Gone (16 page)

24

Tuesday, 8:26 p.m. PST

S
HELLY
A
TKINS HATED COFFEE.
This was not something one admitted in law enforcement. Stakeouts, long nights, early mornings, bitter, foul coffee was always the brew of choice. Frankly, it didn’t look the same when you whipped out your box of herbal tea.

Shelly couldn’t afford to look different. She was a woman commanding in a male-dominated world. In the good-news/bad-news department, at least she wasn’t pretty. She had broad shoulders, muscled arms, and stocky legs. She could plow a field, churn a vat of butter, and heft a calf. Around these parts, men respected that sort of thing.

She still wasn’t wife material, however. Or maybe she hadn’t met the right man. Who knew? But Shelly had given her youth to farming. Her adulthood, she was keeping for herself.

Now, she left the command center in the conference room, walking out into the main lobby. This time of night, the building was deserted, doors closed to the public, Fish and Wildlife officers done for the day. She moved into a corner dominated by a slab of tree trunk and a beautifully mounted rack of antlers. There, she fished around in her chest pocket for her packet of chamomile tea, then plunked it into her cup of hot water. She put the lid back on, ripped off the dangling tag from the tea bag, and no one was the wiser.

Everyone had their little secrets, Shelly thought wryly, then was somewhat saddened that this was as good as hers got. She was nearly fifty years old, for God’s sake. Sometime soon, she was going to have to run off to Paris and sleep with a painter, just to keep herself from being totally boring in old age. Maybe in Paris, she would be considered exotic. Their own women were so pale, wraithlike. Surely there was a painter somewhere on the Left Bank who would enjoy the challenge of painting the last of a dying breed—the quintessential American farm wife. She would strap a plow to her back. She would pose nude.

It would give her something to remember during all the sleepless nights to come. I, Shelly Atkins, once sipped from the cup of life. I, Shelly Atkins, for at least one moment, felt beautiful.

“Penny for your thoughts.”

Quincy’s voice came out of nowhere.

“Holy shit!” Shelly exclaimed. She jerked the cup of hot tea away from her body, so at least she only sprayed it on the floor. Her heart thundered in her chest. She had to take several deep breaths before her hands would stop shaking.

“Sorry,” Quincy said contritely. He moved into view and she realized he had followed her from the conference room. He looked better now than he had an hour ago. Composed again, some color infusing his cheeks, his posture erect. Hell, he looked downright handsome, which was not a thought Shelly wanted to be having right now.

Shelly knew more about Quincy than he’d want her to know. She was a bit of a true-crime junkie, and when she’d heard through the grapevine there was a genuine retired profiler in her community, naturally she’d dug up everything she could find on the man. Gruesome cases, fascinating stories. She’d spent the past few weeks trying to work up the courage to approach him. She would love to hear about his work, pick his brain on major cases. She didn’t know how to introduce herself, however, without coming off as some kind of FBI groupie. Which maybe she was.

Truthfully, Shelly didn’t really want to travel to Paris. But she’d sell her soul to attend the National Academy for police officers at Quantico. If only the Bakersville Sheriff’s Department had those kinds of resources . . .

Shelly sighed heavily. She was hopeless, and there would be no good stories for the old folks’ home after all.

“How are you feeling?” she asked roughly. Quincy was standing beside her now. Tall, lean, distinguished, with the silver streaking through his dark hair. He smelled of rain, mud, and fir trees, a walking advertisement for the great outdoors. She wished she’d stop noticing these things.

“Apparently not well enough for people to stop asking me that question,” Quincy answered dryly.

“You gave us a good scare. I’ve never seen a man collapse like that.”

“When did you arrive?”

“Just as you picked up the metal folding chair and simultaneously tried to rip Kincaid limb from limb.”

“It was sublimation. I’ve secretly been plotting to maim Sergeant Kincaid ever since he decided not to meet the first ransom demand. Going insane about my missing wife simply gave me the chance.”

“That young guy moves quick.”

“Mac? He’s a good man.”

“How long has he been with your daughter?”

“Couple of years.”

“Think this is the real thing?”

“I don’t know. Kimberly rarely talks of matters of the heart.” Quincy nodded thoughtfully. “But I wouldn’t object. Not that any father feels that any man is good enough for his daughter, but in this case . . .”

“Seems like he can handle her,” Shelly filled in for him.

“Something like that.”

“She’s beautiful,” Shelly said. “You must be very proud.”

“She’s beautiful, intelligent, and stubborn to a fault. I’m enormously proud. And yourself?”

“Never done it. No husband, no kids.” Shelly jerked her head toward the conference room. “I gotta keep all those yokels in line. That’s enough mothering for me.”

“Well said.”

Shelly took a sip of her tea. The steam wafted out and Quincy inhaled the fragrance.

“Chamomile,” he commented.

“I’ll pay you fifty bucks not to tell.”

“Your deputies are morally opposed to herbal tea?”

She scowled. “Men. You know what it’s like.”

Quincy smiled. It lightened his face, bracketed his eyes. She felt his grin in her chest, which only made her twenty times a fool.

“Indeed I do,” he said.

Shelly turned away from him. She studied the antlers, the tree stump, the dust that was collecting around the edges of the displays. Hell, she was no good at these things, had never been any good at these things. This was the real reason Shelly was still single: honest to God, she only knew how to talk shop.

“I looked up Nathan Leopold,” she said.

“And?”

“Same as the others. Famous abduction case from the twenties. Leopold was a rich kid who saw himself as some sort of criminal mastermind. He convinced his friend Richard Loeb, also rich and spoiled, to kidnap and murder a fourteen-year-old young boy ‘for the experience.’ The two drafted a ransom note but, like the other cases, never planned on returning the boy alive. After the police discovered the body, Leopold inserted himself into the investigation. Didn’t take long for the cops to figure things out, however. For one thing, brilliant Nathan dropped his spectacles near the body. Turned out there were only three frames like them made in the whole United States. Ah, the good old days before everything was mass-produced from LensCrafters.”

“A partner crime,” Quincy mused softly, “with elements of a thrill kill.”

“Yeah, but Leopold was clearly the instigator, the alpha partner, no doubt about it. Similarities I see between the names given by our guy are that all are from infamous cases and none of the abductors ever planned on returning the hostage alive.” At the last minute, Shelly realized how blunt she sounded. “Sorry,” she murmured awkwardly, and hastily sipped more tea.

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“It’s just . . . She is your wife. I can’t even begin to imagine how hard this must be.”

“I doubt it’s ever easy.”

“You could go home, you know, get some sleep. We can handle this.”

“If you went home, Sheriff Atkins—”

“Shelly, call me Shelly.”

“If you went home, Shelly, would you sleep?”

“Probably not.”

“It’s easier to be here. It’s even easier to discuss theories on what kind of psychopath took my wife. At least that’s doing something. And maybe, if I keep busy now, I won’t go insane thinking of all the things I should have done earlier. The signs I ignored, the conversations I didn’t have, the symptoms I didn’t recognize. You know—all of the ways in which I probably failed my wife.”

“Coulda, woulda, shoulda,” murmured Shelly.

“Rainie’s an alcoholic,” Quincy said abruptly. “Yet in all the time I’ve known her, she’s never attended AA. If you asked her about it, she would say, ‘I was an alcoholic.’ It sounds very forthcoming, honest, and yet . . .”

“She’s using the past tense.”

“As if she’s magically cured, as if it’s no longer an issue in her life. Which of course—”

“Is denial of its own kind.”

“I never pushed her. I never asked her about it. Rainie always accused me of wanting to fix her. I disagreed, of course, but maybe that was my own version of denial. Because how else could I accept her statement so readily, as if she had been broken but was now repaired? The human psyche is not that simple. Addictions are not that kind.”

Shelly didn’t know what to say. She drank more tea.

“I’m sorry,” Quincy said abruptly.

“For what?” Shelly looked around, honestly confused.

“For talking so much. I didn’t intend to come out here to run off at the mouth. I’m sorry. You’re . . . you’re a very good listener.”

Shelly shrugged, sipped more tea. Yeah, that was her lot in life. To be a good listener.

“I’m supposed to be informing you that Sergeant Kincaid will be holding a briefing at nine p.m.,” Quincy said. “Please be prepared.”

“Briefing on what?” Shelly snorted. “That my deputies still haven’t found Dougie Jones? That we still don’t know who abducted your wife? Hell, I only wish I
had
something to prepare.”

“I don’t think the sergeant is planning on using the meeting to recap what we haven’t done.”

“Well, praise be and hallelujah.”

“I believe he’s going to use the meeting to discuss what will happen next.”

“And that would be?”

“The ten a.m. ransom drop. No more fooling around. We tried things Kincaid’s way. Now we’ll let the UNSUB call the shots.”

“Ahh shit,” Shelly said tiredly.

“Quote of the day.”

Shelly pulled herself together, belatedly trying to remember that this was the husband of the victim and he could use more from the local sheriff than profanity. “We’re working hard,” she rallied. “We’re going to find her. It’ll work out.”

Quincy merely smiled again.

“First rule of thumb in this business, Shelly,” he murmured quietly. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

25

Tuesday, 8:33 p.m. PST

K
IMBERLY HAD ONE LAST STOP
to make before she headed back to the command center. Luke did her the kindness of looking up the name and address. She took it from there.

Bakersville didn’t have a lot of apartment complexes, and those that existed weren’t in the best state of repair. This building in particular appeared to sag on its foundation, the second story tilting dangerously over the first. The establishment looked like it might have been a cheap motel once—the cracked asphalt parking lot, the dismal attempt at a playground where a swing set still remained, though devoid of swings, a pool that had been hastily filled with dirt. As Kimberly pulled in, her headlights picked up peeling white paint and cockeyed red shutters. There was very little about the property to call home.

She checked the numbers on the doors until she found 16. Light knock. The curtain over the window next to the door was drawn back, and a young woman peered out at her.

Kimberly flashed her creds. “My name is Kimberly Quincy, FBI. I have some questions about Dougie Jones.”

That did the trick. The curtain fell back into place. The door swung open.

Peggy Ann Boyd appeared to be about Kimberly’s age, with long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. This time of night, her face was scrubbed free of makeup. Her suit had been traded in for a pair of gray sweatpants and a black and orange sweatshirt that proudly proclaimed
Go Beavs!
That meant she’d either attended Oregon State University or was a fan of its football program. Without a pro team to call their own, most Oregonians took college ball very seriously.

“I’m sorry to bother you after hours,” Kimberly said as she entered the apartment. The one-room studio confirmed her earlier assumption of a motel that had been converted into rental units. Same drab brown carpet and gold floral drapes. A back wall that boasted a one-counter kitchenette, adjacent to the bathroom. Kimberly couldn’t help thinking that if anyone could benefit from ten grand, it would be Peggy Ann Boyd.

“What did Dougie do this time?” the social worker asked tiredly.

“It’s not what he’s done. It’s where he may be.”

“He’s run off?”

“He’s missing.”

Peggy Ann sat down heavily on the edge of the double bed. That left one chair in the room. The young woman gestured toward the old wingback and Kimberly took a seat.

“At least he didn’t burn anything down this time,” Peggy Ann said wryly. “In its own way, that’s progress.”

“How well do you know Dougie?”

Peggy Ann smiled; it did not diminish the strain on her face. “I’m not sure anyone knows Dougie. I’ve tried. Others have tried. But if there was ever a resistant subject. Oh, that poor boy. I honestly don’t know what to do with him next.”

“I understand that he’s been through four different homes already, even had a stay in juvie. I’ll confess, given his history of theft and arson, I’m surprised you were able to place him again. I’m surprised you tried.”

Peggy Ann didn’t answer right away. She was twisting her hands in her lap, this way and that, as if trying on her own fingers for size. “As a federal agent, you must work a lot of cases,” she said abruptly.

“Yes.”

“Some are just the job, I’m sure. You do what you’re supposed to do, go through the paces.”

“Sure.”

“Dougie wasn’t just the job for me. He wasn’t just a case file. I wanted . . . I
still
want, to get this case right. Yes, he has problems. Yes, he has issues. But . . . But you had to see Dougie Jones four years ago. Dougie Jones four years ago was a truly great, very well loved, little boy.”

Kimberly frowned, now confused. She hadn’t seen Dougie’s official case file; she’d have to wait until morning to subpoena those records. But according to what she’d been able to piece together, Dougie hadn’t even entered the system until three years ago.

“How did you first meet Dougie?” she asked carefully.

“I’ve known Dougie since the day he was born.”

Kimberly’s eyes widened. “You’re not . . . That wouldn’t be appropriate—”

Peggy Ann laughed. “I’m not his mother, not even his relative. I’m his neighbor. Dougie was born in this apartment complex right here. Unit number twenty-two. That’s where Dougie started his life.”

“You knew his parents?”

“Yes and no.” Peggy Ann shrugged. “My path would cross with his mother’s from time to time. We’d both be picking up mail, or maybe I’d pull in while she was unloading groceries, that sort of thing. First you smile, then you say hi, and by the third or fourth time, it’s not so strange to have a conversation or two.

“She was young, unwed-mother material. Had fallen madly in love with Dougie’s father. Unfortunately, he hadn’t fallen madly in love with her. The usual story. Best I could tell, she didn’t have any family in the area. The state provided resources, and she had enrolled in a local program we have to help single moms earn their GEDs. It’s run through the Episcopal church. The women provide day care for the kids and tutoring for the moms. The state kicks in a small stipend for each day the girls attend. It’s not much, but the program has had success. Gaby—Dougie’s mom—looked like she might be one of the better stories.”

“No drugs, no alcohol, no other men?”

“No, no, from what I could tell, she lived a very quiet life. I’d stop by every now and then, never as part of my job, but as a neighbor. I grew up with a single mom, I know how hard it is. Sometimes I’d even watch Dougie for an hour or two while Gaby ran to the grocery store, that kind of thing. He was precocious. Apartment living isn’t easy for a toddler, especially in units this small. I won’t tell you he was magically an angel while his mother was alive. He was a master breakout artist from the time he was two. I think all of us discovered him out of the apartment at one time or another and returned him home.

“But he was loved, well cared for. Clean clothes, well fed. She’d pick him up all kinds of toys at garage sales. Even found him a tricycle for when he turned three. Gaby really went all out for her son. She wanted to make a better life for both of them.”

“So what happened?”

“She died. Hit and run, one night when she was walking back from the convenience store. Dougie had gone to bed and she’d gone out for milk. No family ever stepped forward to claim him. He became a ward of the state and I got his file.”

“Did you ever think of adopting him?”

“Me?” Peggy Ann raised a brow. “I’m single, working a government job that barely covers my rent and will probably cause me to burn out before I’m thirty-five. What could I offer Dougie Jones? He deserved a family. So that’s what I found him.”

“The first set of foster parents.”

“The Donaldsons are good people. In social-services-speak, we consider them the Mercedes-Benz of foster parents. Good marriage, nice home, comfortable middle-class lifestyle. I told them Dougie’s story, and Mrs. Donaldson couldn’t file the paperwork fast enough to get him into her house. Here was a kid who had a good start. He was loved, he had bonded, he had more potential than ninety percent of the kids who cross my desk. And here were people ready to take up where his mother left off. This should have been a happy ending, Ms.—”

“Kimberly, call me Kimberly.”

“Well, it should’ve been a happy ending. To this day, I can’t tell you why it wasn’t.”

“He burned down their garage.”

“Only after breaking apart most of their furniture, shredding his bedding, and punching holes the size of basketballs in his room. The garage was the final straw. They didn’t feel they could handle him anymore. Mrs. Donaldson told me that she was honestly afraid.”

“Of Dougie?”

“Of Dougie.”

“But you found him another home.”

Peggy Ann smiled wanly. “There’s money in foster kids, Kimberly. As long as there’s money, I can always find them another home.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Not as good a situation, with predictable results. For the record, I pulled some strings to get mental health resources available to Dougie after he burned down his second home. The state ponied up the money and I lined up a local psychologist who specializes in children. Unfortunately, Dougie’s third foster mother never took him to the appointments. She had five kids to manage; thrice-weekly appointments were simply too much. And yes, Dougie imploded, and yes, she kicked him out, and yes, we started the cycle all over again. And again, and again.

“Dougie’s an angry little boy. I wish I could tell you why. I wish I could tell you how to fix him. All I know for sure is that Dougie is very, very mad. At the world, at the foster system, and even at me. And right now, according to the experts, he would rather be angry than be loved.”

“I met him this afternoon,” Kimberly said.

Peggy Ann arched a brow. “Well, at least you look like you’re in one piece.”

“He was playing with a beetle, out in the rain, enjoying the mud. I thought I could talk to him about Rainie Conner. The minute I mentioned her name, however, he became furious.”

“Really? Last I’d heard, she was one of the only people he tolerated.”

Kimberly tilted her head to the side. “You don’t know?”

“What?”

“Rainie has been kidnapped.”

“Oh no.”

“We’re concerned that Dougie may know something about it.”

“A
kidnapping
? He’s only seven. I mean, if he’d burned down her house, I’d understand. But kidnapping?”

“According to Laura Carpenter, he knew Rainie was missing before anyone told him.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Which is why I went to see him.”

“And did he give you an explanation?”

“No. But I got the impression . . . The way he said some things didn’t sound like a seven-year-old boy talking. It sounded like a boy repeating something an adult had told him.”

Peggy Ann’s turn to frown. “You think maybe he knows the person who kidnapped Rainie?”

“I’m not sure yet. But I think he does know something. Can you think of other close friends he might have? Anyone in which he would confide?”

“I don’t get involved in the day-to-day. You’d have to ask Laura—”

“Nothing personal, but I don’t think Laura Carpenter is that close to Dougie.”

“Maybe Stanley?”

“I haven’t met him yet.” Kimberly was silent for a moment. “What about the abuse charges Dougie made?”

Peggy Ann sighed. “Off the record?”

“Off the record.”

“If I thought Dougie was in any real danger, I’d pull him out of that house in a heartbeat. I have noplace to take him, of course, but I’d figure something out. I’ve followed up with both Stanley and Laura Carpenter; I can’t find anyone who has an unkind word to say about them, and I did find about half a dozen boys from the high school football team who swore Mr. Carpenter helped them turn their lives around. And I’ve visited Dougie multiple times; I’ve never seen any sign of bruising on him, nothing to suggest violence. Given his troubled past . . .”

“You think he’s lying.”

“I think Stanley Carpenter’s ‘tough love’ approach feels like war to Dougie. But it may also be the only hope Dougie has left.”

“Do you know if Rainie had made any conclusions?”

“I haven’t seen any report.”

“Rumors?”

Peggy Ann frowned, shook her head. “I haven’t heard any rumors, either. Last I knew, she was still investigating.”

Kimberly nodded, sat back. Quincy had hinted that Rainie was beginning to think Dougie’s case had merit. When she’d talked to Laura Carpenter, however, she didn’t seem to know anything on the subject, and neither did Peggy Ann. The real question in Kimberly’s mind wasn’t what Rainie had concluded, but what others
thought
she had concluded. By all appearances, however, Rainie had played things close to her chest.

Kimberly sighed now, frowning, trying to think of what to pursue next. “Was Dougie in school?”

“First grade.”

“Can you give me the name of his teacher? Maybe he or she will know something.”

Peggy Ann got up and moved toward the table, which Kimberly could see also doubled as a desk. “Mrs. Karen Gibbons is her name. I’m sure she won’t mind you giving her a call. For the record, however, Dougie isn’t exactly the teacher’s pet.”

“That’s what I figured. What about a psychologist? Now that he’s at the Carpenters’, is he going to appointments?”

“Not that I know of, but again, Laura could tell you more.”

Kimberly had talked to Laura briefly after her run-in with Dougie. From what she could tell, Laura didn’t know anything. Really, honestly, didn’t know anything, which Kimberly had thought was an interesting trait in a foster mom. It was as if Stanley had wanted to take in a foster child and Stanley had designed a program for a foster child and Stanley now had a foster child. Laura was simply along for the ride.

Kimberly hadn’t seen any outward signs of bruising, but in her personal opinion, Laura fit the profile of an abused wife. She wondered if Rainie had thought the same.

Peggy Ann finished copying a name and phone number down on a sheet of notebook paper. She handed it over to Kimberly.

“Is it still raining outside?” Peggy Ann asked.

“Drizzling, yeah.”

“Did you look? Maybe he took a coat with him, or umbrella, hat and gloves.” The woman’s tone was wistful. She was worrying about Dougie again, and Kimberly understood that Peggy Ann would not be sleeping tonight.

“He was last seen in sweatshirt and jeans,” she said quietly. “We have the sheriff’s office out searching for him now.”

“I see,” Peggy Ann said, but still she frowned. “Wait a minute. If the sheriff’s office is looking for him . . . Didn’t you say you were FBI?”

“We don’t really think he’s lost,” Kimberly said as kindly as she could. “We believe he may have been kidnapped.”

Peggy Ann stuffed her hand into her mouth. “Oh no.”

Kimberly rose out of the chair. “If there’s anyone else you can think of for me to speak with . . .”

“I will let you know immediately.”

“And if for some reason you should hear from Dougie—”

“I will let you know immediately.”

Kimberly was at the door. Peggy Ann remained standing in the middle of the room. She looked forlorn now, shoulders slumped in her oversized sweatshirt, a few strands of dark hair tangled around her pale face.