Lisa Gardner - Gone

As swiftly as it came, the light was gone. The man flipped off the switch and fled down the hall.

“Dougie,” Rainie called out urgently. But there was no answer.

She groped her way to the wall, trying to get her bearings. When she opened her eyes, her vision was studded with white dots.

No lights, she thought. At this stage of the game, light was not her friend.

Instead, she once more embraced the dark, starting to pick out the rectangular shape of a window, two box appliances. A washer and dryer, she determined. She was in a tiny laundry room, with a door that led down to the basement. And Dougie?

She strained her ears, but still didn’t hear a sound. All she could do was pray that he remembered their game plan, that he was bolting out the front door. He was young, fast, resourceful. If he could get out of the house, he would be okay.

She moved around the room, finding another door. Locked. She searched for the deadbolt, but couldn’t find one. She didn’t know what that meant.

Only one way out then, and that was down the hall.

She got down on her knees and crawled.

Galley kitchen, she determined. Narrow, with one long window above the sink. No moonlight. Instead, she could hear the steady drum of more rain. Slinking by the stove, she caught a digital display of the time and was momentarily startled. 12:30 a.m. Had she been gone one day? Or two?

She needed to call Quincy. To tell him she was all right. She would get out of this.

And then it came to her. What she needed was a knife.

She wrenched open the nearest cabinet, hands scurrying through the glass contents, and was immediately pinned by a beam of light.

“Well, well, well. Would you look at this?”

Rainie turned slowly, her hands already curling around the only weapon she could find. She was staring straight into the beam of a flashlight. Behind it, she could just make out the dark silhouette of the man. At his side, he held a squirming Dougie in place.

“It’s like I told you, boy,” the man drawled softly. “Woman’s nothing but a drunk.”

Belatedly, Rainie followed the light, only to discover that she’d stumbled upon the liquor cabinet, and right at this moment, her hand was curled around a bottle of Jim Beam.

Rainie swallowed hard. She didn’t know what to say. It had been purely accidental. Except, in some small part of her brain, she was terrified that it wasn’t.

She took a better grip on the bottle. “Let him go,” she said roughly.

“I don’t think you’re in a position to negotiate.”

“Sure I am.” Rainie raised the bottle and flung it. The bottle shattered against the flashlight. She heard the man’s enraged roar. She tasted whiskey sprayed across her lips, and it really was sweet and she really did want more.

She sprang forward, grabbed Dougie’s startled form, and bolted for the door. She made it two steps, and the man’s foot connected with her left knee. She went down hard, feeling something twist, then tear. Frantically her hands swept across the floor, searching for a weapon, a handhold, anything. She found only shattered glass.

“Dougie, run!”

But once again, it was over before it began. The man grabbed Dougie’s arms and jerked him up short. Dougie protested savagely, beating at their attacker. He was only fifty pounds, however, no match for an adult.

“Let me go!” Dougie howled.

The man belted Dougie in the side of the face. The boy crumpled. Then it was just the man, smiling down at Rainie.

She dragged herself up to all fours. She didn’t know why. Her knee was wrecked, her running days were over. But she could still crawl. She got her head up. She lurched forward.

The man kicked her in the chin.

And Rainie dropped like a rock, tasting the blood and booze. Get up, get up, she thought frantically. Do something.

But her head felt too heavy. Her leg throbbed. She had nothing left.

The man dropped to one knee beside her.

“Rainie,” he whispered in her ear, “I’m really, really going to enjoy this.”

He yanked her to her feet. Pain tore through her leg. She had one final thought and it made her smile-she was going to have the last laugh after all.

Then she passed out cold, leaving the man furious and all alone.

Wednesday, 4:28 a.m. PST

QUINCY HAD SET HIS ALARM FOR FIVE. He rose at four thirty instead, threw on nylon shorts, a runner’s shirt, and lightweight jacket, then hit the road. He ran for three miles down the twisty back road where he and Rainie lived. Rain pelted his face, rolled down his cheeks, splashed his legs.

His sides ached. His stomach rumbled. He ran down the empty road, around the winding corners. He startled two deer, who responded to his bright yellow coat by crashing into the woods.

He hit the three-mile marker, swung around and headed back, jogging uphill now and making his legs burn.

Five fifteen a.m., he was back home and in the shower.

Five thirty, Supervisory Special Agent Glenda Rodman returned his call. An experienced agent as reserved and overworked as Quincy, she didn’t bother with pleasantries:

Andrew Bensen had enlisted in the Army three years ago and served one year in Iraq. His unit had been recalled six months ago, but he had failed to show, and was now considered AWOL. She had already spoken to a contact in the Pentagon; they had no leads.

Andrew was six foot two, brown hair, brown eyes. On his upper left shoulder, he sported an American Chopper tattoo. He liked his Harley and was known to frequent biker bars. His military record had been clean, if unimpressive, before he’d gone AWOL. His fellow grunts liked him, his officers found him to be quick and cooperative. The tour in Iraq had not been great for him. At least one officer noted that Bensen exhibited signs of post-traumatic stress disorder. Bensen, however, had never followed up with his local VA.

And that’s all she could tell him about Private Andrew Bensen.

Quincy thanked Glenda for her time, hung up the phone, and got dressed. Navy blue suit, starched white shirt, a Jerry Garcia red, orange, and turquoise tie. Rainie had given him the tie one Christmas as a joke. He wore it anytime he felt he needed luck.

Five forty-five a.m., he headed for the task force room.

Kincaid was already there.

Kimberly was up at five. She showered for what felt like an hour but was probably only five minutes. Her shoulders were already tight, her body pumping with unfocused adrenaline. She felt like going for a run. She harnessed the energy for later, when she would need it most.

Five twenty, she rolled Mac out of bed. He landed on the floor with an “Oomph” and still refused to open his eyes. She went with the time-honored approach and tickled him. Who knew a grown man could be so ticklish under his chin?

That, of course, led to some earnest groping on Mac’s part. She swatted his hands away and sent him to shower.

Alone in the room, she sat on the edge of the bed and once again studied the engagement ring. She put it on, she admired it in the light. She thought of her mother, who hadn’t lived to see this day. And of her older sister, Mandy.

Then she closed the ring box, hid it in her duffel bag, and packed up her clothes.

Five fifty, she and Mac were checked out and loading up the car. He wasn’t a morning person, so she did the driving. They had just closed the doors when he started to speak.

“I’ve been thinking about the Astoria case,” Mac said. “The double murder in August.”

“The case that upset Rainie.”

“Exactly. I was wondering if it was purely coincidental that Rainie should be kidnapped after working such a disturbing case.”