Lisa Gardner - Gone

“This it?” Shelly asked.

“That’s it. Trust me, I didn’t mess with it or change anything. Like I said, this whole kidnapping thing is not my cup of tea.”

“But you read it?”

“’Course. Still think I should get a reward. Crimestoppers. The Sheriff’s Department. I’m doing a good thing here.”

“Cuff him,” Shelly instructed Deputy Mitchell.

“What?” Hal asked.

“Take him in, get him processed,” Shelly ordered Mitchell. “We’ll see how his story checks out.”

“This is no way to treat a Good Samaritan!” Hal cried.

“Oh, it gets better, Hal. There’s some fine folks right now, already arriving to search your farm.”

“But you promised!”

“Ah, Hal,” Shelly said kindly. “ I’m not the one searching your property. The DA is.”

Hal tried to make a run for it. Deputy Mitchell grabbed his cuffed hands and stuffed him in the backseat of the cruiser.

“You bitch!” Hal was screaming.

“Shhh,” Mitchell said, pointing up at the sky. “Smile at the pretty people, Hal. You’re on Candid Camera. ”

Wednesday, 11:38 a.m. PST

THE WATER WAS COMING FOR HER.

Rainie could feel its steady onslaught, rising from her toes to her ankles, licking languorously at her shins. Originally, progress had seemed slow, the water creeping up quarter inch by quarter inch. Something to worry about, but no cause for immediate panic.

Circumstances, however, were changing. Perhaps the pipe had sprung a second leak, or the force of the gushing water had enlarged the existing hole. The sound had gained force now, changing from a mewling hiss to a charging roar.

Rainie knew about water. She’d worked drowning cases, pulled bloaters out of the engorged rapids of freshly thawed rivers, even retrieved an auto or two that had taken the wrong turn in a sharply curved road. She had seen the torn nails and broken, curled fingers of the people who had fought to the bitter end. In one of the vehicles, the woman had managed to work her arm through a two-inch crack in the passenger window. The image had haunted Rainie for weeks. That pale face plastered against the glass, bloody arm reaching frantically for life.

Water was a force, governed by its own laws, feeding its own needs. It started by saturating Rainie’s clothes, weighing down the hem of her jeans. Cold tendrils then wrapped around her ankles, rubbed against her skin, sending the chill deep into her bones.

Soon, the water would be lapping against her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs. Ironically enough, the air would start to feel cold and the water warm. So it would be easier to sink down into its depths. Let the water tickle her lips, slide down her throat.

By the time it rushed into her lungs, triggering a last-minute coughing fit, it would be too late. The water would have closed over the top of her head, suspending her and Dougie in its final, chilly embrace.

Water destroyed. But as part of its seduction, it also revived. She felt its coolness against the angry heat in her knee. She splashed refreshing drops against the pain in her arms, the throbbing in her temples. She drank from the dank, oily depths, and the liquid soothed her parched throat. The water would kill her, most definitely. But at least it made her feel better first.

Slowly but surely, she pulled herself off the basement steps. She rose shakily to her feet. And she reached into her pocket for the only hope they had left.

“Dougie,” she called out softly.

“Y-y-yes.”

“Have you ever played Marco Polo?”

“Y-y-yes.”

“Marco.”

“Polo.”

“Marco.”

“Polo.”

She found his huddled body, tied to the pipe in the dark.

“Dougie,” she said, “hold very still.”

Wednesday, 11:45 a.m. PST

SHE HAD PALMED THE SHARD OF GLASS during their failed attempt at escape. Frantically reaching out with her fingertips, she had hoped for a possible weapon. Maybe a five-inch shank she could slash against their captor’s throat or stab into his kidneys. No such luck. All she had found was a slender shard, perhaps half an inch thick. It felt unbelievably fragile between her thick, swollen fingers. It also felt sharp.

She had to work to get the piece positioned between her numb, frozen fingertips. She started rubbing the zip tie binding Dougie’s wrists and promptly dropped the shard. She grappled in the water for the delicate piece, only to drop it again. By the time she finally got the glass into place again, the water had hit Dougie’s knees and he was shaking uncontrollably.

“You’re drunk,” Dougie accused.

“No.”

“I saw you with that bottle.”

“I wasn’t looking for booze, Dougie. I was looking for a weapon.”

She worked the sharp edge against the plastic band. She thought she felt it give. Right at that moment, of course, she dropped the piece of glass again.

“Liar,” Dougie said.

Rainie reached down, sifting through water with her fingers. The shard bumped lazily against the back of her hand, washed away. She frantically fished after it.

“Would you like to know the truth, Dougie? I am a liar. Every time my mother beat me, I lied to my teachers and told them I fell off my bike. Every time I took a drink, I lied to myself and told myself it was the last one. I’ve lied to my husband. I’ve lied to my friends. And yes, I’ve lied to you. There are a million lies in the world, Dougie. Lies we tell to protect others, lies we tell to protect ourselves. I’m pretty sure I’ve told each and every one. And I’m pretty sure, so have you.”

Dougie didn’t say anything. She’d found the piece of glass, trapped it between her fingertips. The water was past Dougie’s knees, approaching his thighs. She could hear more gurgling, old water seeking new ways to burst free.

“A few months ago,” she continued evenly, “I started taking some pills. I hoped they would help me stop feeling sad all the time. Maybe they would even help me not want to drink. Unfortunately, it’s not the kind of drug you can just stop taking. And when our kidnapper snatched me, he was not kind enough to also grab my meds. What you see now is not me being drunk. You’re seeing my withdrawal symptoms. They’re going to get worse.”

“Oh,” Dougie said in a small voice. Then, more curiously, “Does it hurt?”

“I’ve felt better.”

“Do you want a drink?”

Rainie was back at work, sawing on the binding. “You know how you feel about matches, Dougie?”

“I wish I had a match right now!” the boy said immediately.

“Well, that’s how I feel about booze. But I don’t have to drink, Dougie. Just like you don’t have to play with fire.”

Her fingers slipped. The shard drove into the palm of her hand. She winced, grateful for once for the lack of sensation in her blood-deprived fingers, then dug the slippery spike of glass out of the meat of her thumb. She was trembling again. Cold, shock, she didn’t know. She was very tired. It would be so nice to retreat to the stairs. Sit a while. Rest. She’d get back to Dougie soon enough…

“Rainie, do you believe in Heaven?”

Rainie was so startled, she nearly cut herself again. She answered, carefully, “I want to.”

“My first second family, they said my mother went to Heaven. They said she’s waiting for me. Do you think my mommy watches over me?”

“I think it’s a nice idea,” she said quietly.

“Stanley said my mother’s disappointed in me. Stanley said every time I set a fire, I make Mom cry. Rainie, does my mom hate me?”

“Oh, Dougie.” She floundered, honestly at a loss for words. “A mother never stops loving her child.”