Quincy’s voice cracked on the word. He said more softly, “It’s Rainie’s.”

At the front of the room, Kincaid cleared his throat. All attention returned to him, and Quincy was grateful for the distraction. Kincaid flipped to the last page of the handouts, Exhibit D, holding it up for all of them to see.

“We’ve already started compiling information about the perpetrator. As you can tell, not much is known. We’re talking a male, probably twenty to thirty years of age. He claims to not be from around here, but the postmark is local, so I don’t think we can make any assumptions just yet. Given the crudeness of his approach, I would guess a limited educational background, certainly nothing beyond high school. And given the relatively low ransom demand, I’d speculate that he’s someone living at below-average income. In terms of bulletins, we need people to keep an eye out for a lone male, particularly a stranger, driving an older-model pickup truck…” He paused, glanced at Quincy.

“Cargo van,” Quincy provided. “A subject such as this needs a cheap mode of transportation that also has room to transport a victim, and double as lodging for when the UNSUB is on the hunt. In these cases, we see a lot of used cargo vans. Nothing fancy. Say a vehicle someone could pick up for a grand or two.” His gaze switched to Sheriff Atkins. “I would have your people check camping grounds. This time of year, that would be a particularly inexpensive and relatively private place to stay.”