Lisa Gardner - Gone

She paused one last time, looking around the small, gloomy space. Maybe there were cameras mounted in the corners? Or a man waiting upstairs?

She felt something brush her shoulder. Jumped. Nearly screamed. Just the edge of the rising staircase, which she had drifted back into. She was spooking herself out, no better than a kid getting all goosebumped at the local horror show. Enough was enough.

She returned to the box. Opened the lid. Crossed herself, because imminent danger brought out the religion in anyone. Then tossed the bag in.

Pop. Crack. Blinding flash.

Kimberly flung her arms in front of her face, stumbling back reflexively.

“What the hell…”

She felt it before she saw it. The lighthouse had started to burn.

Wednesday, 1:05 p.m. PST

MAC HEARD IT OVER THE CELL PHONE. Sounded like a small explosion, then the telltale crackle of wood.

“Kimberly? What’s happening? Are you okay?”

But before he could get a reply, Deputy Mitchell was pointing excitedly at the screen. “We got movement. Due west.”

“She can’t be going west,” Mac countered with a frown. “We’re on the edge of a cliff. Due west-”

“Is an ocean. She’s in a boat!” Mitchell declared.

Mac was back on his cell phone. “Kimberly-”

“I’m here, I’m here,” she suddenly came over the airwaves, then paused in a fit of coughing. “I’m in the lighthouse.”

“But the monitor-”

“Shows you the money.”

“Kimberly, what did you do?”

“I don’t know,” she answered in a small voice. “But, Mac, I have a problem. He must have rigged the drop box, because when I deposited the money, it set off a small explosion. Now the lighthouse is on fire. Mac… I can’t get out.”

“I’m coming,” Mac said.

“You can’t. The road’s blocked off.”

“Then I’ll run.”

He was three miles away. They both knew that.

Kimberly was coughing again. “Mac,” she said quietly over the phone, “I love you.”

Wednesday, 1:05 p.m. PST

SHELLY HEARD A STRANGE POP, followed immediately by a small explosion. She had a moment’s bewilderment, followed by the immediate thought to look for a man fleeing from the lighthouse. But she didn’t see a person emerge. Instead, flames shot out of the top of the lighthouse.

“Holy crap!” Shelly was on her feet, running for the decaying structure. The radio was crackling on her belt. She heard Mac calling for Kimberly. Kimberly saying she was trapped.

Shelly arrived at the door and threw herself against it. For fifty years she’d lived with the shoulders of a plow horse. By God, it was about time they did her some good. But nothing happened. She threw herself against the swollen wood again and again.

She could feel the door growing hot beneath her touch. She heard a sinister creaking as the fire found fresh air in the top of the structure and raced greedily up the walls. And then she heard coughing, lots and lots of coughing as Kimberly stumbled through the flames.

With no windows on the lower level, and the fire already consuming the top…

Shelly stripped off her outer shirt and wrapped it around her face. Then she stepped back and kicked the door as hard as she could. This time, she felt it give. One more kick, and the warped door gave with a shriek.

And the fire responded with a giant whoosh!

Shelly staggered back from the ball of heat. She felt the hair on her arms singe. Her eyebrows burn. Then the first wild tendrils of flame recoiled, the fire inhaling like a living beast.

The lighthouse twisted beneath the pressure. Old wood starting to buckle.

Shelly did the only thing she knew how to do.

She ran into the flames.

Wednesday, 1:07 p.m. PST

KINCAID ’S CELL PHONE WAS GOING INSANE. He had a frantic call from Deputy Mitchell. The ransom drop had gone bad. Lighthouse on fire. FBI Agent Quincy was trapped inside. He had a triumphant call from Trooper Blaney. License plate matching Stanley Carpenter’s had just been found outside the Bakersville Bowling Alley. What should Blaney do?

And he finally had Lieutenant Mosley on the phone, apologizing for his absence-he’d had to “take care of some things.”

Kincaid didn’t know what those things were, and at the moment, he didn’t care. He was too busy being pissed off.

He needed fire-and-rescue. He needed backup. He needed Lieutenant Mosley to get in front of the press right now, and he needed to hunt down Quincy once again and notify the man that his daughter was in mortal danger. Oh yes, and he still needed to catch a kidnapper.

One-oh-seven p.m., Kincaid was watching his case disintegrate in front of his eyes. And he was too far away to do a damn thing about it.

He finally retreated to his car outside the Jenkins farm, turned on his scanner, and listened to various reports as Kimberly Quincy fought for her life.

Wednesday, 1:08 p.m. PST

LIEUTENANT MOSLEY WAS ON THE RUN. He had twelve million things to do and approximately ten minutes to get it all done. He didn’t bother trying to round up the press; instead he went straight to them.

He found most major networks positioned outside the Hal Jenkins property, having abandoned Danicic’s house in favor of a crime scene.

He took up position outside the yellow crime scene tape, always a favorite visual, and hoped no one would notice his sweaty face and labored breath. He held up the hastily prepared statement and began:

“It is with great sadness that the Oregon State Police confirms the loss of one of its own. The body of Detective Alane Grove, a four-year veteran of the force, was discovered this morning on a farm in Tillamook County. We believe she was killed serving above and beyond the call of duty. The owner of the farm has been taken into custody, and we anticipate will soon be charged in this case.”

There was a flash of camera bulbs. Several reporters thrust their microphones into the air.

“Can you tell us how she was killed?”

“The investigation is ongoing.”

“Was she part of the task force working on the recent ransom case?”

“Detective Grove was working on behalf of the task force.”

“So her death is related?”

“Naturally, we are pursuing that possibility.”

“What about Rainie Conner and Dougie Jones? Any word?”

“Not at this time.”

“But if you have a suspect in custody…”

“The investigation is ongoing,” Mosley repeated. The gathered reporters groaned.

“Come on,” one of the newsmen said up front. “It’s after one o’clock. You got a guy in jail. Surely you know something about the woman and boy.”

Mosley looked the man in the eye. “I have no comment at this time.”

And then, when there was another collective groan, he shrugged. “What do you want me to tell you guys? We have one detective who is confirmed dead. As for the fate of Lorraine Conner and Douglas Jones… Pray. That’s all I can say. Everyone out there, pray for them.”

Wednesday, 1:12 p.m. PST

THE WATER HAD SWALLOWED her hands when Rainie suddenly felt the lock give. She twisted the handle and the door burst open, water spilling into the laundry room and taking her with it.

For a moment, she was beached against the far wall, too stunned to react. Then she scrambled to her feet, ducking back into the basement stairwell. Dougie remained curled around the stair’s hand railing. She grabbed him awkwardly with her bound hands. The boy was unconscious. His head lolled against her shoulder, lips blue, eyelids fluttering alarmingly against his icy cheeks. She carried him against her chest like an oversized baby, staggering drunkenly as her own limbs shook with cold and fatigue.