Gone

by Lisa Gardner

  The sheriff confirmed that Dougie Jones had not been magically found overnight. Her deputies had also narrowed the persons of interest down to an even dozen.

  Candi accepted a profile of each person, complete with bullet points. Lieutenant Mosley supplied her with a tray filled with bottled water. He looked the most alert of all of them, with his buzz-cut hair, crisply pressed state trooper uniform, and camera-ready face. He had arrived with a dozen copies of the Bakersville Daily Sun, the morning edition blaring news of the kidnapping across the front page: “LOCAL BOY FEARED KIDNAPPED; Police still searching for missing woman.” Next to the banner headline were two photos, a head-and-shoulders shot of Rainie and a school portrait of Dougie.

  It gave Quincy an eerie feeling to see the grainy mug shot of his wife, blown up to huge proportions on the newspaper’s front page. To have her eyes peering back at him.

  Adam Danicic’s story ran three pages. He included Rainie’s name, description, and details concerning the discovery of her car. He mentioned the task force, their desire to work with the kidnapper, and their fear that a local boy had also been kidnapped. Then, much to Quincy’s dismay, Danicic included bits and pieces from Rainie’s past, including her former position with the Bakersville Sheriff’s Department, and that she’d “recently” been found innocent of killing Lucas Bensen when she was sixteen years of age.

  “Which pieces of this story did we control?” Quincy asked wryly, after skimming the article.

  “No mention of the maps nor proof of life,” Mosley replied seriously, ticking off his fingers. “Oh, and Danicic was kind enough not to mention that Dougie Jones was probably kidnapped because we fucked up. I give him some credit for that.”

  “He sold out Rainie easily enough.”

  “We couldn’t stop him from using her name. And once he’s included her full name . . .”

  “Everything about her is just an Internet search away,” Quincy murmured.

  “Danicic isn’t an idiot. The fact that the victim is former law enforcement with a troubled past makes for a great story. On the other hand, he left out that she was serving as Dougie’s advocate, which did us a slight favor.”

  “Give with one hand, take away with another.”

  “It’s a game,” Mosley said with a shrug. “The media are the biggest players around. Speaking of which . . .” The beeper on the public information officer’s waist was going off for the sixth time in the past thirty minutes. Mosley glanced at the screen, grimaced. “We’re gonna have to talk about a morning briefing. The AP wire has picked up the story, and if my beeper is anything to go by, everyone wants a piece of the action.”

  “Not till after the ransom drop,” Kincaid said immediately.

  “We could use them,” Mosley pushed. “Deliver the profile Mr. Quincy’s developed. Get the public looking for our man.”

  “And scare the UNSUB into thinking he’s going to be caught at any minute, so he might as well kill both victims to cover his tracks.”

  “The longer we go without a briefing, the more the press will dig on their own. And the more they discover on their own, the less I have to bargain with.”

  “Not till after the ransom drop,” Kincaid repeated. And that was the end of the discussion.

  Eight a.m. They fidgeted, reread the UNSUB’s past communications, and in general, worked themselves into a state.

  At nine, Mac took a call on his cell phone. The Portland recruiting branch of the Army confirmed that they had record of Private Andrew Bensen, currently listed as AWOL.

  Quincy offered the information to Kincaid. Kincaid ranted for twenty minutes about Quincy daring to impede an official police investigation by deliberately withholding a vital lead, not to mention the importance of trust in a multijurisdictional investigation. Sheriff Atkins issued an all-points bulletin for a man fitting Bensen’s description. Lieutenant Mosley muttered about the number of press agents who monitored police radios and that they had just added fuel to the fire.

  Then, for the most part, everyone retired to their separate corners and fumed.

  Quincy’s phone sat in the middle of the conference room table. It was hooked to a speakerphone, all incoming calls being recorded and traced—not that anyone held out much hope for locating the origin of the caller. Cell signals bounced off towers in random patterns, making it virtually impossible to trace back a signal. But they went through the motions, because sometimes, that’s all a task force has left.

  Nine fifty-nine a.m.

  The phone rang.

  Candi put on the headset.

  Lieutenant Mosley hit the Record button.

  It began.

  33

  Wednesday, 10:01 a.m. PST

  “THIS IS OFFICER CANDI. Can I help you, sir?”

  The sound of mechanical laughter filled the room. “You sound like a Time-Life operator. What’s next, a free subscription with my twenty grand?”

  “You requested a female officer, and as you can see, we aim to please.” Candi’s voice was easygoing, just a neighborhood girl shooting the breeze. The approach was exactly what they had discussed and immediately it made Quincy nervous. He rose, pacing a small circle, as Candi continued, “Now, personally, I always like to know with whom I’m speaking. As I said, my name is Candi. And yours?”

  “You can call me Bob.”

  “Bob, huh? And here you sound more like an Andy to me.”

  It was a thinly veiled reference to Andrew Bensen. The UNSUB didn’t bite.

  “I want my money,” the caller said. “I get my cash, you get to play a little game. Here’s the deal—”

  “We have the money,” Candi cut in amiably, trying to slow the conversation, exercise her own form of control. “Twenty thousand dollars. In cash. As you requested.”

  “I don’t like to be interrupted,” the caller said. “Interrupt me again, and I will kill the kid. Do you want that on your conscience, Miss Candi? The death of a seven-year-old boy?”

  Candi’s gaze flew to Kincaid. She said evenly, “I’m sorry, Bob. I didn’t mean to offend you. Like I said, I’m here to cooperate.”

  “There is a pay phone on the corner of Fifth and Madison, another at the Wal-Mart on Highway 101, a third at the cheese factory. I assume you know these locations.”

  Kincaid started furiously scribbling down the instructions. Candi said, “Actually, Bob, I’m from out of town, so I might need a little help with this. You said three pay phones, the first being at the corner of Fifth and Madison. Which corner? North, south, east, west? I don’t want to miss it.”

  “You’ll see it.”

  “Okay, Bob, I’ll trust you on that. Now, the second pay phone is at the Wal-Mart. I’m assuming it’s a big Wal-Mart. Can you tell me which entrance?”

  “To the left,” the caller conceded, “as you’re facing it.”

  “All right, and the third phone at the cheese factory?”

  “Right out front.”

  “Thanks, Bob, I appreciate you clarifying things for me. So we’re talking three pay phones: one at the intersection of Fifth and Madison, one at the left-side entrance of Wal-Mart, and one right outside the cheese factory. Those are the phones you’re talking about?”

  “Go.”

  “Sorry? I didn’t catch that.”

  “You have fifteen minutes.”

  Candi glanced back and forth. “You want me to be at three different locations in fifteen minutes? I’m sorry, Bob, I’m trying to help you, but I honestly don’t understand. And to tell you the truth, before I do anything, you know I’m going to need to talk to Rainie and Dougie—”

  Bob didn’t care. “You have fifteen minutes,” he said again.

  Then the connection went dead.

  Wednesday, 10:06 a.m. PST

  CANDI WHIPPED THE HEADSET from her ears. “Well, fuck! He didn’t even give us a chance. No explanation, no proof of life—”

  “Time,” Quincy interrupted crisply.

  “Ten-oh-six.” Kincaid was already writi
ng it down, studying his watch. “Those pay phones are on a linear track, Fifth and Madison being only three minutes from here, then shooting north to the farthest point, the cheese factory, which is probably an eight-minute drive.”

  “Then we have seven minutes for strategy.”

  Quincy turned to Shelly Atkins. “As Candi put it, we’re fucked. We need you to get people in street clothes in unmarked cars to each of those locations right now.”

  “It’s gonna take us longer than that to change—”

  “Got any people still at home?”

  “Five—”

  “Then pull the three closest out of bed and have them drive their personal vehicles to those locations right now.”

  “What do I say—”

  “Now!”

  Shelly went wide-eyed, grabbed the walkie-talkie from her utility belt, and headed for the lobby to contact dispatch.

  “We’re going to need audio on those pay phones.” Kincaid was already thinking out loud. “No way we can tap ’em in fifteen minutes. Walkie-talkie. Kimberly can hold it up to the receiver when he calls and air the conversation for the rest of us. Then we can advise her over a second channel set on her earpiece.” He shook his head. “I don’t get it. Is she supposed to run from phone to phone? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “He’s going to make it impossible,” Kimberly murmured. “He’s seeking an excuse to kill.”

  “We send three officers,” Quincy said flatly. “One to each pay phone. Whoever gets the call takes it from there.”

  “We only have one GPS,” Lieutenant Mosley protested.

  “Then we have a thirty-three percent chance of using it. If not, we do it the old-fashioned way. Follow the contacted officer on the ground and in the air.”

  “Because he certainly won’t notice a chopper,” Kincaid commented dryly.

  “Then on the ground. But we can’t leave a phone uncovered—it’s too dangerous.”

  Kincaid seemed to have reached the same conclusion. “We’ll split the money; that gives each officer some hope of negotiating payment. Of course, now we’re going to need two more duffel bags.”

  “Got ’em,” Mac declared. “Just give me sixty seconds to dump our clothes and they’re yours.” He went running for the parking lot.

  “I’ll take the Fifth and Madison phone,” Kincaid said, ticking off the locations on his fingers. “Detective Spector can do Wal-Mart. Kimberly will handle Tillamook Cheese Factory. That leaves Sheriff Atkins to handle the ground crew, and you”—Kincaid nodded toward Quincy—“to coordinate communication strategy here.”

  “No.”

  “You’re not handling the ransom drop—” Kincaid began.

  “And neither are you or Spector.” Quincy’s gaze went to Detective Grove, then to Kimberly. “The UNSUB’s first request still stands—the officers have to be female. Anyone else will simply piss him off.”

  “I’ll go,” Candi said, rising to her feet.

  Kincaid shot her a look. “Don’t be an idiot. You’re a negotiator—”

  “This is a phone call—”

  “Leading to a ransom drop. It’s walking, not talking. You get to sit back here, listen to the conversation, and advise the others on what to say.”

  “You need three women,” Candi shot back. “I see only two others sitting here.”

  “Knew I shoulda gotten that boob job,” Shelly Atkins spoke up from the doorway.

  “No need on our account,” Kincaid told her crisply. “You get Fifth and Madison, Detective Grove handles Wal-Mart, and Kimberly covers the cheese factory.”

  He checked his watch. “That’s our seven minutes, people. Let’s roll.”

  Wednesday, 10:13 a.m. PST

  FROM KIMBERLY’S PERSPECTIVE, she’d spent the past two hours twiddling her thumbs, only to now have everything happen at once. Mac was throwing money into duffel bags. A deputy was thrusting a walkie-talkie at her. Then Sheriff Atkins yelled at Mitchell to take over the surveillance van while Candi roared across the room for everyone to remember to remain calm.

  Mac hustled Kimberly out the door; she had the farthest to drive, so had the most demands on her time.

  Her last glimpse of her father was Quincy leaning over Candi’s shoulder, spreading out the Tillamook County maps.

  Then Kimberly was in her rental car, Mac slapping her cell phone into her hand.

  “We’ll be right in front of you. Give me thirty seconds, and I’ll call.”

  He went to slam the door. Stopped. Bent down. Gave her a hard, fierce kiss. Then Mitchell was yelling at him to load up and they all hit the road.

  Kimberly had barely made it out of the parking lot when her cell phone rang.

  “We got you on the screen, so the GPS is working nicely,” Mac announced from inside the unmarked white van.

  “Roger.” Kimberly was holding the steering wheel too tight. She forced her hands to relax, reminded herself to use the short drive to breathe deep, pull it all together. Quincy had told them it would get complicated. And this was only the start of it.

  “You’ll need to repeat everything the UNSUB says,” Mac was instructing her over the cell phone. “Walkie-talkies can get distorted; the call may be tough for us to follow.”

  “I know.”

  “If you get the call, I want you to give us a signal. Put your hand behind your back and show us two fingers. Then we’ll know it’s a go.”

  “Two fingers.”

  “Don’t let him fluster you. If he wants his money, he’s going to have to cooperate.”

  “I’ve sat through the same meetings you have, Mac.”

  “If he can’t provide proof of life, you don’t go anywhere, Kimberly. I mean that. There’s no guarantee we’ll be able to track you, there’s no guarantee this guy won’t try to grab another hostage. If you can’t speak directly to Rainie to know she’s okay . . .” Mac let the rest of that thought speak for itself. “Don’t put yourself in danger needlessly,” he said, more quietly. “Protect what your father has left.”

  They were at the intersection now. The van put on its turn signal, made a left. Kimberly drove straight through. She would take the back roads, while Mac and Deputy Mitchell looped around to the front. It would allow her to arrive first and without any sign of a police escort.

  In case the man was watching. In case the man was waiting.

  “The minute we know which phone receives the call,” Mac was saying now, “we’ll rendezvous at that location. Wal-Mart is only a few minutes from the cheese factory, so there’s a good chance we can still get you into play, or even do a quick handoff of the GPS.”

  “Okay.”

  “I don’t know much about Detective Grove, how much experience she’s had. I think it would be better if you could handle things. You know, not just because you have the GPS.”

  “Understood.”

  The van was long out of sight. Mac, going down his road. She, going down hers.

  “I need to go,” she told him.

  “Kimberly . . .”

  “It’s going to be okay, Mac. Everything is going to be okay.”

  Kimberly clicked off the cell phone. Tucked it in the pocket of her jacket. Took a last steadying breath . . .

  The Tillamook Cheese Factory came into view.

  Two minutes and counting. Kimberly parked her car, jumped from the driver’s seat, and ran for the pay phone.

  “Ring,” she urged, under her breath. “Please, just ring.”

  Wednesday, 10:21 a.m. PST

  SHELLY COULDN’T FIND THE DAMN PAY PHONE. She was driving around the block, craning her neck like a lunatic. She’d only lived in the town for the past few months; she was still learning her way around. And hell, who used pay phones anymore anyway? Seemed the whole world had gone cellular, even nine-year-old schoolkids.

  Fuck it. She was burning too much time circling the intersection in her car. She cranked her vehicle up onto Madison Street, parking illegally and too frantic to care. No sign of a backup veh
icle, least not that she could tell.

  Looked like for the moment at least, she was on her own.

  Shelly jogged down to Fifth Street, feeling the weight of her utility belt around her hips, the burden of seven thousand in cash slung over her shoulder. Her palms were sweaty, her breathing harsh. She’d never been in this kind of situation before and sometimes it didn’t matter if you were the sheriff, the boss woman, the leader of the pack. Not knowing was not knowing.

  If Rainie and Dougie lived through this day, that was it. Shelly was going to Paris.

  She arrived at the corner. Still no sign of a damn phone. A trick good ol’ Bob had played to pull the task force apart? She hefted the duffel bag back onto her shoulder and considered her options.

  Then, just as she was starting to hyperventilate, it came to her. The glass doors leading into the diner.

  Shelly wrenched them open and discovered a single phone.

  “Please, God,” Shelly Atkins murmured under her breath, “don’t let it be me.”

  Wednesday, 10:23 a.m. PST

  ALANE GROVE KEPT HER COOL. The Wal-Mart parking lot was crowded and had a lousy layout for a store of its size. She turned in and was promptly blocked by a minivan waiting for a parking space.

  She impatiently counted to twenty; the minivan finally pulled in, only for Alane to find herself face-to-face with one harried mother and three milling kids. Each kid took off in a different direction while the mother stood in the middle of the parking lot and screamed for their return.

  The kids weren’t that impressed with their mother’s tantrum. They dodged two cars and a monster pickup truck before finally being corralled in back of a station wagon.

  Two more minutes ticked by with agonizing slowness, then Alane found a parking spot.

  She got out, trying not to appear too agitated. She was conscious that she might be watched. Aware that as a young, female police officer, she started out with two strikes against her.

  She was a good detective, however. Had joined the force after serving four years in the Army Reserve. She could handle the pressure. At least that’s what she told herself.