Gone

CHAPTER 17

Tuesday, 3:53 p.m. PST

QUINCY AND MAC PARKED a block away from the fairgrounds, at the old pink auction house where dairy cattle used to be sold every Tuesday morning and which had now sat abandoned for years. From inside the cover of his car, Quincy eyed the horizon. In theory, several hours of daylight remained. The thick, black rain clouds, however, obscured the sun, casting the afternoon in the deep gray tones of dusk.

He popped open his door, stepping out into a steady mist, and rounding to the trunk of his sedan. Mac followed behind him.

Quincy had spent most of his life being called out at a moment’s notice, and old habits were hard to break. The trunk of his luxury sedan still contained the basic tools of any seasoned profiler: a duffel bag with a spare change of clothes; an old pair of hiking boots for accessing deep ravines, favored by so many killers as dumping grounds; two cameras; a box of latex gloves; a thin white hazmat suit; emergency flares, flashlights; a first-aid kit; and, of course, a metal lockbox containing firearms-a shotgun, a rifle, and a backup.22, complete with half a dozen boxes of ammunition.

Wordlessly, the two men prepared. Quincy took the rifle; Mac the shotgun. They each helped themselves to a flashlight. From his own bag, Mac produced a windbreaker, emblazoned GBI, topping it with a department-issue baseball cap. Quincy, however, remained a cover model for Brooks Brothers in his tan trench-style raincoat, emblazoned with nothing at all.

“I would wear your ID where it is easily visible,” Quincy advised Mac.

“So I don’t get shot as a suspected kidnapper?”

“Kimberly would have my hide.”

“You know, one of these days, you guys should try having a nice ordinary family reunion. Go hiking, have a picnic lunch, hang out. Get together for a reason other than someone is trying to kill one of you.”

“It would never work. In case you haven’t noticed, none of us has the gift of gab.” Quincy finished belting his raincoat around the rifle. Accessible but not too visible. Extra ammunition went into his pockets. The flashlight he kept in his hand.

Mac was clearly displeased with Quincy’s generic outfit. “You don’t own anything at all that says FBI? Not even a lousy sweatshirt?”

“The bureau would consider it false advertising. Besides, most of these officers have seen me before. They won’t mistake me for a random kidnapper. Much more likely they’ll shoot me because they think my presence proves the estranged husband did it after all.”

“Wow, you sure know how to show a guy a good time.”

The rain picked up speed, pelting Quincy’s face. He grinned through the deluge. “That’s what they all say.”

The Bakersville County fairgrounds were simply enormous. Quincy knew that, had been here before during the hot days of August to enjoy the charming country fair, complete with Ferris wheels, horse races, livestock shows, and booth after booth of fresh, cool ice cream. Now, hunkered down next to an oversized sculpture of Tillamook cheese, he stared at the sprawling compound and felt himself quickly become overwhelmed.

First, there were the fields: endless acres of exposed, flat land, meant for carnival rides, vendors’ wares, and cotton candy. Then came the buildings: the main two-story building with its cupola top, flanked on either side by two enormous buildings, each of those split into two distinct areas, auditorium and convention center to the left, youth dairy and open dairy to the right. And that was just at the main entrance. Behind those vaulted structures loomed the grandstands, the racetrack and paddocks, the 4-H livestock barn, the 4-H horse barn.

This time of year, the youth dairy served as indoor tennis courts-not bad once you got used to the overwhelming stench of manure. Another building had been converted to a roller-skating rink, while various organizations rented out the auditorium for banquet functions.

But the effort at granting the fairgrounds a second life during the off-season had always been feeble, and the results were plain to see: four o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon, not a single car in the empty parking lot.

The fairgrounds remained a vast, empty, echoing space. It would take an entire SWAT team to secure the premises. Perhaps two or three. The abductor had chosen well, and for the first time, Quincy felt himself falter.

Was it years that aged a man? Or simply the growing realization of all the things he was powerless to control? That identifying a predator didn’t always lead to justice. That even when the courts finally ground out a guilty verdict, it didn’t bring a murdered child back from the dead, or help her parents sleep any better at night.

All Quincy wanted was his wife back. He wanted to be in their family room, in front of a roaring fire. Rainie reading a book, snuggled up against his chest. Him, stroking her arm, watching the way the flames reflected in her long chestnut hair. They would both be comfortable, wordless, the way it had been just six months ago.

It seemed so little to want out of life, and yet he honestly didn’t know if he would ever have that again. In Quincy’s world, happiness had always been a luxury and never a guarantee.

Mac was watching him, waiting for instructions, a plan of attack.

“I don’t see signs of other officers,” Mac said at last.

“That simply means they’re doing their job.”

“You’re sure this Kincaid guy is here?”

“He would be negligent not to send at least a few bodies. Kincaid might be aggressive in his handling of the case, but he’s not stupid.”

“So we just march on in?”

“No. If the kidnapper doesn’t shoot us, Kincaid’s officers probably will. They’re doing their job; let’s not muck it up now.” Quincy took a deep breath, considering the vast space once more. “Main entrance building is too exposed,” he murmured. “The upper-level loft supplies a bird’s-eye view of the lower floor, rendering it worthless. The barns are also big open spaces with no place to hide. Same with the auditorium, the convention center. These places are meant to allow the maximum exhibit space, not conceal a kidnapper. So where would he go? He chose this space. Why? What does it give him that he needs?”

“Grounds are big, hard to cover.”

“But that works both ways. Bigger it is, the more time it’s going to take him to get in and out.”

Mac was nodding now, picking up the train of thought. “Like us, he’s going to want to conceal his vehicle. That means walking in, but he also has a hostage. Maybe she can walk herself, led by him, or maybe…” Mac hesitated, not wanting to say the words in front of Quincy, so Quincy said them for him.

“Maybe he’s carrying a body.”

“Yeah,” Mac said softly. “Maybe. So he would want to be near an entry point, someplace readily accessible but that would still offer cover.”

“This is the main entrance, but it’s no good.”

“Too visible,” Mac agreed, “being right off Third Street.”

“There are fields that serve as extra parking spaces behind these buildings, closer to the racetracks.”

“The racetracks,” Mac mused, and Quincy knew the GBI detective got it the same moment he did.

“Grandstands,” Mac announced. “Plenty of places to hide-”

“But still offers a vantage point of the grounds-”

“And the approaching police task force.”

“Right by the back exit,” Mac concluded.

And then all of a sudden, Quincy knew the rest. “He’s not going to walk off the grounds,” he said excitedly. “Even if he enters near the grandstands, he’d still have to cover hundreds of yards of open fields. No way someone wouldn’t spot him coming or going. The only way to do it is to drive, but look at the ground around us. He stands a very good chance of getting stuck in the mud; God knows the police will the minute they try to give pursuit.”

Mac’s eyes got very wide. “ATV.”

“Parked in the paddocks where no one can see. Easy in, easy out.”

“Throw on a helmet…”

“And all any of us can report is the back of a mud-splattered man, driving away.”

“Screw the grandstands,” Mac declared. “Let’s head straight to the paddocks. We find that ATV, and Mr. UNSUB’s ten-thousand-dollar dreams are history.”

“You sure know how to show a guy a good time,” Quincy said.

“Aw,” it was Mac’s turn to say modestly. “That’s what they all say.”

Tuesday, 3:58 p.m. PST

THEY WERE ON THE MOVE AGAIN. Not being drugged this time, and sitting in the backseat instead of being stuffed inside a trunk, Rainie was trying to pay more attention.

The roads were rough. Dirt roads, partially washed out by the rain, would be her guess as the vehicle heaved and rolled across the miles. Her stomach moved with it; she could still taste bile in the back of her throat and desperately wanted to vomit.

Not a good idea. Her captor had replaced her cotton gag with duct tape. Vomiting risked aspirating the contents down into her lungs, which would lead to asphyxiation. Basically, she’d choke to death on her own puke. It wasn’t a comforting thought.

The vehicle itself smelled vaguely of pine-scented air freshener. She had expected the odor of cigarettes; in her mind’s eye, her captor was a smoker. But now that she considered the matter more, she didn’t remember the man’s clothing or breath reeking of nicotine. Smoking was hard to hide. Drinking, too. Didn’t she know.

Last time, she’d assumed she’d been riding in the trunk of a car. But upon further consideration, she felt as if she were riding higher than one would in a car, plus she had a hard time believing any sedan could handle these kinds of roads. So maybe the UNSUB drove a pickup truck or SUV after all. Maybe she’d been stuck in some kind of equipment locker in the back. She’d seen those in the numerous trucks around town. Guys had to have room for their toys.

The truck hit a bump, soared up, flopped down, and her stomach lurched dangerously.

Don’t think of food, don’t think of the smell. Come on, Rainie, focus. And then: Yellow-flowered fields. Smooth-flowing streams. The decades-old mantra returned so easily, it was as if it had never left. She was sixteen years old again, detached and helpless as her mother’s boyfriend labored over her body. She was twenty-five, drunk, and being felt up by some guy in the back of a bar. She was thirty, being touched by Quincy for the first time, and realizing how much the promise of love scared her out of her mind.

Yellow-flowered fields. Smooth-flowing streams. Yellow-flowered fields. Smooth-flowing streams.

The vehicle cranked hard to the left. She fell over on her side, helpless to right herself with her hands bound tight at her wrists. Bump, bump, bump. Rhythmic, fast. A gravel road maybe, or hard-weathered asphalt.

The truck came to a sudden halt, and her feet slid off the seat, catching the brunt of her weight hard against the floor. She tried to slither back up into position, hips up first, followed by feet. She heard the driver’s door open, then close. He would come around to the back now, fetch his prize.

Kick him, she thought abruptly. Lying on her side, her feet positioned in front of the passenger-side door, all she needed to do was bend her knees for a bit of leverage, then nail him hard in the gut. He’d go down and she could… what? Hop out of the car like a bunny, ankles bound, wrists bound, tape across her mouth? Most likely, she’d fall face first in the mud and drown in a pool of shallow water.

She still wanted to do it. Wanted to feel the satisfaction of her feet sinking into his soft belly, hear his surprised Oomph. He made her feel small and helpless; she hated him for that.

The door opened. Belatedly, she lashed out.

He caught her feet with his hands and pushed her legs aside. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, I don’t have time for this bullshit. Get up. Move.”

He used the rope tied around her ankles to drag her like a side of beef out of the back. Her head whacked the running board. Her shoulder drove into the muddy ground, forcing the breath from her lungs. Immediately, her nostrils flared, her back arched. She fought desperately for oxygen, lips straining against the duct tape. She couldn’t breathe, she was going to die.

She flailed on the ground, panicked and terrified. Her captor kicked her, the toe of his shoe digging into the small of her back.

“Get up, I tell you. Move!”

Dark spots started to swim before her eyes. At the last minute, her captor seemed to realize her predicament. He bent down, jerked her to her feet, and ripped the duct tape from her mouth.

“Scream, and I will kill you.”

She didn’t scream, couldn’t have if she’d wanted to. She gulped giant, beautiful lungfuls of wet, rainy air and absorbed them into her body. She tasted coastal breezes and fir trees and cow dung. She tasted field grass and dirt. And in that instant, she was pathetically grateful to be alive.

She heard a rasp. It sounded like a knife being drawn from a leather sheath.

She turned toward the noise, still a little dazed, a little confused.

“Lorraine,” her captor said in a tone of voice she hadn’t heard before. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

Rainie tried to run, but it was already too late.