Lisa Gardner - Gone

“People around this man will like him, but they may not trust him. The more streetwise ones will sense in him the soul of a con man. In fact, he probably has committed a string of shady financial dealings, if not outright cons. But what this man is really about isn’t scamming money-he’s selling himself, an image of himself. He’s working very, very hard so that no one will recognize the monster he harbors inside.”

“The notes,” Kincaid said. “He keeps claiming he’s not a monster.”

“Exactly. Which is the most important clue in these letters. From the very beginning, the subject has gone out of his way to assert that he’s not a pervert, not a monster. He claims it’s about money. But where is money in these messages? Most kidnappers include long, detailed instructions about the ransom drop. What kind of denominations, how the bills must be packaged. They’re fantasizing about the payoff and that anticipation is conveyed in everything they do.

“Not this subject. His communications revolve around two things-I’m not a monster, but you must obey me, or I will become a monster. I will do bad things. It will be your fault. ”

“He’s looking for a scapegoat,” Kimberly breathed.

“He’s a psychopath,” Quincy said steadily. “He recognizes it in himself. He’s drawn to murderers such as the Fox and Nathan Leopold. I don’t think he’s killed yet-if he has, it was probably accidental. But he fantasizes about killing. He wants to feel powerful, and what is more omnipotent than taking another person’s life?”

“Granting another person life,” Candi muttered.

Quincy smiled faintly. “Touché. But that’s not what drives our subject. His impulses are already dark and violent. Kidnapping a woman, holding her bound and gagged, is the first step in his fantasy. Maybe he told himself it was about money. Maybe he convinced himself it really was a ransom case. But there are a lot of ways to make money. From a psychological perspective, why abduct a human being? Furthermore, why a woman? He’s going someplace else with this, even if he can’t admit it yet.”

“You think she’s dead!” Kincaid said, stunned.

“No. Not yet.” Quincy’s voice had dropped. He took a steadying breath. If he kept this objective, about an unnamed victim, he could function. If he at any point in time remembered she was his wife, he would collapse.

“The subject wants us to make this easy for him,” he said quietly. “He wants us to give him an excuse, any excuse, so he can do what he really wants to do, while blaming someone else. That’s how he works. He’s always in control, but nothing is ever his fault.

“When he calls tomorrow”-Quincy looked at Kimberly-“he’s going to give you a long list of instructions. They will be logistically complicated, nearly impossible to follow. You”-his gaze switched to Candi-“will be put in the awkward position of trying to clarify his demands while buying us more time. He will get angry very quickly. He will accuse us of breaking the rules for failing to do what he says. He will become openly hostile and threaten to kill both victims: We give him no choice.”

Candi was no longer looking bored. “Shit.”

“Whatever happens, you must make him believe that Kimberly is doing as he’s instructed. You must never imply that his orders are too hard, or too fast, or too inconvenient. Of course, at the same time, you will need to have him repeat things again and again, because Kimberly probably will be lost and/or confused.”

“Can I offer him more money? You know, a reward for his patience?”

Quincy thought about it. “No, money isn’t what he wants. It’s fame, recognition. Headlines, that’s what we need.”

“Adam Danicic?” Kincaid asked with a frown.

“No, the subject has already reached out to Danicic-we’re not giving him anything he can’t get on his own. We need someone bigger, maybe an investigative journalist or popular columnist for The Oregonian. Someone whose name is immediately recognizable and yet can be successfully impersonated by Lieutenant Mosley.”

“What, you don’t want the real journalist present?” Kincaid deadpanned.

“That will be our bait. We have a very important journalist in the room who came all the way to Bakersville to talk to the subject himself. This is the UNSUB’s big chance to get on the record. To tell everyone his story. And of course, to prove he’s not a monster by letting the journalist speak directly to both victims.”

Kimberly started to nod. “That might work. It gives Rainie and Dougie fresh value as hostages. He’s getting to manipulate the police, as well as garner more attention.”

“It’s not a guarantee, of course. Remember, our subject just craves attention. He doesn’t care if it’s positive or negative.”

“You think he would harm them with a journalist on the line?” Kincaid asked sharply.

Quincy could only shrug. “There are serial killers out there mailing trophies from their victims to local papers. Welcome to the media age. It really is about fame, fortune, and apple pie.”

“Coming to a reality TV show near you,” Kincaid muttered.

“Let’s not give the TV execs any ideas.”

Quincy gathered up his notes, sliding them all back into his legal pad. He saw the name Lucas Bensen again, but still didn’t say a word.

“So what do we do now?” Candi asked.

Kincaid slapped his binder shut. “Now,” the lead investigator replied, “we get some sleep.”

Tuesday, 10:43 p.m. PST

MAC AND KIMBERLY SWUNG BY the local Wal-Mart in search of dry clothes. Unfortunately, the superstore had already closed for the day. They toured the dark streets of Bakersville one last time before finally giving up and heading for the B amp;B where Quincy had reserved them a room. Kimberly had wanted her father to come with them. Naturally, he’d refused.

After their meeting with Kincaid, they had walked out to the rental car for a task force meeting of their own. The rain had slowed, becoming a dense mist none of them even noticed anymore.

Mac had made some headway on Lucas Bensen. He found articles from Rainie’s trial, listing the victim as being survived by a son, Andrew Bensen, who was being raised by his maternal grandmother, Eleanor Chastain. Accounts of Andrew’s mother were hard to come by, but it appeared that Sandy Bensen had died before Lucas had disappeared, meaning Andrew had spent most of his life with his grandmother. Interestingly enough, neither Eleanor nor Andrew had appeared at Rainie’s trial.

Typing Eleanor Chastain into the Google search engine had produced several phone numbers from different states, as well as maps to all of their homes, courtesy of MapQuest. The Internet remained the investigator’s favorite friend. Of course, all the perverts loved it, too.

Mac had chosen two phone numbers, one in Eugene, Oregon, the other in Seattle, Washington. He nailed it, however, the first time out, in Eugene. Eleanor seemed pleasantly surprised to hear from an old friend of her grandson’s, trying to locate Andrew. No, she couldn’t help him. Last time she’d seen Andrew, he’d been tearing out of the driveway after stealing her stereo.

She’d heard rumors he’d enlisted in the Army, and could only hope he was now in Baghdad. Maybe military service would finally do the boy some good. In the meantime, if Mac did find him, could he please remind Andrew that he still owed his grandma five hundred bucks? Thanks. And that had been it from Eleanor Chastain.

Best Mac could tell, Andrew Bensen would be nearly twenty-eight years old, making him the right age for the profile. Petty theft also fit, but it didn’t sound like Bensen had bothered with college. The real question remained, was the man even in the country?