Lisa Gardner - Gone

Mac got up off the bed. She watched the silhouette of his body, shadow against shadow as he rifled through his duffel bag.

A moment later, he was back.

“Round two?” she asked, slightly surprised. But what he slipped into her palm wasn’t a condom. It was a small square box. A jeweler’s box.

At first, she didn’t understand.

“I’d planned this whole thing out,” he said roughly. “Booked us a special restaurant in Savannah. Even bought a dress for you to wear. We’d go out, the waiter would bring over champagne, and in front of the orchestra, the staff, and the other diners, I would drop down on one knee and do it proper-like.

“Of course, we’re not going to make it to Savannah. Frankly, the more I hang out with you, the more I’m beginning to think I’m lucky to get a B amp;B in the middle of dairyland. Whatever lucky stars are out there, your family wasn’t born under them.”

He ran a hand through his hair, sounded more nervous than she’d ever heard him. “So what I’m trying to say, of course, what I mean is… Oh hell.” He was back off the bed, this time dropping down to one knee and grabbing her hand. “Kimberly Quincy, will you marry me?”

“But I’m naked,” she said rather stupidly.

“I know. It’s part of my strategy. Naked, you can’t run away.”

“Somehow, when this moment came, I always thought I’d be wearing clothes.”

“True, but if it’s any consolation, I don’t mind.”

“I’m also tired and cranky.”

“I don’t mind that, either.”

“You really don’t, do you?”

“Ah babe, I love you cranky, hostile, armed, dangerous, and any other way I can have you. I already even started a pool about how fast before you kick Candi Rodriguez’s butt.”

“I really don’t like her,” Kimberly said instantly.

“That’s my girl.”

Mac reached over and turned on the bedside lamp. Then, with hands that were shaking nearly as badly as hers, he slowly opened the box still nestled in the palm of her hand.

The ring was old, a vintage setting of small diamonds and platinum. Nothing bold, nothing flashy. Kimberly thought it was the most beautiful ring she had ever seen.

“It was my grandmother’s,” Mac said quietly. “If you don’t like it, we could always rework it-”

“No!”

“No, you won’t marry me?” He sounded a little panicked.

“No! I mean yes. Yes, I will marry you; no, don’t you dare touch that ring! Well, actually, yes, touch that ring, but slide it on my hand, silly man. Put it on.”

He did. Then they both sat there, stark naked, admiring the ring for a long while.

“It’s beautiful,” Kimberly whispered.

“You’re the most beautiful thing in the world to me, Kimberly. Hell, I love you so much, it scares me half out of my mind.”

“I’m scared, too.”

“Then we’ll take it slow. I just… I wanted you to have the ring tonight.”

“I love you, Mac,” she said solemnly, then leaned forward and hugged him till it hurt. Then they both looked at the ring, still glittering on her finger, and they both understood.

“I can’t wear this tomorrow,” she whispered.

“I know.”

She looked up, understanding again the words that weren’t said. “Hold me, Mac.”

He took her in his arms. Then she removed the ring and wordlessly returned it to its box.

Tuesday, 11:42 p.m. PST

QUINCY COULDN ’T SLEEP. He roamed the house, trying on the different rooms, as if he could recapture the feel of his wife, sitting in this chair, drinking out of this cup, using this desk. It didn’t work. The space loomed too large, shadowed and empty. Everyplace he went, he was only reminded that Rainie was no longer there.

He went to his study. Perused the notes Mac had made regarding Andrew Bensen. If the man was approximately twenty-eight years old now, then he would’ve been a mere toddler at the time of his father’s disappearance. It was hard to say how that kind of thing would’ve affected a boy. On the one hand, he’d been forced to grow up without parents. On the other hand, given Lucas Bensen’s lifestyle, no one had filed a missing persons report. Apparently, not even his friends had missed him.

Of course, twenty-odd years later Andrew had learned the whole story: How Lucas had raped the sixteen-year-old daughter of his girlfriend. How he killed his girlfriend when she confronted him with the knowledge. How he then returned to the house-presumably to attack Rainie again-except that she shot him, then buried the body under the back deck so no one would know what she’d done.

Rainie’s story had been convincing enough for a jury of her peers. But how would Andrew have taken the news? He and his grandmother had never even attended the trial. Maybe Lucas Bensen meant exactly that much to them.

Quincy couldn’t decide.

He left a message of his own with an old friend at Quantico. Mac’s military officers wouldn’t call him back until nine a.m. PST. In contrast, Glenda Rodman liked to be in her office by eight a.m. sharp Eastern Standard Time, meaning Quincy could plan on a call around five. Given the situation, the four-hour lead time would come in handy.

His last call was local. The hour was well beyond being socially appropriate. Quincy didn’t care.

Former OSP detective Abe Sanders picked up on the first ring. Quincy had a feeling Sanders wasn’t sleeping well these days. It was ironic, given that Sanders had quit the state police in pursuit of a quieter life.

“What the hell ever happens in Astoria?” Sanders had said to Rainie and Quincy over dinner two years back, when announcing he was taking the position in the scenic coastal town. “A few B amp;E’s, some minor drug trafficking, and various tourism mischiefs. Why, I couldn’t do any better if I moved to Bakersville.”

They had toasted him and his lovely wife that night. Back in the days when life had been happier for all of them.

“What?” Sanders said now, voice alert, demanding.

“Sleeping with the phone in your hand, or not even bothering to go to bed?”

“Just catching the news.” Hearing Quincy’s voice, Sanders seemed to relax. Quincy didn’t bother to mention that the evening news had ended fifteen minutes ago.

“I wanted to follow up on our favorite maintenance man,” Quincy said.

“Funny, you’re the second call I’ve gotten about Duncan today. The first was from an old OSP buddy, Kincaid. Don’t suppose you know him?”

“As a matter of fact, we’re working together.”

“Kidnapping case, right? He already called in you and Rainie? Wow, the lottery business must be booming if the state can afford to hire consultants that fast. In my day, we were cheap, cheap, cheap, all the way home.”

Sanders was referring to the fact that for the first time in the agency’s history, the state police finally had designated revenue-from the Oregon State Lottery. The legislation was good news for the state police, and even more fun for the general public. Everyone joked that the troopers would now start handing out scratch tickets with each speeding citation. Whatever worked.

What Quincy considered more relevant was that Kincaid had followed up with Sanders, but refused to provide any details about the case. How like a law enforcement officer to reach across jurisdictional boundaries, but still give nothing away. For a moment, Quincy hated all of them.

“I thought I’d call you myself,” he told Sanders at last.

“Well, I’ll tell you what I told him: We still got nothin’. Best we can tell, good old Duncan sits around his house most of the day scratching his balls, then shows up at his mom’s for dinner at night. She still calls him her baby. The neighbors hate his guts.”