by Lisa Gardner
Quincy was already forming impressions in his mind, and his first instinct had been that the map would be complicated. Something that would clearly prove that the unidentified subject—UNSUB—was the one in control, and the police must obey his every command.
Instead, the map was nearly cartoonish in its simplicity. One walked out of the Daily Sun, headed south on 101, took a left, took a right, and ended up near the Tillamook Air Museum in a cemetery. Amateurish. Adolescent. And yet brilliant. A location remote enough that the chance of someone noticing a man there in the middle of the night was small. And distinct enough that it wouldn’t be hard for the police to find the “clue.”
Quincy read the note again. Then again.
He didn’t like the icy feeling beginning to settle in at his gut.
Kincaid was now examining the envelope. “Return address,” the sergeant murmured to Quincy. “Gives the initials W.E.H. and a street address in L.A. Trying to prove his point that he’s not from around here?”
“Maybe.”
“Postmark is Bakersville, however, so he mailed it in town.”
A knock at the door. A detective, Ron Spector, from OSP’s Tillamook County office had arrived. Kincaid stepped back into the hallway, where he and Spector huddled together, speaking in low tones.
Quincy reviewed the map again. Part of him wanted to bolt out the door, head to the air museum, and race through the cemetery in an ironic search for proof of life. But the cooler, analytic side of him understood an investigator should never rush. The ransom note itself was a treasure trove of information, not to be ignored. So much could be found in the small play of words. Let alone paper type, ink choice, fingerprints on the page, saliva on the seal. A detective should be assigned to chase down the return address. Quincy himself wanted to run a search of the initials, W.E.H., which were already niggling at the corners of his brain.
Something he’d seen before? Someone he knew?
There were so many pieces of the puzzle they hadn’t even begun to put into place. They had yet to canvass the local hotels and motels, to interview twenty- to forty-year-old males traveling alone. They had yet to retrace Rainie’s last steps, determine who might have seen her. Had she been drinking somewhere? Did she still have her gun?
That last thought gave Quincy pause. If the abduction had been random, maybe the UNSUB didn’t yet realize he’d taken a member of law enforcement. . . . At one point, Rainie had been able to reach her cell phone. What about her weapon?
The idea made Quincy feel curiously seasick. On the one hand, if Rainie stood up to her attacker, she might get away. On the other hand, how many killers had he interviewed over the years who claimed their bloodlust was initially triggered by a woman’s resistance? She fought me, so I killed her. For some men, it was really that simple.
Kincaid was back. He informed Van Wie that Detective Spector would now be handling things at the Daily Sun. Then Kincaid carefully picked up the two-page ransom note, still using the handkerchief. Detective Spector would enter the original pages into evidence and start the process of preserving chain of custody. Kincaid and Quincy, however, would need a copy of the note and the map for their own efforts.
At the last moment, Kincaid gestured for Quincy to follow him down the hall.
“What do you think?” Kincaid asked as they approached the copy machine.
“Simple,” Quincy said. “But clever.”
“Simple but clever? Come on, Mr. Profiler Man. Surely you earn those big bucks coming up with more than that.”
“I want a raunchy ruling analysis of the note,” Quincy said abruptly, “testing the paper for signs of indentation. Can your QD people do that?”
“They’ve been known to be competent.”
“You’ll ask for the test?”
“I’ve been known to be competent, too.”
“All right.” Quincy ignored the other man’s sarcasm. “I think the author of the note is lying. I think he’s telling us what he wants us to believe, but not what’s necessarily true.”
“Ah, so your first instinct is rampant paranoia. Do tell.”
“He claims he’s a professional. He claims it’s about money. But have you ever heard of a ransom case where the victim was random? Around here, given the demographics, you’d stand a decent chance of kidnapping someone who didn’t have the kind of resources necessary to meet the ransom demand.”
“Ten grand isn’t that much,” Kincaid protested.
“Exactly,” Quincy said. “Why ten thousand dollars? That’s not a lot of money for holding a person hostage.”
“He has to make the amount accessible. You said it yourself, this isn’t the richest part of the state. Plus, don’t get me wrong, but for some of us, a quick ten grand isn’t doing so badly.”
Quincy merely shrugged. “Why invite in the police? Don’t most ransom notes specifically state not to contact the authorities? For someone trying to score a quick ten grand, in your own words, he’s just bought himself a bigger headache.”
“Ah, but see, given this guy’s system, he has no choice. Without us affirming that it’s a ransom note and verifying proof of life, the family of the missing person wouldn’t know to take the letter seriously. And if the family of the victim doesn’t take things seriously, Señor Fox doesn’t get paid.” Kincaid had finished copying the two pages. Now he laid the envelope across the glass.
“Now let me tell you what I think. Point one—I actually agree with you. I think the note is a big ball o’ lies. But here’s where we differ. You think if the guy is lying, he must be devious. I think the guy is lying because he’s a rank amateur.”
“Ah, so your first instinct is basic stupidity.” Quincy spread his hands. “Do tell.”
“Okay, get this. Our guy—”
“The UNSUB.”
“Yeah, that’s right. In the feebie world, gotta have an acronym for everything. Okay, so our UNSUB. He needs to make some money. Now, I’m assuming this guy isn’t so bright and isn’t so together in this world. For that kind of mutt, ten grand can be a lot of dough. Maybe pay off a gambling debt.” Kincaid’s look was pointed; there were a number of casinos along the coast, and they brought with them the requisite casino issues, including gambling, loan-sharking, alcoholism. “Or maybe just pay off his new ATV. I don’t know. Thing is, for this guy, ten grand is enough, especially for a day’s work.”
“Day’s work?”
“Yeah, which brings me to point two: our UNSUB, he’s not sophisticated enough for a big operation. He needs something quick and easy. So instead of, say, identifying a target, tailing her for days, and then trying to figure out how to kidnap her from her home or at work, he goes with a crime of opportunity. Something easy. Say, a woman, who may have been drinking, pulled over in her car in the middle of the night.
“Of course, not knowing who this woman is or anything about her background, how can he make contact? Simple, use the local paper. And maybe in this case, we weren’t moving fast enough—I don’t know—so he decides to make direct contact as well. We’re still not talking anything that complicated. He has the victim’s cell phone, he uses a voice distorter any idiot can buy from Radio Shack. Boom, done.
“Now, if he’s watched any movies at all, he knows the first thing that’s required in these cases is proof of life. Well, he’s making this all up on the fly, so again, how to communicate? Hey, I know, bury it in the middle of a cemetery. That’ll get the job done, plus he can have a good chuckle, picturing a fine, handsome state detective trying desperately not to dig up any bones. God knows I’m gonna have to laugh about it.
“Then the UNSUB introduces a few deadlines, ’cause this yokel can’t afford for things to get drawn out. He sends the note before five p.m. the day before to ensure we’re called first thing in the morning. Gives us a deadline to find proof of life, to make sure we’re moving. I bet you now, we get to the cemetery, and we’ll find the drop details for the money, along with another deadline, in probably one, two hours. H
ell, it’ll probably include another map. Stick money beneath tombstone A, find a map to tree B, where we’ll find the girl.
“Quick, clean, and not a bad way to make ten grand.” Kincaid whipped the envelope off the glass, picked up the duplicates, and closed up the copy machine. “Now let me ask you something: Do you have ten grand?”
“Yes.”
“Would you pay it to ransom your estranged wife?”
Quincy didn’t bat an eye. “Yes.”
“There you go. It’s gonna be a good day. Let’s go hunt a fox.”
“I don’t think it’s about money,” Quincy insisted quietly.
“More rampant paranoia?”
“Maybe. But I know something you don’t know.”
“And what’s that, Mr. Profiler Man?”
“I know who the Fox is.”
9
Tuesday, 9:45 a.m. PST
DOUGIE WAS OUT IN THE WOODS. Dougie was always out in the woods. He didn’t mind the rain, the wind, the cold. Outside was good. Outside meant trees and pine needles and green moss that felt nice to the touch, but didn’t always taste so good. This morning, he’d tried three different shades of moss. One had tasted like dirt. One had tasted like tree bark. The third had made his mouth tingle curiously.
He hadn’t eaten any more of the third.
Now, Dougie was excavating the remains of a dead tree. The thick trunk had fallen probably ages ago, at least before Dougie had been born. Now it was a great, big rotted-out log, sprouting interesting fungus and housing loads of bugs. Dougie had a stick. He was digging, digging, digging. The more he dug, the more interesting bugs ran out.
Dougie was seven. At least that’s what people told him. He didn’t remember his birthday. Maybe sometime in February. His first “second family” had made up a date for him, his “homecoming day.” That had been in February, and they’d fed him cake and ice cream.
His first second family had been okay. At least he couldn’t remember anything bad. But one day the lady in the purple suit had arrived and told him to pack his bag. He was going to a new second family, but don’t worry, they would love him lots, too.
“Dougie,” the lady in the purple suit had told him quietly when they were out the front door, “you can’t play with matches like that; it makes people nervous. Promise me, no more matches.”
Dougie had shrugged. Dougie had promised. While behind them, the garage of his first second family’s home lay in smoldering ruins.
The second second family hadn’t celebrated birthdays or “homecoming days.” They hadn’t celebrated much of anything. His new mom had a thin, stern face. “Idle hands are the devil’s playmate,” she’d tell him, right before ordering him to scrub the floor or scour the dishes.
Dougie didn’t like doing chores. That meant being in a house and Dougie didn’t like being inside. He wanted to be outside. In the trees. Where he could smell the dirt and leaves. Where there was no one around to look at him funny or whisper about him behind his back.
He’d made it three weeks with his second second family. Then he’d simply waited until they went to sleep, went out to the fireplace, and had a ball with the great big long matches. Those suckers could burn.
He still remembered the shocked look on his new mama’s face when she came tearing out of her bedroom. “Do I smell smoke? Oh my God, is that a fire? Dougie! What have you done, you evil devil’s spawn!”
His second second mom slept in the nude. So did his second second dad. The fire people had giggled about that when they’d arrived at the scene. Then they’d seen him, sitting up in the branches of the giant oak tree, listening to the house snap, crackle, pop. They’d stopped, pointed, and stared.
He’d gone to a boys’ home after that. A center for “troubled youths,” they’d told him. But the lady in the purple suit had appeared again. Dougie was too young for such a facility, he’d heard her say. Dougie still had a chance.
Dougie didn’t know what that meant. He simply packed his bag and trotted along to the next home. This house had been near the town. No woods, no park, not even a decent yard. Dougie had discovered only one perk in this tiny house, overrun by all sorts of new brothers and sisters, who weren’t brothers and sisters at all, but just other kids who hated one another: The house was only a block from the convenience store.
Dougie learned to steal. If they were going to keep all the matches out of his reach, stealing was second best. He started out small. Twinkies, doughnuts, the little penny candies they kept down near the floor. The kind of stuff no one really noticed. The first time, he brought his loot home, and one of his “sisters” took it from him. When he complained, she socked him in the eye. Then she sat there and ate all his candy while his eye swelled shut.
Dougie learned his lesson. He found a loose brick in the back of the gas station, and that’s where he stashed his loot. It was good to have your own supply of food, you know. Sometimes, just looking at all the stuff, he would feel his tummy rumble. There was hunger and there was hunger, and already Dougie understood that he was hungrier than most.
The store owner caught him one day, his pockets bulging with Ho Hos and apple pies. The owner had twisted his ear. Dougie had cried and surrendered the goods. “I’ll never do it again,” he promised, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. More candy fell out of his coat sleeve.
And that was it for home number three.
The lady in the purple suit decided Dougie needed more attention. A home with that many kids hadn’t been the right kind of home for Dougie. He needed a hands-on approach. Maybe with a Positive Male Role Model.
Dougie went to home number four, where he was excitedly introduced to his ten-year-old “big brother,” Derek. Derek was in Boy Scouts, Derek played Pop Warner football, Derek was a “great kid” and he’d be a good influence on Dougie.
Derek had waited until the lights were out, then he’d taken Dougie all over the house.
“See that chair, little boy? That’s my chair.” Derek belted him in the stomach.
“See that ball, little boy? That’s my ball.” Three fingers to a kidney.
“See that Xbox? That’s my Xbox.” A karate chop across the neck.
Dougie had lasted longer at this house. Mostly because he was scared to leave his bed at night. But one day, Derek went to spend a weekend at his grandma’s house. Dougie got up promptly at one a.m. He started in the bedroom. Peeling the sheets off Derek’s bed, pulling the clothes from Derek’s drawers, dragging the toys out of Derek’s closet. He took the chair. The ball. The Xbox.
He built one helluva pile in the front yard. And then, being more experienced now, he found the gas can and started spraying. One little light and whoosh!
Dougie lost both eyebrows and most of his bangs. He was also summarily whisked off the premises by the lady in the purple suit, who was having a hard time yelling at a child who looked perpetually surprised with all the hair seared from his face.
Dougie had been in BIG TROUBLE.
This was going in his FILE. No one would touch him now. Didn’t he want a FAMILY? Didn’t he want a CHANCE? How COULD he?
He could because he did and he would again. He knew that. The lady in purple knew that. Dougie liked fire. He liked the fiery spark of a match. He liked the way the flame gobbled up the little paper stick, then licked at his fingertips. It hurt. He’d seared his fingertips countless times, even blistered the palm of his hand. Fire hurt. But it wasn’t a bad sort of pain. It was real. It was honest. It was fire.
Dougie liked it.
And now, here he was. Living with the Carpenters. Good people, the lady in the purple suit had told him. Honest, hardworking. They’d specifically asked for a problem child (“Heaven help them,” the woman in the purple suit had murmured), so maybe they would know what to do with him. His new second father, Stanley, was reported to be very good with boys. Assistant football coach at the high school. Grew up with four brothers himself.
Maybe he would be the one to finally take Doug
ie in hand.
Dougie’s new bedroom in his fifth second home contained only a mattress. If he wanted sheets, Dougie was informed, he had to earn them. If he wanted blankets, he had to earn them. If he wanted toys, ditto.
The wall in the kitchen contained an elaborate chart. Perform a chore, score a point. Ask for something politely, score a point. Do as he was told, score a point.
Curse, lose a point. Talk back, lose a point. Break a rule, lose a point. So on and so forth.
His new parents weren’t taking any chances either. No matches, no gasoline, no lighter fluid anywhere on the property. ’Least, not that Dougie had been able to find. ’Course, his searching time was limited. Every evening, come seven p.m., he was escorted to his room and locked in.
First night, he got up at three a.m. and peed in the closet. In the morning, Stanley had simply handed him a sponge and escorted him back to his room.
“You can use the sponge, or you can use your tongue, but you will clean that up, Dougie. Now get busy.”
Stanley had stood there the entire time, big, muscley arms crossed over a big, muscley chest. Dougie had cleaned. At least the next night they left him a bucket.
Dougie waited till midnight, then flipped over the bucket and used it to climb up to the window. His new “role model” dad had already nailed it shut.
Stanley was a thinker. So, however, was Dougie.
Dougie invested a whole three days into his next project. Yes, ma’am, I’ll do the dishes. Yes, ma’am, I’ll eat carrots. Yes, ma’am, I’ll brush my teeth. In return, he gained a sheet and the small art kit that he’d specifically requested.
Night five, he was standing on his bucket, using a pen cap from the art kit to slowly and methodically wiggle out each nail. Took him until four a.m., but he got it. And then, for two whole weeks he could come and go as he pleased. They locked Dougie in his room, and quick as a wink, he was gone again, heading for the woods, or slogging into town in search of matches. Third week, however, Stanley caught him.