Lisa Gardner - Gone

She checked the numbers on the doors until she found 16. Light knock. The curtain over the window next to the door was drawn back, and a young woman peered out at her.

Kimberly flashed her creds. “My name is Kimberly Quincy, FBI. I have some questions about Dougie Jones.”

That did the trick. The curtain fell back into place. The door swung open.

Peggy Ann Boyd appeared to be about Kimberly’s age, with long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. This time of night, her face was scrubbed free of makeup. Her suit had been traded in for a pair of gray sweatpants and a black and orange sweatshirt that proudly proclaimed Go Beavs! That meant she’d either attended Oregon State University or was a fan of its football program. Without a pro team to call their own, most Oregonians took college ball very seriously.

“I’m sorry to bother you after hours,” Kimberly said as she entered the apartment. The one-room studio confirmed her earlier assumption of a motel that had been converted into rental units. Same drab brown carpet and gold floral drapes. A back wall that boasted a one-counter kitchenette, adjacent to the bathroom. Kimberly couldn’t help thinking that if anyone could benefit from ten grand, it would be Peggy Ann Boyd.

“What did Dougie do this time?” the social worker asked tiredly.

“It’s not what he’s done. It’s where he may be.”

“He’s run off?”

“He’s missing.”

Peggy Ann sat down heavily on the edge of the double bed. That left one chair in the room. The young woman gestured toward the old wingback and Kimberly took a seat.

“At least he didn’t burn anything down this time,” Peggy Ann said wryly. “In its own way, that’s progress.”

“How well do you know Dougie?”

Peggy Ann smiled; it did not diminish the strain on her face. “I’m not sure anyone knows Dougie. I’ve tried. Others have tried. But if there was ever a resistant subject. Oh, that poor boy. I honestly don’t know what to do with him next.”

“I understand that he’s been through four different homes already, even had a stay in juvie. I’ll confess, given his history of theft and arson, I’m surprised you were able to place him again. I’m surprised you tried.”

Peggy Ann didn’t answer right away. She was twisting her hands in her lap, this way and that, as if trying on her own fingers for size. “As a federal agent, you must work a lot of cases,” she said abruptly.

“Yes.”

“Some are just the job, I’m sure. You do what you’re supposed to do, go through the paces.”

“Sure.”

“Dougie wasn’t just the job for me. He wasn’t just a case file. I wanted… I still want, to get this case right. Yes, he has problems. Yes, he has issues. But… But you had to see Dougie Jones four years ago. Dougie Jones four years ago was a truly great, very well loved, little boy.”

Kimberly frowned, now confused. She hadn’t seen Dougie’s official case file; she’d have to wait until morning to subpoena those records. But according to what she’d been able to piece together, Dougie hadn’t even entered the system until three years ago.

“How did you first meet Dougie?” she asked carefully.

“I’ve known Dougie since the day he was born.”

Kimberly’s eyes widened. “You’re not… That wouldn’t be appropriate-”

Peggy Ann laughed. “I’m not his mother, not even his relative. I’m his neighbor. Dougie was born in this apartment complex right here. Unit number twenty-two. That’s where Dougie started his life.”

“You knew his parents?”

“Yes and no.” Peggy Ann shrugged. “My path would cross with his mother’s from time to time. We’d both be picking up mail, or maybe I’d pull in while she was unloading groceries, that sort of thing. First you smile, then you say hi, and by the third or fourth time, it’s not so strange to have a conversation or two.

“She was young, unwed-mother material. Had fallen madly in love with Dougie’s father. Unfortunately, he hadn’t fallen madly in love with her. The usual story. Best I could tell, she didn’t have any family in the area. The state provided resources, and she had enrolled in a local program we have to help single moms earn their GEDs. It’s run through the Episcopal church. The women provide day care for the kids and tutoring for the moms. The state kicks in a small stipend for each day the girls attend. It’s not much, but the program has had success. Gaby-Dougie’s mom-looked like she might be one of the better stories.”

“No drugs, no alcohol, no other men?”

“No, no, from what I could tell, she lived a very quiet life. I’d stop by every now and then, never as part of my job, but as a neighbor. I grew up with a single mom, I know how hard it is. Sometimes I’d even watch Dougie for an hour or two while Gaby ran to the grocery store, that kind of thing. He was precocious. Apartment living isn’t easy for a toddler, especially in units this small. I won’t tell you he was magically an angel while his mother was alive. He was a master breakout artist from the time he was two. I think all of us discovered him out of the apartment at one time or another and returned him home.

“But he was loved, well cared for. Clean clothes, well fed. She’d pick him up all kinds of toys at garage sales. Even found him a tricycle for when he turned three. Gaby really went all out for her son. She wanted to make a better life for both of them.”

“So what happened?”

“She died. Hit and run, one night when she was walking back from the convenience store. Dougie had gone to bed and she’d gone out for milk. No family ever stepped forward to claim him. He became a ward of the state and I got his file.”

“Did you ever think of adopting him?”

“Me?” Peggy Ann raised a brow. “I’m single, working a government job that barely covers my rent and will probably cause me to burn out before I’m thirty-five. What could I offer Dougie Jones? He deserved a family. So that’s what I found him.”

“The first set of foster parents.”

“The Donaldsons are good people. In social-services-speak, we consider them the Mercedes-Benz of foster parents. Good marriage, nice home, comfortable middle-class lifestyle. I told them Dougie’s story, and Mrs. Donaldson couldn’t file the paperwork fast enough to get him into her house. Here was a kid who had a good start. He was loved, he had bonded, he had more potential than ninety percent of the kids who cross my desk. And here were people ready to take up where his mother left off. This should have been a happy ending, Ms.-”

“Kimberly, call me Kimberly.”

“Well, it should’ve been a happy ending. To this day, I can’t tell you why it wasn’t.”

“He burned down their garage.”

“Only after breaking apart most of their furniture, shredding his bedding, and punching holes the size of basketballs in his room. The garage was the final straw. They didn’t feel they could handle him anymore. Mrs. Donaldson told me that she was honestly afraid.”

“Of Dougie?”

“Of Dougie.”

“But you found him another home.”

Peggy Ann smiled wanly. “There’s money in foster kids, Kimberly. As long as there’s money, I can always find them another home.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Not as good a situation, with predictable results. For the record, I pulled some strings to get mental health resources available to Dougie after he burned down his second home. The state ponied up the money and I lined up a local psychologist who specializes in children. Unfortunately, Dougie’s third foster mother never took him to the appointments. She had five kids to manage; thrice-weekly appointments were simply too much. And yes, Dougie imploded, and yes, she kicked him out, and yes, we started the cycle all over again. And again, and again.