Lisa Gardner - Gone

“I didn’t want money! I wanted a home for Dougie, and Stanley stepped up to the plate.”

“What about Dougie’s allegations of abuse?” Candi asked with a frown.

“I brought in a child advocate immediately. But I have to tell you the truth: I don’t think Stanley would hurt Dougie. You had to see his face when he told Dougie he was taking him home. Stanley was weeping. His hands were shaking. He was that moved at finally having his son. Now, Dougie on the other hand…”

“Not so excited?”

“I swear to God, he was already searching for matches. Stanley didn’t tell Dougie that he was his biological father, for the record-he thought that might be too much. He wanted them to get to know each other first. And I understand that his tough-love approach looks harsh, but he consulted experts for the best way to deal with a boy as angry and troubled as Dougie. From everything I’ve seen, Stanley is a committed father. Slow to find that commitment, granted, but really, truly there. He wants this to work. His wife can’t have children, you know. Dougie is the only son he’s ever going to get.”

“I have a headache,” Quincy said.

Peggy Ann regarded him curiously. “Do you want some aspirin?”

“No, what I want is to know how many people knew Stanley was Dougie’s father.”

“I know. Rainie knows-”

“She found out?” Quincy asked abruptly.

“She came to me with the news about a month ago. I think she’d been suspecting it for a while. She wondered if I knew. I said yes. She let it go at that.”

“Did Stanley know that she knew?”

“I have no idea. You’d have to ask him.”

Quincy arched a brow. He’d love to ask Stanley. Unfortunately, the man still hadn’t been located, and it was now two minutes before one p.m.

He leaned down again, tone urgent. “Did Rainie say anything else? About the abuse, Dougie, Laura, anything?”

Peggy Ann seemed bewildered. “No. But she played things pretty close to her chest. Though… well, of course, there was one other person who knew.”

“Tell me!”

“Dougie. Maybe Stanley said something to him or maybe he figured it out on his own. But I think he realized that Stanley was his father, and that by definition, Stanley had abandoned his mother. In my personal opinion,” Peggy Ann said carefully, “that’s why Dougie came up with the allegations of abuse. Dougie hates Stanley’s guts. He’d do anything to hurt him, including put him in jail.”

“Or befriend the wrong person,” Quincy filled in with a frown. He backed away from Peggy Ann, pinching the bridge of his nose. He could feel the bits of information churning around in his mind, fragmented pieces of one whole. Stanley Carpenter fathered a child out of wedlock. He had kept the secret for seven years, but just as others started to figure it out-his wife, Peggy Ann Boyd, Rainie, Dougie himself-two of those people disappeared. Dougie, because the boy was too much trouble? Rainie, because she was a court-appointed child advocate who was legally bound to tell the truth?

But what about Laura, what about Peggy Ann? It didn’t feel quite right. He couldn’t believe Rainie’s and Dougie’s kidnappings weren’t related to Stanley Carpenter, and yet the puzzle still refused to come into focus. He was missing something.

The two thousand dollars. If Peggy Ann wasn’t blackmailing Stanley, then who was?

“Does Stanley have a ‘special place’?” Quincy asked at last. “I don’t know, maybe a hunting cabin, or a spot in the woods he likes to go when he needs to think?”

“Why would I know a thing like that?” Peggy Ann said primly.

“Well, Miss Boyd, so far you seem to know more about Stanley than anyone else.”

The social worker flushed. Her gaze fell again, her hands fidgeted.

“I don’t need to know if you’re sleeping with him, Miss Boyd-”

“I would never!”

“I just need to know where he is.”

“He has a fishing cabin,” she said at last. “In Garibaldi. It’s hard to describe. Maybe I could draw a map.”

“Yes,” Quincy said slowly, “by all means, let’s use a map.”

Wednesday, 12:59 p.m. PST

QUINCY AND CANDI WERE out the door, climbing into Quincy’s car, when Quincy’s cell phone rang.

“Where the hell are you?” asked Kincaid.

“Hunting down Stanley Carpenter. You?”

“At Jenkins’s place, identifying Alane Grove.”

Quincy paused, caught himself, then put his key in the ignition. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

“Not half as sorry as her parents will be. Why the hell aren’t you at the command center?”

“Candi discovered a new lead: Stanley Carpenter is Dougie’s biological father. We came to talk to Peggy Ann Boyd.” Quincy rattled off a quick summary of events, including a request to issue an APB for Stanley Carpenter. Then he glanced at his watch: 1:02 p.m. Damn.

“I gotta go. Don’t want to miss a call from Kimberly.”

“Quincy-”

But Quincy had already flipped shut his phone and was putting his car into gear.

“Just out of curiosity,” Candi asked, “why are we still pursuing Stanley Carpenter if he wasn’t paying off Peggy Ann Boyd? Seems to eliminate his motive.”

“One, because he was still paying two grand a year to someone. Two, because by all accounts, he wanted to keep his parenthood secret. And three, because it’s the only lead we have.”

“That works for me,” Candi declared. “Let’s go fishing.”

They hit the road.

Wednesday, 1:00 p.m. PST

RAINIE ’S HANDS WERE SHAKING. She was trying to wield Dougie’s belt as a lock pick, the metal tongue wedged between two fingers as she worked the doorknob again.

The belt slipped, gouging the wood door and twisting her elbow. She dropped the leather, swore savagely, and fished around in the depths.

The water, past her knees, reached for her waist.

Rainie shook Dougie’s arm one last time.

“Dougie,” she said quietly, “get ready to take a deep breath.”

Wednesday, 1:03 p.m. PST

KIMBERLY HAD WATCHED TOO MANY horror movies. She was keenly aware of the preternatural silence lingering inside the abandoned lighthouse. The way the floor felt soft, almost mushy beneath her feet, while the shadows reached dark tendrils into every corner, sending shivers up her spine.

The front door had swollen with age and moisture. She’d had to put her shoulder into it, until it gave with an unnatural shriek. Once inside the gloom, she hardly felt better about things. The low ceiling seemed to press against the top of her head. With no windows on the lower level, the only light filtered down the outer wall from the staircase twisting up to the glass tower. Kimberly found herself holding her breath, listening for footsteps sneaking down those stairs, or maybe for a dark, hulking figure to materialize out of a shadowed corner.

Shelly was outside watching. Mac was listening over her cell phone. She was not alone. She was not alone.

She had her gun out, pressed against her right thigh. She carried the money over her left shoulder.

The wind gusted through. She heard the moaning creak of the lighthouse twisting, the tinkle of broken glass falling somewhere upstairs. She came to a halt, ears strained.

Another gusting wind. The door blew shut behind her, the slamming echo making her nearly jump out of her skin.

Kimberly put down the duffel bag. She forced her hand to stop shaking long enough for her to study the crude map. Shelly had been right. The X seemed to be toward the left by the bottom of the stairs.

Then she saw the box.

It was small, wooden. Not to be coy about things, the UNSUB had painted a giant red X on its lid. She gingerly peered in but it was too dark to see the bottom.