Lisa Gardner - Gone

“This is the main entrance, but it’s no good.”

“Too visible,” Mac agreed, “being right off Third Street.”

“There are fields that serve as extra parking spaces behind these buildings, closer to the racetracks.”

“The racetracks,” Mac mused, and Quincy knew the GBI detective got it the same moment he did.

“Grandstands,” Mac announced. “Plenty of places to hide-”

“But still offers a vantage point of the grounds-”

“And the approaching police task force.”

“Right by the back exit,” Mac concluded.

And then all of a sudden, Quincy knew the rest. “He’s not going to walk off the grounds,” he said excitedly. “Even if he enters near the grandstands, he’d still have to cover hundreds of yards of open fields. No way someone wouldn’t spot him coming or going. The only way to do it is to drive, but look at the ground around us. He stands a very good chance of getting stuck in the mud; God knows the police will the minute they try to give pursuit.”

Mac’s eyes got very wide. “ATV.”

“Parked in the paddocks where no one can see. Easy in, easy out.”

“Throw on a helmet…”

“And all any of us can report is the back of a mud-splattered man, driving away.”

“Screw the grandstands,” Mac declared. “Let’s head straight to the paddocks. We find that ATV, and Mr. UNSUB’s ten-thousand-dollar dreams are history.”

“You sure know how to show a guy a good time,” Quincy said.

“Aw,” it was Mac’s turn to say modestly. “That’s what they all say.”

Tuesday, 3:58 p.m. PST

THEY WERE ON THE MOVE AGAIN. Not being drugged this time, and sitting in the backseat instead of being stuffed inside a trunk, Rainie was trying to pay more attention.

The roads were rough. Dirt roads, partially washed out by the rain, would be her guess as the vehicle heaved and rolled across the miles. Her stomach moved with it; she could still taste bile in the back of her throat and desperately wanted to vomit.

Not a good idea. Her captor had replaced her cotton gag with duct tape. Vomiting risked aspirating the contents down into her lungs, which would lead to asphyxiation. Basically, she’d choke to death on her own puke. It wasn’t a comforting thought.

The vehicle itself smelled vaguely of pine-scented air freshener. She had expected the odor of cigarettes; in her mind’s eye, her captor was a smoker. But now that she considered the matter more, she didn’t remember the man’s clothing or breath reeking of nicotine. Smoking was hard to hide. Drinking, too. Didn’t she know.

Last time, she’d assumed she’d been riding in the trunk of a car. But upon further consideration, she felt as if she were riding higher than one would in a car, plus she had a hard time believing any sedan could handle these kinds of roads. So maybe the UNSUB drove a pickup truck or SUV after all. Maybe she’d been stuck in some kind of equipment locker in the back. She’d seen those in the numerous trucks around town. Guys had to have room for their toys.

The truck hit a bump, soared up, flopped down, and her stomach lurched dangerously.

Don’t think of food, don’t think of the smell. Come on, Rainie, focus. And then: Yellow-flowered fields. Smooth-flowing streams. The decades-old mantra returned so easily, it was as if it had never left. She was sixteen years old again, detached and helpless as her mother’s boyfriend labored over her body. She was twenty-five, drunk, and being felt up by some guy in the back of a bar. She was thirty, being touched by Quincy for the first time, and realizing how much the promise of love scared her out of her mind.

Yellow-flowered fields. Smooth-flowing streams. Yellow-flowered fields. Smooth-flowing streams.

The vehicle cranked hard to the left. She fell over on her side, helpless to right herself with her hands bound tight at her wrists. Bump, bump, bump. Rhythmic, fast. A gravel road maybe, or hard-weathered asphalt.

The truck came to a sudden halt, and her feet slid off the seat, catching the brunt of her weight hard against the floor. She tried to slither back up into position, hips up first, followed by feet. She heard the driver’s door open, then close. He would come around to the back now, fetch his prize.

Kick him, she thought abruptly. Lying on her side, her feet positioned in front of the passenger-side door, all she needed to do was bend her knees for a bit of leverage, then nail him hard in the gut. He’d go down and she could… what? Hop out of the car like a bunny, ankles bound, wrists bound, tape across her mouth? Most likely, she’d fall face first in the mud and drown in a pool of shallow water.

She still wanted to do it. Wanted to feel the satisfaction of her feet sinking into his soft belly, hear his surprised Oomph. He made her feel small and helpless; she hated him for that.

The door opened. Belatedly, she lashed out.

He caught her feet with his hands and pushed her legs aside. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, I don’t have time for this bullshit. Get up. Move.”

He used the rope tied around her ankles to drag her like a side of beef out of the back. Her head whacked the running board. Her shoulder drove into the muddy ground, forcing the breath from her lungs. Immediately, her nostrils flared, her back arched. She fought desperately for oxygen, lips straining against the duct tape. She couldn’t breathe, she was going to die.

She flailed on the ground, panicked and terrified. Her captor kicked her, the toe of his shoe digging into the small of her back.

“Get up, I tell you. Move!”

Dark spots started to swim before her eyes. At the last minute, her captor seemed to realize her predicament. He bent down, jerked her to her feet, and ripped the duct tape from her mouth.

“Scream, and I will kill you.”

She didn’t scream, couldn’t have if she’d wanted to. She gulped giant, beautiful lungfuls of wet, rainy air and absorbed them into her body. She tasted coastal breezes and fir trees and cow dung. She tasted field grass and dirt. And in that instant, she was pathetically grateful to be alive.

She heard a rasp. It sounded like a knife being drawn from a leather sheath.

She turned toward the noise, still a little dazed, a little confused.

“Lorraine,” her captor said in a tone of voice she hadn’t heard before. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

Rainie tried to run, but it was already too late.

Tuesday, 4:03 p.m. PST

APPROACHING THE FAIRGROUND PADDOCKS was easier said than done. Mac and Quincy advanced with their backs pressed against the exterior of the livestock barns and their eyes peering out into the gray shrouded fields, looking for signs of movement. The rain drummed hard upon the metal roofs above them, periodically dousing them in walls of water while relentlessly deafening them with the sound.

Quincy slid, was caught by Mac. They made it four more feet, then Mac careened forward in the ankle-deep mud and swamped them both. They picked themselves back up gingerly, breathing hard and soaked to the bone.

“Your entire left side is covered in mud,” Mac reported.

“You’re assuming it’s mud,” Quincy replied.

Mac caught the innuendo-they were next to a cow barn, after all-and grimaced.

They reached the end of the second barn, and life got trickier. There was no way to reach the horse paddocks without crossing fifty yards of open ground. Quincy’s gaze went to the top of the grandstands, searching for signs of a sniper. The rooftops appeared clear.

They ran for it, dashing across the exposed space, around a chain-link fence, then wove through a slew of metal bleachers until they finally hit the horse paddocks. Quincy flattened himself against the wooden building, quickly followed by Mac.