Lisa Gardner - Gone

“Rainie didn’t gamble, I’m her business partner, and the only debt we have is our mortgage. Though with banks these days… maybe I shouldn’t put anything past them.”

The rain was picking up, starting to come down in sheets. The sheriff didn’t seem to notice. Quincy had already spent so much of the day being wet and tired, he didn’t care that much himself. Maybe they never should’ve moved to Oregon, he found himself thinking. Maybe if he’d demanded that they remain in New York, Rainie would still be safe.

“Kincaid’s not so bad,” Shelly offered up at last.

“He has his moments.”

“And all of us, we’re going to work real hard on this.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Of course, if I were you, I wouldn’t want to take anyone at their word.”

Quincy cocked his head, finally eyeing the sheriff with interest.

“I’d want to do my own asking around,” Shelly was saying. “I’d want some good ideas of where to start.”

“Yes,” Quincy agreed quietly. “I would like that.”

“I had a deputy making some calls this morning, routine checks of places Rainie was known to frequent. You know, in case she magically showed up. One of those calls was to Dougie Jones’s foster mom, Laura Carpenter. According to her, the minute she mentioned Rainie’s name, Dougie asked if she was missing. Dougie seemed to think that Rainie was a liar, and liars get what they deserve.”

“What else did Dougie say?”

“Mrs. Carpenter didn’t have anything else to report. ’Course, Dougie’s statement does seem to warrant some kind of follow-up. Then again, Dougie doesn’t do so well with uniforms. Or for that matter, men.”

“Then it’s a good thing my daughter’s coming to town,” Quincy said.

“Why, yes, it would be.” Shelly Atkins finally cracked a smile. It took ten years off her age and made him notice her eyes once again. She had soft brown eyes. It was hard to imagine a woman with eyes like that ever telling a lie.

“What brought you to Bakersville, Sheriff Atkins?” he heard himself ask.

“The job. Used to work in La Grande. In comparison, this is a big step up.”

“Miss the quiet old days yet?”

She grinned at him. “Never in a million years.”

Shelly trotted back toward the Fish and Wildlife building just as a car turned into the parking lot. Quincy caught a glimpse of Kimberly behind the wheel, Mac in the passenger’s seat.

Quincy had a plan. Now he had his own crew. He also had one last item Kincaid had neglected to grab when Quincy had bolted from the room-his cell phone. The kidnapper had already called it once. Quincy was willing to bet money he’d call it again soon.

Tuesday, 3:01 p.m. PST

“WELL, TO GIVE THE OSPCREDIT, the statement’s not half bad,” Kimberly said fifteen minutes later. They were seated in Martha’s Diner, on the outskirts of town. It had always been a favorite spot of Rainie’s; she was addicted to Martha’s homemade blueberry pie. Quincy had ordered a piece. It sat, uneaten at the table, like a memorial.

Kimberly pushed the Daily Sun across the table toward Quincy. Rainie’s kidnapping was front-page news, except that her name and occupation were never revealed. Quincy could read signs of the OSP’s influence everywhere. Key facts had been withheld to keep from informing the abductor of things he may not yet know. Other leading statements had been deliberately included-victim may have last been seen at a bar-in an attempt to elicit information from the public.

The article concluded with a formal statement from the PIO. “‘We are eager to work with the abductor in this matter,’ said Lt. Mosley, ‘to do everything in our power to ensure the return of the victim, safe and sound. Unfortunately, new federal banking requirements do not allow us to meet the abductor’s current demands in the time frame given. We encourage the abductor to call us immediately, at a number set up just for his use, so that we may discuss this matter with him and work out an agreeable payment plan. Again, we understand the abductor’s demands and we want to be of help, we just need a little more time.’”

The number was at the end of the article, a hotline that probably led straight to the op center, where an entire task force and a tape recorder were standing by. Quincy thought that was too obvious. He had his own ideas about what number the UNSUB would call, and it wasn’t some police-controlled hotline.

“So the abductor calls in,” Kimberly said, “and they have an expert ready to negotiate.”

“I believe they have Kincaid ready to negotiate. I don’t know yet if I would call the sergeant an expert.”

“But you don’t think he’s a dumb bunny.”

“I will grant him one step above bunny level of intelligence.”

“I see the bloom is off the rose,” Mac murmured. He was working his way through an enormous piece of chicken-fried steak with apparent gusto.

On the other hand, Kimberly had inherited her father’s lack of appetite. Her tuna salad remained largely ignored; same with his cup of soup.

“OSP’s strategy?” Kimberly asked her father.

“Kincaid didn’t feel it necessary to share the details with me, but I would assume they’re going with the classic approach: buy time to allow the police to further their investigation and get their ducks in a row. If all goes as planned, they’ll find Rainie before it ever gets to a ransom drop.”

“New federal banking requirements.” Mac finished the last bite of steak, pushed away his plate. “Nice touch, but only if the guy hasn’t done his homework.”

“Kincaid’s current assumption is that the kidnapper is of limited educational background. The local yokel, if you will.”

Mac grinned at that. “And you?”

“The means of communication has been simple but clever. The notes, while short, are properly spelled and adequately articulated. Some aspects of behavior have been crude, but then again, very effective.”

“Simple does not necessarily equal dumb,” Kimberly murmured.

“Exactly.”

“Well, the guy had to have something going for him to abduct a woman like Rainie. I can’t imagine her falling for just any ruse, or going down without a fight.”

Quincy didn’t say anything. The silence grew long, and in that silence he heard months’ worth of fighting and arguing and worrying. He had never said anything to Kimberly about it. He hadn’t wanted to violate Rainie’s privacy. Or maybe he just hadn’t wanted to admit to anyone, not even his daughter, that his second marriage was failing.

Kimberly and Mac exchanged a look. Quincy saw it, but still couldn’t bring himself to speak.

“Was she really at a bar?” Kimberly finally asked, voice gentle.

“I don’t know. We have yet to retrace her last steps.”

“Dad, you should know her last steps.”

“You assume I was still living at the house.”

“Oh, Dad.” Kimberly reached across the table, squeezed his hand. She and Mac exchanged another look, with Mac suddenly declaring, “I think I’ll go to the bathroom.”

“No, no.” Quincy removed his hand, shaking aside his daughter’s concern and Mac’s obvious ploy. He forced himself to sound firm, matter-of-fact. For a man who’d spent most of his life dissembling, it wasn’t so hard after all. “It’s not a secret, certainly nothing the Oregon State Police don’t already know. Rainie and I have separated. It happened last week. I had hopes that it would be temporary. I thought if I left, it might shock her into finally stopping drinking.”

“Oh, Dad.” Kimberly sounded dismayed again. In contrast, Mac was to the point.

“When?”

“It started several months ago. At least that’s the best I can tell. We were called in for a double homicide in August. The scene involved a mother and her small child. Rainie’s been struggling ever since.”