Gone

CHAPTER 18

Tuesday, 4:03 p.m. PST

APPROACHING THE FAIRGROUND PADDOCKS was easier said than done. Mac and Quincy advanced with their backs pressed against the exterior of the livestock barns and their eyes peering out into the gray shrouded fields, looking for signs of movement. The rain drummed hard upon the metal roofs above them, periodically dousing them in walls of water while relentlessly deafening them with the sound.

Quincy slid, was caught by Mac. They made it four more feet, then Mac careened forward in the ankle-deep mud and swamped them both. They picked themselves back up gingerly, breathing hard and soaked to the bone.

“Your entire left side is covered in mud,” Mac reported.

“You’re assuming it’s mud,” Quincy replied.

Mac caught the innuendo-they were next to a cow barn, after all-and grimaced.

They reached the end of the second barn, and life got trickier. There was no way to reach the horse paddocks without crossing fifty yards of open ground. Quincy’s gaze went to the top of the grandstands, searching for signs of a sniper. The rooftops appeared clear.

They ran for it, dashing across the exposed space, around a chain-link fence, then wove through a slew of metal bleachers until they finally hit the horse paddocks. Quincy flattened himself against the wooden building, quickly followed by Mac.

The overhang of the roof offered them a temporary respite. Mac could see the water trickling down Quincy’s face, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. The older man was flecked with specks of mud, the silver of his hair more pronounced, now that it was wet. For a moment, Mac felt a pang of worry. Quincy was in his fifties, and field work was a young man’s game. But then Quincy grinned and Mac could see that beneath the stress and fear, the man was jazzed. You could take the man out of law enforcement, but you couldn’t take the law enforcement out of the man.

“Ready?” Quincy whispered.

“Let’s go.”

They entered fast and low, Mac leading with the shotgun, followed by Quincy, who held the rifle nestled in the crook of his forearm. The change in environment was immediate and distorting: from a slippery marsh to hard-packed mud, from a lightly overcast sky to a deep, pervasive gloom, from the smell of wet pine and cut grass to the pungent scent of wood shavings, hay, and old horse manure.

Mac took a split second to glance down the long center aisle, then ducked inside the first stall, adrenaline pounding in his veins, his hands shaky on the shotgun. Hard to see everything in such a long, dark space. And even harder to hear, given the rain beating against the roof in a deafening roar.

He held up his left hand to Quincy and silently counted off one-two-three.

He popped up, flashed a second glance at the interior, then disappeared back down behind the cover of the stall wall.

He indicated his findings to Quincy with a simple shake of his head: nothing. No person standing in the aisle, no ATV magically parked in the middle of the stable. Their search would have to be more methodical now, foot by foot, stall by stall.

Once more, Mac took the lead, creeping into the center aisle. He kept his back hunched to provide a low profile, and his footsteps were small and nimble. His hands steadied on the shotgun. He focused on small even breaths and felt himself sliding into that zone.

Searching to the left, searching to the right.

Inch by inch, row by row, and then…

Movement. Mac caught it first from the corner of his eye. A person, darting out of the end stall, dashing toward the back door.

“Stop! Police!” Mac roared. He unfurled to his full height, pointing the shotgun, finger moving toward the trigger.

Just as another voice spoke up in the gloom behind him. “One move and your friend is dead.”

Mac whipped around to find a sharply dressed black man leveling a nine-millimeter at Quincy’s head. Mac was still frantically considering his options when Quincy declared wearily, “Kincaid.”

And the black man replied just as despondently, “Ahh shit.”

Tuesday, 4:38 p.m. PST

“ITHINK HE ’S A BIT MIFFED, ” Mac said fifteen minutes later. He and Quincy had been ushered into the roller rink at the front of the fairgrounds. The space was vast, cold, and echoing.

“I was thinking more like irked.”

Halfway across the room, Kincaid looked up from his mini-huddle with OSP detective Ron Spector and glowered at them. It was nothing Quincy and Mac hadn’t seen before.

Mac was cold. His teeth chattered as he sat on a hard metal folding chair, clothes soaked, face splattered with mud. Quincy was in the same shape. No one had offered them a towel, let alone a hot cup of coffee. Mac wasn’t surprised. He’d crossed jurisdictional boundaries once before, investigating a case in Virginia. Interestingly enough, the Virginia State Police hadn’t taken it very well either.

The front door swung open. A young guy in a tan police uniform appeared, dragging a disheveled guy in his wake. Mac and Quincy were already on their feet as the deputy thrust the person into the roller rink.

The man, dressed in a khaki trench coat Mac recognized from the horse paddocks, was covered in mud. In fact, he appeared in much the same state as Mac and Quincy, meaning he’d obviously been moving around the grounds for a bit. Now, he stumbled forward, blinked several times fast, then croaked, with both hands in the air, “P-p-press!”

“Ahh shit,” Kincaid said again.

He crossed to the intruder and glared down at him. “Who are you?”

“Adam Danicic. Bakersville Daily Sun. ”

“Credentials.” Kincaid held out his hand. A very nervous Danicic reached inside his damp trench coat and gingerly pulled out a billfold. He held it out to Kincaid, who snapped it open.

“So Adam Dan-i-chic, ” Kincaid stressed the reporter’s last name, “what the fuck were you doing in the stables?”

The reporter braved a smile. “Getting a scoop?”

“Ah, Jesus Christ. Is anyone in this building a kidnapper? Anyone, anyone? Because there’s an awful lot of non-OSP bodies in this room, considering it’s an OSP case!”

Not the smoothest thing to have said, and Kincaid seemed to realize it the moment the words left his mouth. The Bakersville deputy gave the OSP sergeant a “thanks for nothing” stare, while Kincaid sighed heavily, paced four feet away, then sighed again. Finally, he turned back to the reporter.

“My understanding is that your role is to work in cooperation with us. The prime reason being that you certainly wouldn’t want another paper hearing from ‘confidential sources’ inside the Oregon State Police how the inexperienced, self-centered, aggressive reporter from the Daily Sun heedlessly endangered a woman’s life.”

Danicic didn’t say anything. At least he had the good sense to shut up and take his beating like a man.

“Now, I would think that to work in cooperation with our office, you would need to notify our office of your activities,” Kincaid continued.

“I investigate on my own, I write on my own,” Danicic said levelly. “That’s what a reporter does. What my editor chooses to print is a matter left up to him.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes, sir.”

Kincaid eyed the young reporter again-the clean-shaven cheeks, short-cropped dark hair, conservative trench coat. “You certainly don’t look like a left-wing liberal.”

“Fox News,” the reporter said smartly. “My goal is to be hired by them before I turn thirty. Let’s face it: News teams could use some young go-getters like me.”

“You have got to be kidding me. You work on a hick paper-”

“Gotta start somewhere.”

“You just fucked up a major police investigation.”

“Not really. Let’s be frank-we all know you’re only here as a precaution, and since by all appearances the kidnapper didn’t show, no harm, no foul. Now, what I would really like to understand is the presence of those two men right there. Why does his jacket say ‘GBI’? Doesn’t that stand for Georgia Bureau of Investigation? And does that mean this case now involves multiple policing agencies working together on a cross-jurisdictional task force-”

“Out,” Kincaid said tightly.

“Can I quote you on that?”

“Out!”

The Bakersville deputy, who’d been loitering inside the door, obviously enjoying Kincaid’s discomfort, finally got moving. Payback was a bitch, however, and the deputy took his sweet time escorting the reporter from the room.

“I’ll just keep asking around,” Danicic threw over his shoulder. “Someone always wants to talk to the press. Hey, maybe I can get an exclusive with the kidnapper himself. Ever think of that?”

“Ah, Jesus H. Christ.” The double doors finally clanged shut. Kincaid whirled toward Mac and Quincy. There wasn’t much a sergeant could do about an aggressive member of the fourth estate. Them, on the other hand…

“You.” Kincaid started with Mac. “Who are you, why the hell are you here?”

“Mac McCormack, detective, Georgia Bureau of Investigation.”

“Georgia Bureau of Investigation? What, you got out of bed this morning and took a wrong turn?”

“I’m with him,” Mac supplied easily, nodding toward Quincy. “Technically speaking, I’m dating his daughter.”

“The FBI agent,” Kincaid filled in.

“That’s the one.”

Kincaid’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “And where is she right now?”

Mac shrugged. “I don’t ask too many questions. She’s really good with a gun.”

Kincaid looked dangerously close to throttling someone. Mac was used to it by now. Seemed anytime he hung out with Kimberly and her father, someone tried to kill him.

“You look like shit,” Kincaid told Quincy.

“Wearing a lot of it, too.”

“Whatever you think you’re doing, it’s not helping.”

“True. Actually shooting the reporter would’ve been much more satisfying.”

“I know you consider yourself an expert in these matters, Mr. Quincy, but you’re also family. Surely a man of your intelligence can realize that there is no way for you to be clearheaded and objective about this investigation.”

“She’s a number to you,” Quincy said softly. “A statistic passing across your desk. Solve it, and your life goes on. Don’t solve it, and your life goes on. There’s no difference.”

Kincaid leaned down. While Mac had expected the OSP sergeant to launch into another tirade, his voice was surprisingly solemn. “All the cases you worked were statistics, too. Did that mean you slept in late, took weekends, went home to have dinner with your family every night? Yeah, I thought as much. I have a wife, Mr. Quincy. I have a beautiful baby boy and there’s nothing I would rather do right now than wrap up this case and go home to them. Hey, let’s hand over a boatload of cash, get your wife, and call it a day. I can take a hot shower, change into dry clothes, and put my feet up in my favorite recliner with my boy on my chest. Sounds good to me. Let’s go.”

“You’re the one who refused to pay,” Quincy said steadily. “You’re the one making things difficult.”

“Because I’m trying to do it right, dammit! Because I listened to you, the expert, and what you had to say. What was your professional opinion, Mr. Quincy, what did you tell me when we were having a grand ol’ time digging up a graveyard?” Kincaid didn’t wait for an answer, but counted off the points on the fingers of his right hand. “One, these kinds of cases are almost always personal. Two, the majority end with the victim found dead. You know why I’m dragging this out, Mr. Quincy? You know why I’m busting my balls writing message points to some UNSUB kidnapper when even I know I’m in over my head? Because I’m afraid the minute we agree to pay the ransom, Lorraine is dead. I’m not trying to get home to my wife, Mr. Quincy. I’m trying to save yours.”

Quincy didn’t reply. His lips, however, were set in a thin, stubborn line.

“If we drag things out,” Kincaid said more calmly, “the kidnapper has to keep her alive for proof of life. And maybe, just maybe, we can finally make the link between her and him. I got the scientists working the car and the notes. I got good people retracing your wife’s last steps. We got Sheriff Atkins shaking the local felony tree. This case is still in its infancy. We’re going to get some leads yet.”

“Any calls to the hotline?”

“No.”

“But given that he didn’t show here, you’re assuming he read the paper.”

“Maybe he needs a little time to think about things. Form Plan B.”

“Do you have a Plan B?”

“Yes, sir, I do. He’s going to call, we’re going to be as accommodating and cordial as we can be. It’s his game, we just want to follow instructions. We would love to give him money, we just need a little time. And then”-Kincaid took a deep breath-“we’re going to suggest a show of good faith. He supplies more proof of life, and we respond with a down payment. Not the whole ransom amount, because the bank needs more time, but the first couple thousand, so he’ll know we’re cooperating.”

Mac closed his eyes. He saw through the thinly veiled statement immediately, and so did Quincy. The former profiler was already on his feet.

“You’re not going to pay him the ransom amount?”

“It’s a down payment-”

“You’re shortchanging him. We see that, he’ll see that.”

“Not if it’s handled right-”

“By whom? An overworked state detective who’s never negotiated a damn thing in his life?”

Kincaid flushed, but didn’t back down. “As a matter of fact, I made arrangements to bring in a professional negotiator from our tactical unit. Candi, with an ‘i.’ I’m told she’s brilliant.”

“Oh my God,” Quincy said. He had his hands held to his temples, didn’t seem to be able to come to terms with the news.

“This kind of strategy has been done quite successfully before. A case out of Britain-”

“Oh my God,” Quincy said again.

Kincaid plowed on as if he hadn’t heard him. “They had a perpetrator threatening to poison pet foods if certain manufacturers didn’t make hefty payments. Rather than pay up all at once, the task force strung the perpetrator along, making a series of small cash deposits. Naturally, this increased the amount of contact the extortionist had with the companies, as well as the number of times he had to surface to receive payment. Catching him was always only a matter of time.”

“This isn’t an extortion scheme targeted against nameless, faceless victims.”

“Which makes it all the better. The more our guy has to talk to us, the more information he’ll give away. I’m not going to drag this out forever. Game plan is a good-faith down payment of a couple thousand, assuming he can show us proof of life. We’ll even consider it a bonus, given how patient he’s being. Arrange that for late tonight, with a setup for the full ten grand tomorrow afternoon. Meaning that he can walk away with twelve thousand instead of the original ten.”

“Play to his greed,” Mac commented.

Kincaid flashed him a glance. “Exactly.”

Mac looked at Quincy. The profiler appeared ashen. He sat down wearily on the metal chair and Mac wondered once more about the physical toll this must be taking.

“It’s a matter of presentation,” Kincaid said steadily. “We make him feel like he’s maintaining control of the situation while being rewarded for his efforts. We keep him focused on the future payoff, not the change in plans.”

“There’s only one problem,” Quincy said.

“What?” Kincaid asked warily.

A faint chiming sound suddenly emanated from Quincy’s pocket. “I doubt the UNSUB is stupid enough to call your hotline.”

Quincy pulled out his phone, checked the number, then showed them both the screen. Rainie’s name flashed across the display. “Why call you, Sergeant Kincaid, when it’s so much easier to call me?”

“Ahh shit.” Kincaid motioned furiously to the other detective as Quincy flipped open his phone and prepared to speak.