Lisa Gardner - Gone

“Get up,” he commanded her. “Like hell I’m carrying you down the stairs.”

“Water.” She sounded pathetic, beaten, a wounded animal begging for mercy. How did someone like her ever get to sound this way?

“Oh, trust me, you’ll have plenty of water soon enough.”

He yanked her to her feet. Her left knee wouldn’t take it. The minute he let go, she collapsed again. The man wasn’t happy. He kicked her in the ribs, then stood above her, hands on his hips.

“Rainie, I don’t have time for this shit.”

Hit him, she thought. Bite his kneecaps. She remained curled up in the fetal position. She didn’t know a head could hurt as much as hers did and still not explode.

“Oh, for crying out loud.” He kicked her again. She remained motionless.

He got pissed off and waled on her as if she were a beaten dog.

It didn’t do him any good. She couldn’t stand up and no amount of physical abuse was going to make a difference. The man finally seemed to reach the same conclusion. He stopped kicking her and, instead, sighed heavily.

“You know, this is getting to be way too much trouble for the money.”

He bent down, looping his arm around her bound wrists. “Next time, fuck proof of life. I’m gonna kill up front and get it over with. None of this dragging people around, having to feed them, having to house them, having to put up with their puny attempts at escape. Frankly, you’ve really annoyed me, Rainie. I can understand why your husband moved out. You’re fucking incompetent.”

He started dragging her by the arms down the hall. She kept herself still, deadweight. Halfway down the hall, the man’s breathing became ragged. He stopped, gasping for breath and cursing her. A human body was cumbersome, not easy to pull. If he was going to kill her, she’d at least make him work for it.

He hooked his hands beneath her armpits, took a deep breath, and resumed his laborious journey down the hall. They entered the kitchen. He yanked her around the corner, down the long row of cabinets. At the last minute, she twisted her leg just enough for her foot to hook the corner unit. In response, he cuffed her on the side of the head.

Then they were off again.

She understood where they were going now. Back to the cellar. The dark. The bone-biting cold. She balked, more desperate now, arching her back, trying to twist out of his arms. She didn’t want to go back down into that pit. He would toss her down the stairs. He would bolt the door.

And no one would ever see her or Dougie alive again.

“No, no, no.” She didn’t know she had started moaning, until her own voice reached her ears.

“Shut up!” the man warned.

They went by the last cabinet. She desperately clawed at the handle.

“You’re pissing me off, Lorraine!”

But she wouldn’t let go, couldn’t let go. She was weak and battered and delirious from the withdrawal of her medication. But she had one lucid thought: He hadn’t killed them last night, which could only mean he still needed them. So she had to fight now, make a last stand before their usefulness expired and he abandoned them completely.

“I’ll get the Taser,” the man roared. “Don’t make me do it, Rainie.”

“Water, water, water!”

He grabbed her fingers and yanked them from the knob. One of her fingernails ripped off. She yelped with pain, then he had the cellar door flung open and was pushing her onto the top step.

“I’d start walking,” he said, “otherwise it’s a long fall.”

He pushed her hard. She barely caught the wooden railing, using it to slow her momentum as she careened violently down the stairs, landing in a puddle at the bottom.

“Let me out!” Dougie shouted from the shadows. “I don’t want to play anymore!”

His voice ended in a high-pitched scream.

“Hey, Rainie,” the man taunted from the top of the stairs. “Enjoy your precious water.”

The man started to laugh. Then he slammed the door shut and Rainie heard the click of the lock securing the door in place.

Dougie started screaming again, loud, wild, outraged. “No, no, no, no, no!”

Rainie would’ve joined him, if only she had the strength.

“No, no, no, no, no!”

Moment slid into moment. Dougie finally fell silent. They both absorbed the dark.

And then, for the first time, Rainie became aware of a new sound. Low, constant, vibrating. Hissing in the dark.

Rainie finally got the man’s joke. And she realized now the question she should’ve asked Dougie from the moment she’d woken up-why had the man given him cheese and crackers? What had Dougie done to earn such a treat?

“Dougie,” she called out quietly. “You have to tell me the truth-did the man take your picture?”

“I’m sorry,” the boy said immediately, which was answer enough.

Rainie closed her eyes. “Dougie, were you holding a newspaper?”

“It had my picture on the front page! Yours, too,” he added belatedly.

“Dougie, you need to get to higher ground. Can you find the workbench? Climb up on that.”

“I can’t! I’m tied to a pipe! I can’t move!”

“Oh no.” Rainie tried to stagger to her feet, to find Dougie in the dark. But her legs wouldn’t move, her body wouldn’t cooperate. She remained sprawled on the cold floor, feeling the water rise against her cheek.

The hissing sound had gained momentum and was now accompanied by a gurgle.

The man had burst a pipe. He was flooding the basement. He had his proof of life.

Now, he’d put them down here to die.

Wednesday, 10:41 a.m. PST

LIEUTENANT MOSLEY HAD SPENT TWENTY YEARS of his life in the OSP uniform. Two decades of starting each day with navy blue pants, a gray short-sleeved shirt, and a black patent-leather utility belt.

He drove a state trooper car, updated now with a gold star shooting across a navy blue backdrop. He worked out of the latest incarnation of the Portland field office, actually a former post office located smack-dab in the middle of a strip mall; last time a registering sex offender had decided to make a run for it, they’d gotten to chase him past the Hometown Buffet into the Dollar Tree store. It was the kind of thing that was frightening at the time-a convicted sex offender bolting through a public area filled with little kids-but made for a good story when all was said and done and the felon was safely behind bars.

In his career, Lieutenant Mosley figured he’d worked hundreds of motor vehicle accidents and written thousands of traffic citations. He’d learned firsthand what a speeding car could do to a sixteen-year-old kid as well as to a family of five. Then he’d served three years on a gang task force, right about the same time the L.A. gangs brought their particular brand of violence to the Portland area and taught nine-year-old boys to beat each other to death with baseball bats. Finally, he’d spent five years fighting the war on drugs, watching the growing crack epidemic envelop entire city blocks in a wave of addiction and decay.

When the public information officer position became available two years ago, Mosley figured he was ready for a change. And maybe other officers thought he was coasting, easing his way toward the retirement years, but at this stage of the game, he knew he’d paid his dues. He’d driven the highways; he’d walked the streets. He’d won battles; he’d lost fights. He had a pretty good idea of both how much and how little law enforcement could do.

In colloquial terms, he thought he’d seen it all. And yet he’d never seen anything quite like what he was seeing now.

Mosley finally turned away from the small TV the Fish and Wildlife officers had blaring at the front desk. He poked his head back into the conference room.