Lisa Gardner - The Next Accident

"Bethie," he murmured right before his lips touched hers, "let me take you for a drive."

Quincy 's House, Virginia

It was after ten P.M.before Quincy finally returned to his darkened home. He juggled his black leather computer case, a cardboard box of manila files, and his cell phone as he fought with his key. The moment he opened the door, his security system sounded its warning beeps.

He crossed the threshold quickly and in movements born of years of habit, he punched in the entry code without ever having to look at the keys. A minute later, when the front door was closed and locked again, he rearmed the outside sensors while leaving the internal motion detectors disabled. Welcome home.

Quincy valued his security system. Ironically enough, it was probably the only object in his house worth real money.

He went into the kitchen, dropping his computer case and box of files on the counter, then opening his refrigerator for no good reason. It remained empty, having not magically grown any food from the last time he checked. He closed the door, drew himself a glass of tap water, and leaned against the counter.

The kitchen was sizable, modern. It had hardwood floors, a massive stainless steel stove with an impressive stainless steel hood. The refrigerator was industrial-sized and stainless steel. The cabinets were made of cherry wood, the countertops fashioned from black granite. Five years ago, the real estate agent had assured him that this was a kitchen perfectly suited for entertaining. Now Quincy looked at the yawning bay windows of the empty breakfast nook, which still didn't contain a kitchen table.

He traveled a lot. His place looked it.

He pushed away from the counter and roamed the space restlessly. Another long day completed. Another homecoming to… what?

Maybe he should get a pet. Fish, parakeet, cat, something that didn't take too much care but would at least greet him at the end of the day with cheerful noise or even howling racket. He was not someone who needed a lot of creature comforts. He could handle the absence of furniture, the lack of artwork on his walls. His mother had died when he was very young, and most of his life had been lacking in softer touches. But silence… Silence still got to him.

He found himself thinking of dinnertime with his father, two people sitting at a scarred pine table, sharing a simple meal, and never saying a word. The farm had required a lot of physical effort. Abraham would be up and out at the break of day. He'd return at sunset. They'd eat. Watch a little TV. Read. Each night, the two of them in separate patched-up recliners, plowing their way through separate novels.

Quincy shook his head. His father had raised his only child the best way he knew how. Abraham had worked hard, put food on the table, and given his son an appreciation for the written word. Quincy could respect that now. He considered himself at peace with things. At least he had until a month ago. Grief played horrible tricks on the mind, and not even he knew what sort of demons were going to leap out of his subconscious next.

He was rattled these days, self-doubt stoked by lunchtimes no one knew of, when he went to Arlington and stood by his daughter's grave; nerve endings eroded by weeks spent working with people who would no longer meet his eye.

He wasn't used to feeling like this, as if the world were an uncertain place and he needed to feel his way carefully or risk plunging into an unknown abyss. Some nights he jerked awake, his heart hammering in his chest with the frantic need to call Kimberly and make sure she was okay, that he still had one daughter left. Ironically enough, some evenings he was consumed by the desire to call Bethie, because while his ex-wife hated his guts, she was someone who had loved Mandy. She was a connection to his daughter, and with each day that went by, there were fewer and fewer of those connections left.

Quincy had not thought it would be this hard. He was an academic, a Ph.D. who'd studied the five stages of grief and the resulting physical and emotional turmoil. You should eat plenty of fresh fruits and vegetables, engage in some sort of vigorous exercise, and avoid alcohol – it never helps. He was a professional, an FBI agent who'd been present numerous times when the word came down that some wife, husband, brother, sister, child would not be coming home again. You should maintain focus, revisit the last days of your loved one's life as objectively as possible and avoid hysterics – they never help.

He was a man after all, an arrogant father who'd assumed tragedy would strike someone else's family and never his. He was not eating plenty of fruits and vegetables. He was not objective about the last few days of Mandy's life. Some days he desperately craved alcohol.

And some nights he knew he was dangerously close to hysterics.

The great Supervisory Special Agent Pierce Quincy. Quantico 's best of the best. How low the mighty have fallen, he thought, and it disturbed him to find himself still so egocentric, even when dealing with his daughter's death.

He wished Rainie would call. He had thought that he would've heard from her by now, and it bothered him that he hadn't. He rubbed his temples wearily, feeling the low beat of a headache that never really went away these days. And as if on cue, the cordless phone on his kitchen counter began to ring.

"Finally," Quincy muttered and scooped it up. "Hello."

Silence. Strange background noises, like metal clanging against metal.

"Well, well, well," a voice said. "If it ain't the man himself."

Quincy frowned. The voice stirred memories, something in the back of his head. "Who is this?"

"You don't remember me? Aw, and here I thought I was your loco simpatico. You fed boys break my heart."

All at once, the voice clicked with a name. "How did you get this number?" Quincy asked sternly, while his palms began to sweat and his gaze flew to his security system to assure himself that it was still armed.

"You mean you don't know yet?"

"How did you get this number?"

"Amigo, relax. I just wanna talk. Revisit old times on this fine Tuesday evening."

"Fuck you," Quincy said without thinking. He hardly ever swore, and a moment later he wished he hadn't done so now, because the caller simply began to laugh.

"Ah, Quincy, mi amigo, you even swear like a suit. Shit, man, we're hardened criminals here, you gotta do better than that. Fuck your mother, maybe. Fuck your mother up her mother-fucking ass. Yeah, that's a good one. Or maybe," the voice turned silky, "fuck your dead daughter in her dead-fucking grave with a white fucking cross. Yeah, I'd like that."

Quincy gripped the phone harder as the words penetrated, and the first wave of anger washed over him like a tidal wave. He wanted to smash the phone. He wanted to smash it against his bare hardwood floor or black granite countertop. He wanted to smash it over and over again and then he wanted to fly to California just so he could beat the crap out of Miguel Sanchez, thirty-four years old and already sentenced to death, and he had never felt himself this angry, the rage throbbing in his temples and his whole body rigid with the need to lash out.

Then he saw his answering machine. The red blinking light indicating that there were messages. And the red digital display screen giving him the new-message count: 56. Fifty-six new messages on what should've been his unlisted telephone line.

He amazed himself with how calm he could keep his voice. "One call from me, Sanchez, and you'll be sent straight to solitary. And remember, I'm the one who knows how much you hate to be alone."

"That mean you don't like talking about your daughter? Pretty, pretty girl, Quincy. How nice you gave her my favorite name."