by Lisa Gardner
“I would. Do you suppose Rainie and Dougie might be in the area?”
Shelly considered it, then shook her head. “Would be risky. They might call out, even escape. Two people are hard to control.”
“So we pay the money, he retrieves it, and then what? We get a call?”
“Sounds like a newspaper reporter gets a call,” Shelly said drolly. “Or maybe there will be another letter to the editor. With a map.”
“Which, for all we know, will lead us straight to their bodies,” Kimberly muttered bitterly. “I don’t like this. We’re following all his orders, with no game plan of our own. It’s bad policing.”
“Got a better idea?”
“No.”
“Well then . . .” Shelly gestured toward the lighthouse.
Kimberly scowled, glanced at her watch, and hefted the duffel bag over her shoulder. But then, at the last minute, she did have an idea.
She threw down the bag, unzipped it, and stuck her GPS monitor into a stack of bills.
“You sure?” Shelly asked sharply, the hidden dangers implicit in her question. Such as the minute Kimberly stepped into the lighthouse, she was vulnerable to abduction herself. Such as without the GPS on her person, they would have no means of finding her. Such as they still had no idea what the kidnapper’s true agenda was, therefore hurting another law enforcement officer might be just his thing.
“I want to get him,” Kimberly said firmly.
“Then I got you covered,” Shelly said solemnly. The sheriff unsnapped her holster. Removed her gun.
Five minutes to one, Kimberly rounded the boulder. She looked left, looked right.
“Here goes nothing,” she murmured to no one in particular.
She entered the lighthouse.
Wednesday, 12:52 p.m. PST
“WE KNOW ABOUT THE MONEY,” Quincy said.
Peggy Ann Boyd sat on the edge of the bed in her tiny studio apartment, looking at him with a frown on her face. Candi had taken up position next to the door, arms crossed over her chest to make her six-foot frame appear even more imposing.
“I don’t know about any money,” Peggy Ann said. “Do you have any word on Dougie?”
“When did you figure out that Stanley was Dougie’s biological father, that’s what I would like to know,” Quincy continued. “Did Dougie’s mother tell you? Woman confiding to woman? Or did Stanley tell you himself, once he heard that Gaby Jones was dead?”
Peggy Ann’s eyes went wide. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said primly. But the young social worker was a terrible liar. Already her gaze was locked upon the carpet, her fingers fidgeting on her lap.
Quincy knelt down until he was eye level with the woman. He regarded her for so long, she had no choice but to meet his stare.
“Once upon a time, you must have cared for Dougie. He was only four years old when his mother died. Such a young, defenseless boy. He needed someone to look out for him, someone to find him a home. He needed you, Peggy Ann. And Gaby needed you. Someone to save her boy.”
Very quietly, Peggy Ann started to cry.
“When did you figure out Stanley was Dougie’s father?” Quincy repeated firmly.
“I didn’t. Not at first. Gaby had implied it was someone at the high school. But I had always assumed a teenage boy. You know, the high school quarterback who knocks up the cheerleader but doesn’t want to make good. It wasn’t until Stanley attended the funeral, the way he looked at Dougie . . . as if he were a dying man and Dougie represented his last hope to live. I started to wonder. But Stanley never said anything, and I certainly had no evidence. Plus, then the Donaldsons came along and they were such great candidates it seemed best to give the boy to them. I was sure Dougie would have a good home.”
“Until he burned it down.”
“Until he burned it down. I approached Stanley then. I asked him point-blank if he knew anything about Dougie’s father. I even bluffed, said I knew for certain it was someone from the football team. He said he didn’t know, but that Gaby used to hang out at the practices so maybe it was true. He couldn’t help me though. He didn’t know anything more than that. Then he slammed the door in my face.
“So I found Dougie another home, what else could I do? And then I found a home after that. Except now I started visiting the high school, watching the practices. Trying to learn about past players, looking at pictures of boys on the team. Trying to see anybody who might look like Dougie, because it was becoming clear to me that I had to find the boy’s father.”
Quincy was frowning. This was not quite how he’d expected the story to go. “Then what happened?”
“One evening, I found Coach Carpenter—Stanley—in his office. I told him Dougie had gotten into trouble again. I told him the boy would most likely be sent to a detention home now. I told him Dougie didn’t have any hope left. And I begged him. I begged him for information about Dougie’s father and I told him how much Gaby loved that boy and how happy he’d once been. . . . And I started to cry. Blubber like a lunatic. Because I wasn’t bluffing, Mr. Quincy.” Peggy Ann looked at him earnestly. “Dougie had a documented history of arson. In the world of child services, he was done. Washed up at the age of six. By the next week, he’d be shipped out to a boys’ home, where older, more experienced delinquents could teach him new tricks. In between the beatings, of course. And sexual abuse. I’ve been to those homes. I know what goes on there.”
“Stanley caved?”
“Stanley told me he was the boy’s father. Just like that. And then he said, very gravely, that he’d been a coward long enough. Dougie was his.”
“Say what?” Candi quizzed from the doorway. She’d unfolded her arms. She was looking back and forth between Peggy Ann and Quincy, as if waiting for one of them to say something that made sense. Quincy couldn’t blame her. He was waiting for it all to make sense as well.
“I didn’t believe Stanley at first,” Peggy Ann offered. “I thought he was just trying to do a nice thing. Or maybe get a hysterical female out of his office. I wrung some half-assed promise from him to take Dougie. By the next morning, however, I’d already figured that was it, he’d forget the whole thing. Instead, he showed up at my office bearing a family album. He presented an old grade-school photo, and by God, he was the spitting image of Dougie, no doubt about it. I . . . I never would have guessed.”
“So that’s when he offered you the money to keep quiet,” Quincy tried.
Peggy Ann frowned at him. “What money? He offered to take Dougie. That’s what I cared about. He and Laura gave the boy a home.”
Candi and Quincy exchanged glances again. “Stanley Carpenter got an underage girl pregnant, and you left it at that?” Quincy pressed.
Peggy Ann shrugged miserably. “Gaby was dead, so it’s not like she could press charges. And Stanley was trying to do right by his son. What else could I ask for?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” declared Candi. “Aren’t there procedures you have to follow? Tell me you don’t let statutory rapists get by with a shrug and a handshake.”
“Of course there are procedures. And normally, I would contact the police. But again, Gaby’s dead. And frankly, I’m not trying to save Gaby, I’m trying to save Dougie. I contact the police, and the father I’ve spent three years trying to find becomes immediately off-limits. Or I say nothing about Gaby’s age, and instead just declare that Stanley is Dougie’s biological father. In which case, he takes a paternity test, fills out about approximately ten million forms, and waits about another three years for everything to grind through the legal system. Or there’s option C. I say nothing at all, about anything, Stanley applies to become a foster father, and Dougie gets placed immediately. Which, frankly, does both Dougie and Stanley a lot more good.”
“Which I’m sure Stanley encouraged,” Quincy murmured, “as it let him off the hook for everything.”
“I wouldn’t say his wife let him off the hook,” Peggy Ann said drolly. “Laura’s a lot tougher
than she looks. But sure, I don’t think Stanley wanted to air all of his dirty laundry for the community. Frankly, I didn’t care. Child services is a system, Mr. Quincy. It’s a human system and that’s what I tried to navigate.”
“Miss Boyd,” Quincy said, “Stanley has been paying out two thousand dollars a year since Dougie was born. If he wasn’t paying that money to you, then who was receiving the funds?”
“I have no idea.”
“He never offered you money in return for silence?”
“I didn’t want money! I wanted a home for Dougie, and Stanley stepped up to the plate.”
“What about Dougie’s allegations of abuse?” Candi asked with a frown.
“I brought in a child advocate immediately. But I have to tell you the truth: I don’t think Stanley would hurt Dougie. You had to see his face when he told Dougie he was taking him home. Stanley was weeping. His hands were shaking. He was that moved at finally having his son. Now, Dougie on the other hand . . .”
“Not so excited?”
“I swear to God, he was already searching for matches. Stanley didn’t tell Dougie that he was his biological father, for the record—he thought that might be too much. He wanted them to get to know each other first. And I understand that his tough-love approach looks harsh, but he consulted experts for the best way to deal with a boy as angry and troubled as Dougie. From everything I’ve seen, Stanley is a committed father. Slow to find that commitment, granted, but really, truly there. He wants this to work. His wife can’t have children, you know. Dougie is the only son he’s ever going to get.”
“I have a headache,” Quincy said.
Peggy Ann regarded him curiously. “Do you want some aspirin?”
“No, what I want is to know how many people knew Stanley was Dougie’s father.”
“I know. Rainie knows—”
“She found out?” Quincy asked abruptly.
“She came to me with the news about a month ago. I think she’d been suspecting it for a while. She wondered if I knew. I said yes. She let it go at that.”
“Did Stanley know that she knew?”
“I have no idea. You’d have to ask him.”
Quincy arched a brow. He’d love to ask Stanley. Unfortunately, the man still hadn’t been located, and it was now two minutes before one p.m.
He leaned down again, tone urgent. “Did Rainie say anything else? About the abuse, Dougie, Laura, anything?”
Peggy Ann seemed bewildered. “No. But she played things pretty close to her chest. Though . . . well, of course, there was one other person who knew.”
“Tell me!”
“Dougie. Maybe Stanley said something to him or maybe he figured it out on his own. But I think he realized that Stanley was his father, and that by definition, Stanley had abandoned his mother. In my personal opinion,” Peggy Ann said carefully, “that’s why Dougie came up with the allegations of abuse. Dougie hates Stanley’s guts. He’d do anything to hurt him, including put him in jail.”
“Or befriend the wrong person,” Quincy filled in with a frown. He backed away from Peggy Ann, pinching the bridge of his nose. He could feel the bits of information churning around in his mind, fragmented pieces of one whole. Stanley Carpenter fathered a child out of wedlock. He had kept the secret for seven years, but just as others started to figure it out—his wife, Peggy Ann Boyd, Rainie, Dougie himself—two of those people disappeared. Dougie, because the boy was too much trouble? Rainie, because she was a court-appointed child advocate who was legally bound to tell the truth?
But what about Laura, what about Peggy Ann? It didn’t feel quite right. He couldn’t believe Rainie’s and Dougie’s kidnappings weren’t related to Stanley Carpenter, and yet the puzzle still refused to come into focus. He was missing something.
The two thousand dollars. If Peggy Ann wasn’t blackmailing Stanley, then who was?
“Does Stanley have a ‘special place’?” Quincy asked at last. “I don’t know, maybe a hunting cabin, or a spot in the woods he likes to go when he needs to think?”
“Why would I know a thing like that?” Peggy Ann said primly.
“Well, Miss Boyd, so far you seem to know more about Stanley than anyone else.”
The social worker flushed. Her gaze fell again, her hands fidgeted.
“I don’t need to know if you’re sleeping with him, Miss Boyd—”
“I would never!”
“I just need to know where he is.”
“He has a fishing cabin,” she said at last. “In Garibaldi. It’s hard to describe. Maybe I could draw a map.”
“Yes,” Quincy said slowly, “by all means, let’s use a map.”
Wednesday, 12:59 p.m. PST
QUINCY AND CANDI WERE out the door, climbing into Quincy’s car, when Quincy’s cell phone rang.
“Where the hell are you?” asked Kincaid.
“Hunting down Stanley Carpenter. You?”
“At Jenkins’s place, identifying Alane Grove.”
Quincy paused, caught himself, then put his key in the ignition. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
“Not half as sorry as her parents will be. Why the hell aren’t you at the command center?”
“Candi discovered a new lead: Stanley Carpenter is Dougie’s biological father. We came to talk to Peggy Ann Boyd.” Quincy rattled off a quick summary of events, including a request to issue an APB for Stanley Carpenter. Then he glanced at his watch: 1:02 p.m. Damn.
“I gotta go. Don’t want to miss a call from Kimberly.”
“Quincy—”
But Quincy had already flipped shut his phone and was putting his car into gear.
“Just out of curiosity,” Candi asked, “why are we still pursuing Stanley Carpenter if he wasn’t paying off Peggy Ann Boyd? Seems to eliminate his motive.”
“One, because he was still paying two grand a year to someone. Two, because by all accounts, he wanted to keep his parenthood secret. And three, because it’s the only lead we have.”
“That works for me,” Candi declared. “Let’s go fishing.”
They hit the road.
Wednesday, 1:00 p.m. PST
RAINIE’S HANDS WERE SHAKING. She was trying to wield Dougie’s belt as a lock pick, the metal tongue wedged between two fingers as she worked the doorknob again.
The belt slipped, gouging the wood door and twisting her elbow. She dropped the leather, swore savagely, and fished around in the depths.
The water, past her knees, reached for her waist.
Rainie shook Dougie’s arm one last time.
“Dougie,” she said quietly, “get ready to take a deep breath.”
43
Wednesday, 1:03 p.m. PST
KIMBERLY HAD WATCHED TOO MANY horror movies. She was keenly aware of the preternatural silence lingering inside the abandoned lighthouse. The way the floor felt soft, almost mushy beneath her feet, while the shadows reached dark tendrils into every corner, sending shivers up her spine.
The front door had swollen with age and moisture. She’d had to put her shoulder into it, until it gave with an unnatural shriek. Once inside the gloom, she hardly felt better about things. The low ceiling seemed to press against the top of her head. With no windows on the lower level, the only light filtered down the outer wall from the staircase twisting up to the glass tower. Kimberly found herself holding her breath, listening for footsteps sneaking down those stairs, or maybe for a dark, hulking figure to materialize out of a shadowed corner.
Shelly was outside watching. Mac was listening over her cell phone. She was not alone. She was not alone.
She had her gun out, pressed against her right thigh. She carried the money over her left shoulder.
The wind gusted through. She heard the moaning creak of the lighthouse twisting, the tinkle of broken glass falling somewhere upstairs. She came to a halt, ears strained.
Another gusting wind. The door blew shut behind her, the slamming echo making her nearly jump out of her skin.
; Kimberly put down the duffel bag. She forced her hand to stop shaking long enough for her to study the crude map. Shelly had been right. The X seemed to be toward the left by the bottom of the stairs.
Then she saw the box.
It was small, wooden. Not to be coy about things, the UNSUB had painted a giant red X on its lid. She gingerly peered in but it was too dark to see the bottom.
She paused one last time, looking around the small, gloomy space. Maybe there were cameras mounted in the corners? Or a man waiting upstairs?
She felt something brush her shoulder. Jumped. Nearly screamed. Just the edge of the rising staircase, which she had drifted back into. She was spooking herself out, no better than a kid getting all goosebumped at the local horror show. Enough was enough.
She returned to the box. Opened the lid. Crossed herself, because imminent danger brought out the religion in anyone. Then tossed the bag in.
Pop. Crack. Blinding flash.
Kimberly flung her arms in front of her face, stumbling back reflexively.
“What the hell . . .”
She felt it before she saw it. The lighthouse had started to burn.
Wednesday, 1:05 p.m. PST
MAC HEARD IT OVER THE CELL PHONE. Sounded like a small explosion, then the telltale crackle of wood.
“Kimberly? What’s happening? Are you okay?”
But before he could get a reply, Deputy Mitchell was pointing excitedly at the screen. “We got movement. Due west.”
“She can’t be going west,” Mac countered with a frown. “We’re on the edge of a cliff. Due west—”
“Is an ocean. She’s in a boat!” Mitchell declared.
Mac was back on his cell phone. “Kimberly—”
“I’m here, I’m here,” she suddenly came over the airwaves, then paused in a fit of coughing. “I’m in the lighthouse.”
“But the monitor—”
“Shows you the money.”
“Kimberly, what did you do?”
“I don’t know,” she answered in a small voice. “But, Mac, I have a problem. He must have rigged the drop box, because when I deposited the money, it set off a small explosion. Now the lighthouse is on fire. Mac . . . I can’t get out.”