Lisa Gardner - Gone

“I burned her picture.”

“A picture is just a picture. I’m sure she understands.”

“I burned my first second parents’ house and my second second parents’ house. If I could get a match, I would burn this house. But it’s wet.” He frowned. “Wet doesn’t burn so well.”

Rainie arched a brow, returning to work on the binding. “You know what, Dougie? Mothers always love their children; they just don’t always love what their children do. Think of it this way: Your mother loves you, but I’m sure she doesn’t like you setting things on fire.”

“I am a bad boy,” Dougie said matter-of-factly. “I’m very naughty. Nobody loves a naughty boy.”

“You saved a cracker for me. I don’t think a naughty boy would save a cracker for his friend.”

“I drank all the water.”

“You didn’t know I was thirsty. You also tried to get us help. You ran when I asked you to run. I don’t think a naughty boy would be so brave to help his friend.”

Dougie didn’t say anything.

“I think, Dougie,” Rainie said after a moment, “that you’re just like the rest of us. You’re a good boy and you’re a bad boy. Just like I’m a good girl and I’m a bad girl. Every day, we have to make a decision: Which person will we be-good or bad? But it’s our choice. Your choice. My choice. Personally, I’m trying to choose better these days.”

“Stanley never hit me,” Dougie said quietly.

“I know, Dougie, I know.”

She heard a snap. The plastic tie split, fell into the water. And Dougie was finally free.

Wednesday, 11:53 a.m. PST

“MY TURN, DOUGIE. ” Rainie held out the glass shard. Dougie was dancing around, splashing through the water merrily. She was dismayed to realize that the water was already at his waist.

She spoke up more sharply. “Cut the tie around my wrists, Dougie. Then we’re gettin’ out of here.”

The boy stopped dancing, but he didn’t take the piece of glass. For a moment, both of them just stood there. Rainie could feel Dougie watching her, but at this distance, she couldn’t see the look on his face.

“Dougie,” she prompted.

Nothing.

“Dougie, the water is rising very fast. I’m going to climb up the stairs now. I think you should, too.”

But even after she was halfway up the stairs, Dougie refused to follow.

“Dougie, what are you doing?”

“I can’t,” he said quietly.

“Can’t what?”

“I can’t. I made a promise. Cross my heart, hope to die. I can’t.”

“Dougie?”

“I didn’t know,” he said mournfully. “I didn’t know.”

Rainie came down a step. “Did he threaten you, Dougie? Did the man tell you he would hurt you if we escaped? You don’t need to be afraid of him anymore. When we get out of here, I’ll make sure you’re safe.”

“I didn’t want to burn my mom’s stuff,” Dougie said. “But I did. And once a fire starts, you can’t go back again. Fire is forever, you know. Fire is real.”

“Help me, Dougie.” Rainie could hear the urgency in her voice, the growing edge of panic. She tried to swallow it back down, to sound forceful. “Cut the tie around my wrists. I’m going to get us out of here!”

Nothing.

“Dougie?”

Nothing.

“Dougie!”

And then, out of the dark: “I killed her,” Dougie whispered. “I didn’t mean to. But now she’s gone and can’t come back again. Because I was a naughty boy. Nobody loves a naughty boy. Except maybe my mommy. I miss my mommy. I just want to see her again.”

Rainie heard a splash.

She raced down the stairs. She plunged back into the water. “Dougie? Dougie? Dougie? ”

But the water remained unbroken. Dougie had sunk beneath the chilly depths. He did not come up again.

Wednesday, 11:42 a.m. PST

“IT ’S A MAP. ”

“Surprise, surprise.”

“Once the twenty grand has been delivered to location X,” Kimberly reported by phone, “the UNSUB will contact the media with Rainie and Dougie’s location.”

“Media? Or Adam Danicic?” Quincy pressed.

“Just says media. Maybe Danicic is implied. The note reminds us that our guy’s not a monster. P.S.,” Kimberly read out loud, “after one p.m., he cannot be held accountable for what happens to the woman or child. ‘Their fate,’ and I quote, ‘is in your hands.’”

“Son of a bitch,” Kincaid swore in the background. “Someone tell me the damn time.”

“Eleven forty-two,” Kimberly replied, just as her father, standing beside Kincaid in the command center, also rattled off the hour.

“Can you read the map?” Quincy asked.

“Shelly already took a look. She believes it’s a lighthouse up the coast. Building’s been closed for the past few months, supposedly earmarked for repairs, but she doesn’t think the work has started yet. She’s making some calls to check on it now.”

“How long will it take to get there?”

“Thirty-five, forty minutes.”

“Have you searched the other phones? You’re sure there’s no other communication?”

“Mac’s already run to the cheese factory. Nothing there. Trooper Blaney has headed back into town. We should know shortly.”

“One note gets the job done,” Quincy murmured. “The three pay phones, fifteen-minute deadline, that was all window dressing. A way for him to have a little fun. But we jumped when he said jump. Now, as our reward…”

“Another stupid map,” Kincaid filled in. He repeated, “Son of a bitch.”

The noise was too loud outside. Kimberly ducked inside the Wal-Mart, still deserted with all the employees and customers segregated out front. She discovered Shelly in the book department, cell phone glued to her ear as she ranted at someone over the air waves. Kincaid was speaking again. Kimberly headed for the peace and solitude of feminine hygiene.

“If Shelly thinks she knows where she’s going, then she should go. You can join her in the car, we’ll get some other officers bringing up the rear. You still have the GPS?”

“Yeah.”

“Then we can track you. So, thirty-five-minute drive, say another ten minutes to locate the precise spot… You’d better get going.”

“We can’t.”

“You can’t?”

Kimberly sighed heavily. “Don’t either of you get it yet? Detective Grove’s gone-we don’t have the twenty thousand dollars anymore.”

“Son of a bitch!” Kincaid swore.

Her father said nothing at all.

Wednesday, 11:45 a.m. PST

FOR THE SECOND TIME in one day, Lieutenant Mosley was flabbergasted. In his day, when a trooper picked up a “person of interest,” the man was brought straight to the nearest field office. He was set up in an interrogation room. He was offered a beverage of choice. Then the interrogation room door was shut, and the man was given plenty of time in a small, barren space sitting on a hard metal chair with a rapidly filling bladder to think about things. It’s not like everyone suddenly cracked under the pressure. But it certainly softened most of them up.

For starters, Adam Danicic was not shut in the interrogation room. He was not sitting on a hard metal chair. He was not, from what Mosley could tell, suffering from any lack of creature comforts.

In fact, the Daily Sun reporter was currently at the sergeant’s desk, stretched back in the sergeant’s leather office chair and chattering away on the sergeant’s phone.

Mosley walked in, took one look at what was happening, then headed straight for the state trooper who’d brought Danicic in.

The officer immediately snapped to attention. “It’s not how it looks!” he burst out when Mosley stopped in front of him.