Lisa Gardner - Gone

“I know.”

“He and Rainie were going to slow down, adopt a child. I always thought of him as having this whole other life left to live.”

“I know, babe.”

“Oh, Mac,” she sighed. “Poor Dad.” And then, a heartbeat later, “Poor Rainie.”

Tuesday, 6:04 p.m. PST

THE DOCTOR FINALLY FINISHED UP. At his request, Mac brought around Quincy’s vehicle. He and Kincaid helped Quincy out to the car, getting him arranged in the backseat, where he could rest more comfortably. Kimberly tried to peek in on him twice. Both times, Mac had steered her away.

“Not before speaking with the doctor,” he instructed her.

“You’re just afraid I’m going to yell at him.”

“I know you’re going to yell at him. Not before speaking to the doctor.”

Now the doctor was finally available to talk and Kimberly already did feel like yelling.

“Was it a heart attack?” she needed to know.

“His blood pressure is elevated, his pulse is arrhythmic, and his color isn’t good,” the doctor reported. “That leads me to be concerned about the possibility of a cardiac event. I would need to run some tests, however, before making any determination.”

“Then run the tests.”

“Your father would have to be admitted to the hospital.”

Kimberly narrowed her eyes. “He’s still refusing to go?”

“Your father feels it was a simple anxiety attack-which, for the record, is also a possibility.”

“So my father is now a medical doctor?”

“Your father is a man of very strong opinions.”

“Did someone take his sidearm? Because if he doesn’t have his gun, then that makes me the only member of the family who is armed, in which case I think I should get my way.”

The doctor took a discreet step back. “One thing to consider would be family history. Do you know if either of your grandparents suffered from heart problems?”

“My father’s mother died young. Cancer, I think. And my grandfather…” She hesitated. “Alzheimer’s,” she said at last. It was close enough.

“And their parents, your great-grandparents?”

“I don’t know.”

The doctor considered the news. “In my professional opinion, the safest course of action would be to proceed immediately to the hospital for a series of tests. If the patient is absolutely unwilling, however”-the doctor rolled his eyes-“I would at least recommend plenty of rest, a hot shower, dry clothes, and no undue exertion for the next forty-eight hours.”

“Yeah, right.” Kimberly looked around her, sighed heavily. “Do you know why all the police officers are here?”

“I understand this is a very difficult time.”

“As long as his wife is missing, there is no way I will get him to relax at home.”

“Then at least get him more comfortable. Dry clothes, hot soup, a few hours’ rest. If he complains of indigestion, call nine-one-one immediately. And Ms. Quincy-I wouldn’t let him out of your sight.”

The doctor packed up his things. Kimberly walked over to the car. Her father’s eyes were closed, but she didn’t believe for a moment he was sleeping. She slid into the backseat, putting his feet up on her lap, rubbing his ankles. She studied his face, relieved to see at least some hint of pink now blooming beneath the ash.

“We’re going to keep trying,” she said softly. Then, “Rainie knows you love her, Dad.”

Quincy finally opened his eyes. “No, honey, that’s always been the problem. She’s never believed me at all.”

Kimberly leaned over and hugged her father. For once in his life, he didn’t pull away.

Tuesday, 7:04 p.m. PST

THE NOTE ARRIVED AN HOUR LATER. Daily Sun reporter Adam Danicic claimed he’d slogged back the half mile to his parked car only to discover the sealed plastic bag on his windshield.

In the spirit of cooperation, he assured Kincaid by phone, he was bringing the package right over. That he would photocopy the note first, Kincaid figured, was implied.

Once produced, the package appeared to have two parts: a thin, Saran-Wrapped note and a bigger, freezer-sized Ziploc bag, full of something dark and sinister that had a tendency to twitch. Both items were covered in droplets of water, making it difficult to peer inside.

“We’ll do the note first,” Kincaid spoke up finally. He stood at the head of the conference table in the op center, Sheriff Atkins beside him, Quincy, Kimberly, and Mac over in the corner. Since his “episode,” Quincy had been very quiet. Kincaid understood this made his job easier, but he still felt bad for the man. Not that they made Hallmark cards for these kinds of things, but Kincaid was starting to genuinely like the former feebie. And he sure as hell was worried about what would happen with the man’s wife.

Now Kincaid pulled on a pair of latex gloves and carefully peeled back the plastic wrapping on the note. The paper inside had been folded twice to form a square. It was damp and ink smudged, despite the protective cover. Kincaid had to work the paper carefully to keep from tearing it.

With the paper unfolded, Kincaid did the honors of reading aloud:

Dear Member of the Press and Assorted Task Force Officers:

I provided you with simple instructions. I promised if you did as I asked, no one would be hurt.

You chose to violate my orders. You chose to challenge my authority. You chose to unleash the monster, and the consequences are on your head.

The ransom is now $20,000. Cash. You will understand why soon enough. Tomorrow. 10 a.m. The officer must be female. Give her Quincy’s phone. I will call her with instructions from there.

Disobey me again and things will get worse.

As you can see, I am a man of my word.

Sincerely, Nathan Leopold

“Leopold?” Kincaid queried.

The sheriff shook her head. Quincy, too.

“I can look up the name on the Internet,” Kimberly said, but didn’t touch the computer. She was staring at the second item, the Ziploc bag. It was rolling side to side, moving on its own volition.

Kincaid looked up sharply at the reporter, still loitering in the room. “Did you touch this?” He pointed to the rocking bag.

“No,” Danicic said.

“I’m not kidding. Did you open it at all, even try to take a peek?”

Danicic flushed. His chin was up, he looked injured at the assault, then ruined it by saying, “Well, I thought about it. But the bag, uh, it kind of twitched in my hand-”

“Twitched?”

“Yeah, twitched. Honest to God. After that, I decided it was a matter best left to the professionals.”

Kincaid arched a brow. For the first time, he noted Danicic’s stance, closest to the door. Clearly, the Daily Sun’ s lead investigative reporter wasn’t taking any chances.

Kincaid sighed heavily and reached for the bag. Behind him came a distinct snap as Sheriff Atkins unfastened her holster. Kincaid paused.

“Do you know what’s moving in there?” she asked.

“No, but I’d like to maintain use of both my thumbs.”

“Fine, I’ll avoid your thumbs. Now, pinkies on the other hand…”

Kincaid picked up the rain-dotted Ziploc bag. He rolled it several times between his fingers. The substance inside was thick, coiled. He didn’t like how it felt.

“If it so much as hisses,” he murmured to Shelly, “I don’t care about my thumbs. Blow its damn head off. Just hit it.”

“Roger.”

“I shoulda become an accountant.”

Kincaid pulled open the bag and dumped its contents on the table. A thick wet rope landed on the table with a small thud, gathered at one end, loose on the other. Kincaid waited almost frantically for something to happen. A hiss, a bite, a snap. Nothing. The dark coil simply laid there.