Gone

CHAPTER 30

Tuesday, 11:42 p.m. PST

QUINCY COULDN ’T SLEEP. He roamed the house, trying on the different rooms, as if he could recapture the feel of his wife, sitting in this chair, drinking out of this cup, using this desk. It didn’t work. The space loomed too large, shadowed and empty. Everyplace he went, he was only reminded that Rainie was no longer there.

He went to his study. Perused the notes Mac had made regarding Andrew Bensen. If the man was approximately twenty-eight years old now, then he would’ve been a mere toddler at the time of his father’s disappearance. It was hard to say how that kind of thing would’ve affected a boy. On the one hand, he’d been forced to grow up without parents. On the other hand, given Lucas Bensen’s lifestyle, no one had filed a missing persons report. Apparently, not even his friends had missed him.

Of course, twenty-odd years later Andrew had learned the whole story: How Lucas had raped the sixteen-year-old daughter of his girlfriend. How he killed his girlfriend when she confronted him with the knowledge. How he then returned to the house-presumably to attack Rainie again-except that she shot him, then buried the body under the back deck so no one would know what she’d done.

Rainie’s story had been convincing enough for a jury of her peers. But how would Andrew have taken the news? He and his grandmother had never even attended the trial. Maybe Lucas Bensen meant exactly that much to them.

Quincy couldn’t decide.

He left a message of his own with an old friend at Quantico. Mac’s military officers wouldn’t call him back until nine a.m. PST. In contrast, Glenda Rodman liked to be in her office by eight a.m. sharp Eastern Standard Time, meaning Quincy could plan on a call around five. Given the situation, the four-hour lead time would come in handy.

His last call was local. The hour was well beyond being socially appropriate. Quincy didn’t care.

Former OSP detective Abe Sanders picked up on the first ring. Quincy had a feeling Sanders wasn’t sleeping well these days. It was ironic, given that Sanders had quit the state police in pursuit of a quieter life.

“What the hell ever happens in Astoria?” Sanders had said to Rainie and Quincy over dinner two years back, when announcing he was taking the position in the scenic coastal town. “A few B amp;E’s, some minor drug trafficking, and various tourism mischiefs. Why, I couldn’t do any better if I moved to Bakersville.”

They had toasted him and his lovely wife that night. Back in the days when life had been happier for all of them.

“What?” Sanders said now, voice alert, demanding.

“Sleeping with the phone in your hand, or not even bothering to go to bed?”

“Just catching the news.” Hearing Quincy’s voice, Sanders seemed to relax. Quincy didn’t bother to mention that the evening news had ended fifteen minutes ago.

“I wanted to follow up on our favorite maintenance man,” Quincy said.

“Funny, you’re the second call I’ve gotten about Duncan today. The first was from an old OSP buddy, Kincaid. Don’t suppose you know him?”

“As a matter of fact, we’re working together.”

“Kidnapping case, right? He already called in you and Rainie? Wow, the lottery business must be booming if the state can afford to hire consultants that fast. In my day, we were cheap, cheap, cheap, all the way home.”

Sanders was referring to the fact that for the first time in the agency’s history, the state police finally had designated revenue-from the Oregon State Lottery. The legislation was good news for the state police, and even more fun for the general public. Everyone joked that the troopers would now start handing out scratch tickets with each speeding citation. Whatever worked.

What Quincy considered more relevant was that Kincaid had followed up with Sanders, but refused to provide any details about the case. How like a law enforcement officer to reach across jurisdictional boundaries, but still give nothing away. For a moment, Quincy hated all of them.

“I thought I’d call you myself,” he told Sanders at last.

“Well, I’ll tell you what I told him: We still got nothin’. Best we can tell, good old Duncan sits around his house most of the day scratching his balls, then shows up at his mom’s for dinner at night. She still calls him her baby. The neighbors hate his guts.”

“He’s under surveillance?”

“Not formally, but I got enough manpower to keep the guys swinging by. We can’t account for every second of his day, but we know large segments.”

“And today?”

“Just another day in the Duncan household.”

“And tonight?”

“I don’t have eyes on him tonight.” Sanders’s voice grew cautious. “Should I?”

“We have a situation developing,” Quincy said crisply. “Next communication with the subject is scheduled for ten a.m. If Duncan really is involved, that means he’d have some business to take care of tonight, or first thing in the morning. Meaning, it would be helpful to account for Duncan’s activities in the next twenty-four hours. Even if that meant only eliminating him as a suspect.”

“I could arrange it.”

“I would consider that a personal favor.”

“Well now, no getting mushy on me. But I gotta say, Quincy, I don’t get it. You think Duncan kidnapped a woman for money? Come on, you saw the crime scene. If Duncan can get a woman alone, it’s not money he has on his mind.”

Quincy should just say it. He didn’t know why he didn’t say it. But at that moment, sitting in the dark space of his study, his eyes on his daughter’s photo, he couldn’t form the sentence: Rainie is missing. He just didn’t have the strength anymore to hear those words out loud.

“Thank you,” Quincy said simply. He hung up the phone and sat alone in the dark.

Later, he made it to the bedroom, with the rumpled linens, the pile of Rainie’s cast-off clothes. He started in the corner and methodically tossed everything onto the bed. Old jeans, dirty underwear, used socks, he didn’t care. He covered the bed in Rainie’s laundry.

Then he stood in the doorway and started to strip. His damp jacket, his wrinkled shirt, his limp tie. He shed his investigator’s uniform piece by piece, until finally only the man remained. It was Quincy’s custom to throw his clothes into the hamper or return them to their hangers. Tonight, he left all the pieces as a chaotic pile, a lump of shed skin.

Then he crossed the room and crawled stark naked into the pile of Rainie’s clothes.

He rolled among the sheets. He felt the softness of cotton sweatshirts, flannel pajamas, satin underwear. His hand found the duvet, then he rolled himself up in a cocoon of fabric, desperate for the scent of his wife, for the feel of her pressed against his skin.

She was gone. Kidnapped, bound, disarmed, her hair hacked off and God knows what else. Alone in the silence of the room they once shared, Quincy could feel the enormity of it finally catch up with him. His mind was a jumbled collection of images-Rainie the first time she smiled for him, Rainie with a contented cat’s purr in the seconds after they’d made love. Rainie crying when he dropped down on one knee to propose to her. Rainie and the soft, mesmerized look in her eyes the day the photo came of their soon-to-be-adopted daughter.

Rainie happy, Rainie sad. Rainie furiously denying his accusation that she’d started drinking. Rainie looking so desolate as she stood by the window after one of her nightmares and he honored her privacy by pretending to sleep.

He was sorry for all of it now. He was sorry he gave her space. He was sorry he gave her time. He was sorry he didn’t lock her in this damn room with him and force her to tell every single thing that was on her mind.

He had loved her, he had worshipped her, and he had trusted her.

Now, in hindsight, he could see that it still hadn’t been enough.

Love did not fix all things. Love didn’t heal all wounds. Love did not guarantee that you would never feel alone.

He had her sweatshirt in his hands, the old blue FBI one she had commandeered from him to wear around the house. He held it up to his face. He inhaled deeply, still searching for her scent.

Then he marshaled all his strength. He channeled his focus, and he sent out, with all the willpower one man could muster: Rainie, please be safe.

But when he opened his eyes, the room was still dark, the air was still cold. And nothing on the bed could bring the feel of his wife back to him.