Gone (25 page)

“Talk a little faster, Hal. We don’t exactly got all day.”

Hal had enough of talking, however. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a battered white envelope. He held it in front of him, dangling it like a prize. “I’ll give you my note if you’ll give me yours.”

Shelly immediately handed over her signed pledge not to search Hal’s farm. Hal handed her the discolored envelope.

“This it?” Shelly asked.

“That’s it. Trust me, I didn’t mess with it or change anything. Like I said, this whole kidnapping thing is not my cup of tea.”

“But you read it?”

“’Course. Still think I should get a reward. Crimestoppers. The Sheriff’s Department. I’m doing a good thing here.”

“Cuff him,” Shelly instructed Deputy Mitchell.

“What?” Hal asked.

“Take him in, get him processed,” Shelly ordered Mitchell. “We’ll see how his story checks out.”

“This is no way to treat a Good Samaritan!” Hal cried.

“Oh, it gets better, Hal. There’s some fine folks right now, already arriving to search your farm.”

“But you promised!”

“Ah, Hal,” Shelly said kindly. “
I’m
not the one searching your property. The DA is.”

Hal tried to make a run for it. Deputy Mitchell grabbed his cuffed hands and stuffed him in the backseat of the cruiser.

“You bitch!” Hal was screaming.

“Shhh,” Mitchell said, pointing up at the sky. “Smile at the pretty people, Hal. You’re on
Candid Camera.
”

37

Wednesday, 11:38 a.m. PST

T
HE WATER WAS COMING FOR HER.

Rainie could feel its steady onslaught, rising from her toes to her ankles, licking languorously at her shins. Originally, progress had seemed slow, the water creeping up quarter inch by quarter inch. Something to worry about, but no cause for immediate panic.

Circumstances, however, were changing. Perhaps the pipe had sprung a second leak, or the force of the gushing water had enlarged the existing hole. The sound had gained force now, changing from a mewling hiss to a charging roar.

Rainie knew about water. She’d worked drowning cases, pulled bloaters out of the engorged rapids of freshly thawed rivers, even retrieved an auto or two that had taken the wrong turn in a sharply curved road. She had seen the torn nails and broken, curled fingers of the people who had fought to the bitter end. In one of the vehicles, the woman had managed to work her arm through a two-inch crack in the passenger window. The image had haunted Rainie for weeks. That pale face plastered against the glass, bloody arm reaching frantically for life.

Water was a force, governed by its own laws, feeding its own needs. It started by saturating Rainie’s clothes, weighing down the hem of her jeans. Cold tendrils then wrapped around her ankles, rubbed against her skin, sending the chill deep into her bones.

Soon, the water would be lapping against her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs. Ironically enough, the air would start to feel cold and the water warm. So it would be easier to sink down into its depths. Let the water tickle her lips, slide down her throat.

By the time it rushed into her lungs, triggering a last-minute coughing fit, it would be too late. The water would have closed over the top of her head, suspending her and Dougie in its final, chilly embrace.

Water destroyed. But as part of its seduction, it also revived. She felt its coolness against the angry heat in her knee. She splashed refreshing drops against the pain in her arms, the throbbing in her temples. She drank from the dank, oily depths, and the liquid soothed her parched throat. The water would kill her, most definitely. But at least it made her feel better first.

Slowly but surely, she pulled herself off the basement steps. She rose shakily to her feet. And she reached into her pocket for the only hope they had left.

“Dougie,” she called out softly.

“Y-y-yes.”

“Have you ever played Marco Polo?”

“Y-y-yes.”

“Marco.”

“Polo.”

“Marco.”

“Polo.”

She found his huddled body, tied to the pipe in the dark.

“Dougie,” she said, “hold very still.”

Wednesday, 11:45 a.m. PST

S
HE HAD PALMED THE SHARD OF GLASS
during their failed attempt at escape. Frantically reaching out with her fingertips, she had hoped for a possible weapon. Maybe a five-inch shank she could slash against their captor’s throat or stab into his kidneys. No such luck. All she had found was a slender shard, perhaps half an inch thick. It felt unbelievably fragile between her thick, swollen fingers. It also felt sharp.

She had to work to get the piece positioned between her numb, frozen fingertips. She started rubbing the zip tie binding Dougie’s wrists and promptly dropped the shard. She grappled in the water for the delicate piece, only to drop it again. By the time she finally got the glass into place again, the water had hit Dougie’s knees and he was shaking uncontrollably.

“You’re drunk,” Dougie accused.

“No.”

“I saw you with that bottle.”

“I wasn’t looking for booze, Dougie. I was looking for a weapon.”

She worked the sharp edge against the plastic band. She thought she felt it give. Right at that moment, of course, she dropped the piece of glass again.

“Liar,” Dougie said.

Rainie reached down, sifting through water with her fingers. The shard bumped lazily against the back of her hand, washed away. She frantically fished after it.

“Would you like to know the truth, Dougie? I
am
a liar. Every time my mother beat me, I lied to my teachers and told them I fell off my bike. Every time I took a drink, I lied to myself and told myself it was the last one. I’ve lied to my husband. I’ve lied to my friends. And yes, I’ve lied to you. There are a million lies in the world, Dougie. Lies we tell to protect others, lies we tell to protect ourselves. I’m pretty sure I’ve told each and every one. And I’m pretty sure, so have you.”

Dougie didn’t say anything. She’d found the piece of glass, trapped it between her fingertips. The water was past Dougie’s knees, approaching his thighs. She could hear more gurgling, old water seeking new ways to burst free.

“A few months ago,” she continued evenly, “I started taking some pills. I hoped they would help me stop feeling sad all the time. Maybe they would even help me not want to drink. Unfortunately, it’s not the kind of drug you can just stop taking. And when our kidnapper snatched me, he was not kind enough to also grab my meds. What you see now is not me being drunk. You’re seeing my withdrawal symptoms. They’re going to get worse.”

“Oh,” Dougie said in a small voice. Then, more curiously, “Does it hurt?”

“I’ve felt better.”

“Do you want a drink?”

Rainie was back at work, sawing on the binding. “You know how you feel about matches, Dougie?”

“I wish I had a match right now!” the boy said immediately.

“Well, that’s how I feel about booze. But I don’t have to drink, Dougie. Just like you don’t have to play with fire.”

Her fingers slipped. The shard drove into the palm of her hand. She winced, grateful for once for the lack of sensation in her blood-deprived fingers, then dug the slippery spike of glass out of the meat of her thumb. She was trembling again. Cold, shock, she didn’t know. She was very tired. It would be so nice to retreat to the stairs. Sit a while. Rest. She’d get back to Dougie soon enough . . .

“Rainie, do you believe in Heaven?”

Rainie was so startled, she nearly cut herself again. She answered, carefully, “I want to.”

“My first second family, they said my mother went to Heaven. They said she’s waiting for me. Do you think my mommy watches over me?”

“I think it’s a nice idea,” she said quietly.

“Stanley said my mother’s disappointed in me. Stanley said every time I set a fire, I make Mom cry. Rainie, does my mom hate me?”

“Oh, Dougie.” She floundered, honestly at a loss for words. “A mother never stops loving her child.”

“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

“M
Y TURN,
D
OUGIE.
” 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.

38

Wednesday, 11:42 a.m. PST

“I
T
’
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

F
OR 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.

“And how does it look?”

“I mean, I had no choice!”

“Because you’re not wearing a pair of handcuffs or a gun?”

“He said he would only come with us if he could make some calls. And then once we got here, he said if we didn’t give him a phone, he would use his cell phone, and of course, we wouldn’t want him tying up his cell phone.”

“Because the kidnapper wouldn’t be able to get through.”

“Exactly, sir!”

“Tell me, Officer, do you really think a reporter would jeopardize his chance of speaking directly to the man who has abducted two people?”

The officer’s eyes darted from side to side, which Mosley took as a no.

“Do you really think he would do anything to risk his airtime on the nightly news, or the number of copy inches he can command on the front page?”

“I was told we needed him to cooperate. And I wasn’t given anything to charge him with.”

“Then you find something, Officer. Obstruction of justice. Expired license. Broken taillight. You were at the man’s home, standing in front of his car, for God’s sake. You can always find one little infraction. Even the Pope has committed some sort of misdemeanor in his life.”

The officer didn’t answer anymore, which was answer enough.

Lieutenant Mosley returned to the front of the small field office, where Danicic was still jabbering away on the phone. Mosley hit the line-one button with his index finger and the phone went dead.

“Hey, that was my lawyer!”

“You feel you need a lawyer?” Mosley asked levelly.

“In the entertainment industry, you bet. I’ve already gotten called by Larry King, not to mention the
Today
show. But then you also have to figure in the possible book deals. I mean, I tell everything up front, who’s gonna be left to buy the hardcover? I need a strategy.”

“Sit up,” Mosley snapped. “Feet off the desk. Show some respect.”

Danicic arched a brow but did as he was told. He uncrossed his ankles. Straightened in the chair. Dusted off his gray jacket, which up close was not as nice a fabric, nor as tailored a cut, as it had looked on TV. His shirt was too big around the neck. His tie a bit too harsh a shade of pink.

The cameras had given him a certain level of mystique. Now he looked exactly like who he was, a small-town reporter trying desperately to make it in the big leagues.

“You ever meet Rainie Conner in person?” Mosley asked.

“No.”

“Dougie Jones?”

“Am I a suspect? Because if you’re thinking of me as a suspect, then I
am
calling my lawyer.”

“I’m trying to think of you as a person. Trust me, every minute it’s becoming more difficult.”

Danicic scowled, but looked away.

“Those are real people somewhere out there,” Mosley said. “A woman and a child fighting for their lives. Have you ever been to a crime scene, Danicic? And I don’t mean standing behind a string of yellow tape. I mean up close, personal, where you can see it’s not some Hollywood special effects. Ever sat through an autopsy? Ever read a medical examiner’s report? Do you really know what a bullet, what a knife, can do to the human body? Get up,” Mosley said abruptly. “I have something to show you.”

Mosley jerked Danicic to his feet. The reporter was too stunned to react. Mosley marched him to the back, sat him in the interrogation room, which was a former janitor’s closet and still looked it.

Back in the front office, Mosley pilfered the first gray filing cabinet he came to. He took only cases marked closed and adjudicated. If the past two years had taught him anything, it was that you could never be too careful with the press.

He stormed into the interrogation room and started slapping the photos down onto the table. “Teenager, hanged. Woman, gutted. Man, hit by a freight train. Body, sex undeterminable, dragged from a river. Hands, covered in marijuana leaves. Eighteen-month-old boy, drowned. Still thinking of book deals, Mr. Danicic? Because there are plenty more where these came from.”

Danicic picked up each photo. Studied them. Carefully placed them back down.

He looked up at Mosley. He shrugged.

“The world is filled with bad things, yada yada yada. I’m not an idiot, Lieutenant. I’m not even that different from you. Your job is to give these people justice. My job is to tell their story. Today, we have a story. You can’t stop me from telling it.”

“And if it puts the victims further at risk?”

“Further at risk?” Danicic snorted. “Tell me how. You people are the ones playing games. I’m at least making an attempt at salvaging a very precarious relationship. Face it, the kidnapper doesn’t trust you. And if he gets too nervous, Rainie and Dougie are dead. I’m offering a viable alternative. Kidnapper calls me, everybody wins. And yeah, so maybe that means I get a book deal. As long as they’re found alive, I don’t think Rainie or Dougie will mind.”

“You are messing with the lines of communication in a time-sensitive case. He calls you, we have to wait to get the news. We don’t have time to wait. Sometimes, law enforcement is war. And in war, you need a single line of communication.”

“On the other hand, every time the kidnapper contacts me, he has to surface. More times he surfaces, better chance you have at catching him.”

“More manpower it takes to cover all angles,” Mosley countered.

“Then it’s a good thing you have so many jurisdictions involved.” Danicic leaned forward. “Lorraine Conner is a former FBI profiler’s wife. You want quid pro quo? You tell me, is the FBI involved? Is this now officially an FBI case? And I still want to know about the other guy I saw on the fairgrounds, the one wearing the windbreaker from the Georgia Bureau of Investigation. Seems to me, there’s a lot going on here you still aren’t telling the public. Think how that’s gonna play when two people turn up dead.”

“
When?
That doesn’t sound like positive thinking.”

“Current investigative efforts have done nothing to convince me otherwise.” Danicic pushed back the chair, stood up. “You arresting me?”

“Not yet.”

Danicic arched a brow. “That doesn’t sound like positive thinking,” he deadpanned. “I’m outta here.”

The reporter took a step forward. Mosley grabbed his arm. The look Danicic gave him was harder than Mosley had expected. More calculating. Apparently, once enough was at stake, even a fairly inexperienced journalist learned fast.

“If we find out that you received information and didn’t share it with us, that would make you a coconspirator,” Mosley said softly. “Which would make you party to the crime. Which would mean you cannot profit from anything related to the crime—no book deals, no paid appearances, nothing. Think about that.”

“You know,” Danicic said impatiently, “not all journalists are the bad guys. Or—let me guess—you voted for Nixon.”

“He’s using you, Danicic. Why send a letter to the editor, why leave a ransom note on the windshield of your car? You want to be an objective reporter, then start asking yourself the hard questions. This subject is driven by his lust for celebrity. You can quote me on that. Except we can’t make him infamous; only the media can. You can quote me on that, too. The more coverage you give him, the more you’re rewarding his efforts. And the more you make him like it . . .”

Danicic jerked his arm free, just as the police radio crackled to life on the sergeant’s desk. The trooper picked it up, but in the small space, Danicic was still standing close enough to hear.

Mosley watched the reporter’s face, waiting for some kind of reaction. If the guy was an actor, then he was good.

“Ah jeez,” Danicic murmured, shoulders coming down, hand raking through his short-cropped hair.

Dispatch was calling for more officers; investigators had found a grave.