The FBI Profiler Series 6-Book Bundle

by Lisa Gardner

  That was the first time Rainie had begun to wonder about Stanley Carpenter, to think that perhaps Dougie really was telling the truth. The lack of physical evidence remained puzzling, however. If Stanley was beating his foster son, shouldn’t Dougie have bruises?

  A few weeks ago, however, she’d had a startling insight into that riddle. It was shortly thereafter that Dougie had started to hate her in earnest.

  “I can’t find any rocks,” she said now. “You?”

  “Nope.” Dougie started splashing around the wet floor instead. It kept him distracted and, hopefully, warm.

  “Seems odd,” Rainie murmured. “In a basement, you’d think you’d find all sorts of stuff. Discarded tools, old toys, forgotten debris. Guess our friend did his housekeeping.”

  Dougie stopped splashing. Across the dim space, she could see him scowl.

  “Dougie,” Rainie said quietly, “you know I used to be a police officer, right? I’m trained for these kinds of situations. I’m going to get us out.”

  “You’re hurt.”

  “You don’t need hair to escape from a basement,” Rainie said lightly.

  Dougie’s gaze dropped to her arms. He had felt the cuts, then, and he had understood.

  “This is what we’re going to do,” Rainie declared briskly. “We’re going to break those lightbulbs. Then, we’re going to bang real hard on that door and demand food and water and some warm clothes. We’re going to make such a fuss, he’ll have no choice but to open the door. And then, we’re going to play a little game of hide-and-seek.”

  “I don’t like hide-and-seek.”

  “But this is a good game, Dougie. The man is going to come looking for us, and we’re going to run away from him. We’ll be ghosts, flitting back and forth, quicker than the eye. Before he knows it, you’ll go dashing up the stairs, boom, boom, boom. Once you’re at the top, I want you to run as fast as you can. Out of this house, to the closest neighbor you can find. Then all you have to do is ask them to call the police, and they’ll take it from there.”

  Dougie was not an idiot. “If I were the man, I’d bring a gun,” he declared. “Definitely, I’d have at least one gun. And maybe a snake.”

  “The man and his gun—and his snake—are my problem, Dougie. You, I just want focused on running up the stairs.”

  “I like snakes.”

  “All right, here’s the deal: If he brings a snake, you can tackle the snake. But if he brings a gun, then you run for the stairs. Swear it?”

  Dougie considered her offer. Finally, he nodded. He spit on his palms, rubbed them together. Rainie spit on her palms, rubbed them together. They shook, Dougie’s version of a solemn vow. They had done it once before, when Dougie had offered to show her his stash of secret treasures and she had sworn never to tell anyone its location.

  She still remembered that afternoon. The gray mist shrouding the moss-covered trees. The gnarled old oak with a hollowed-out knot just the right size for a metal lunch box. The impassive look on Dougie’s face as he took out his mother’s charred photo, her soot-covered rosary.

  “My mom’s dead,” Dougie had said, the only time he’d ever spoken of her in Rainie’s presence. “So I live with other families. Until I burn things. People don’t like that.”

  “Why did you set fire to your mother’s photo, Dougie? I think that would make her very sad.”

  “My mother’s dead,” Dougie repeated, as if Rainie didn’t understand. “Dead people don’t feel anything. Dead people aren’t sad.”

  Then he looked Rainie right in the eye and tore his mother’s picture in half. Rainie got the message: In Dougie’s world, dead people were the lucky ones. But she was willing to bet that if she snuck back to his treasure trove later in the week, she’d find the battered photo taped back together. Because Dougie still belonged to the land of the living, and he still felt things, no matter how much he hated it.

  Now, she and Dougie retreated to the staircase. With no ammunition to throw at the light, there was only one other thing she could think to do.

  “Dougie, if you sat on my shoulders, do you think you could reach those bulbs?”

  Dougie’s eyes lit up in the dark. “Yes!”

  “We’ll take the cotton strips,” Rainie decided, “and wrap them around your hands. You get on my shoulders, and then with your fists, see if you can either break the bulbs or wiggle them out of there.”

  “Yes!”

  Of course, without use of their hands, getting Dougie on her shoulders was easier said than done. Dougie balanced on the top step. She stood three steps beneath him. He spread his legs. She leaned down and eased him back onto her shoulders.

  Very slowly, she straightened. With her arms bent at the elbow, she could just grab his ankles. Her bound wrists, however, limited her movement, making it impossible to counter every motion he made. She had an image of Dougie leaning back too far and both of them crashing down the flight of stairs.

  She almost said something, but at the last minute held her tongue. Dougie was unpredictable during the best of times; she didn’t want to give him any ideas.

  He shimmied a bit from side to side on her shoulders, trying to get comfortable.

  “Okay,” he called down.

  Very carefully, she climbed to the top. “Well?” she asked breathlessly, neck aching, legs wobbling.

  “I can touch them!” Dougie reported triumphantly.

  “Then let’s do it.”

  She could feel him stretching up, his body reaching into the black void above them. For a moment, the weight eased off her shoulders and she realized he must be half hanging from the metal grill. She heard creaking, then a load of dust wafted down. Rainie bit her bottom lip to fight the sneeze.

  “It’s … stuck,” Dougie gasped.

  “Then break the bulbs. Just smash them with your fingers. It doesn’t have to be pretty. But, Dougie … hurry up.”

  The strange, painful sensation was returning to her left side, as if electrical currents were ping-ponging madly down her leg. Her left knee spasmed, and for a moment, she feared it would buckle, her entire leg collapsing. She gritted her teeth, fought through the pain. Just this once, for God’s sake. Just this once …

  She could feel moisture on her arms. The knife wounds had opened; she’d started to bleed.

  Then, the light tinkle of shattering glass.

  “I got ’em!” Dougie punched through the first bulb, then the second.

  “Oh, thank God.” She eased down one step, then another, collapsing forward and depositing the boy above her. “Good work! Now we just need to—”

  The basement door opened. Rainie had an instant impression of dazzling light, haloing a figure in black. She squinted reflexively, throwing up her arms to shield her eyes.

  “Holy shit!” the man said.

  And Rainie heard herself scream, “Dougie, run!”

  She threw herself up the stairs, shoulder connecting with the door just as the man came to his senses and moved to slam it shut. For an agonizing moment, she was suspended on the top step, leaning precariously forward as the door weighed against her. Her eyes were shut, retinas burning from the sudden brightness after living for so long in the dark. She could feel movement against her legs, Dougie scrambling forward.

  The weight behind the door suddenly disappeared. She crashed, staggering forward.

  As swiftly as it came, the light was gone. The man flipped off the switch and fled down the hall.

  “Dougie,” Rainie called out urgently. But there was no answer.

  She groped her way to the wall, trying to get her bearings. When she opened her eyes, her vision was studded with white dots.

  No lights, she thought. At this stage of the game, light was not her friend.

  Instead, she once more embraced the dark, starting to pick out the rectangular shape of a window, two box appliances. A washer and dryer, she determined. She was in a tiny laundry room, with a door that led down to the basement. And Dougie?

  S
he strained her ears, but still didn’t hear a sound. All she could do was pray that he remembered their game plan, that he was bolting out the front door. He was young, fast, resourceful. If he could get out of the house, he would be okay.

  She moved around the room, finding another door. Locked. She searched for the deadbolt, but couldn’t find one. She didn’t know what that meant.

  Only one way out then, and that was down the hall.

  She got down on her knees and crawled.

  Galley kitchen, she determined. Narrow, with one long window above the sink. No moonlight. Instead, she could hear the steady drum of more rain. Slinking by the stove, she caught a digital display of the time and was momentarily startled. 12:30 a.m. Had she been gone one day? Or two?

  She needed to call Quincy. To tell him she was all right. She would get out of this.

  And then it came to her. What she needed was a knife.

  She wrenched open the nearest cabinet, hands scurrying through the glass contents, and was immediately pinned by a beam of light.

  “Well, well, well. Would you look at this?”

  Rainie turned slowly, her hands already curling around the only weapon she could find. She was staring straight into the beam of a flashlight. Behind it, she could just make out the dark silhouette of the man. At his side, he held a squirming Dougie in place.

  “It’s like I told you, boy,” the man drawled softly. “Woman’s nothing but a drunk.”

  Belatedly, Rainie followed the light, only to discover that she’d stumbled upon the liquor cabinet, and right at this moment, her hand was curled around a bottle of Jim Beam.

  Rainie swallowed hard. She didn’t know what to say. It had been purely accidental. Except, in some small part of her brain, she was terrified that it wasn’t.

  She took a better grip on the bottle. “Let him go,” she said roughly.

  “I don’t think you’re in a position to negotiate.”

  “Sure I am.” Rainie raised the bottle and flung it. The bottle shattered against the flashlight. She heard the man’s enraged roar. She tasted whiskey sprayed across her lips, and it really was sweet and she really did want more.

  She sprang forward, grabbed Dougie’s startled form, and bolted for the door. She made it two steps, and the man’s foot connected with her left knee. She went down hard, feeling something twist, then tear. Frantically her hands swept across the floor, searching for a weapon, a handhold, anything. She found only shattered glass.

  “Dougie, run!”

  But once again, it was over before it began. The man grabbed Dougie’s arms and jerked him up short. Dougie protested savagely, beating at their attacker. He was only fifty pounds, however, no match for an adult.

  “Let me go!” Dougie howled.

  The man belted Dougie in the side of the face. The boy crumpled. Then it was just the man, smiling down at Rainie.

  She dragged herself up to all fours. She didn’t know why. Her knee was wrecked, her running days were over. But she could still crawl. She got her head up. She lurched forward.

  The man kicked her in the chin.

  And Rainie dropped like a rock, tasting the blood and booze. Get up, get up, she thought frantically. Do something.

  But her head felt too heavy. Her leg throbbed. She had nothing left.

  The man dropped to one knee beside her.

  “Rainie,” he whispered in her ear, “I’m really, really going to enjoy this.”

  He yanked her to her feet. Pain tore through her leg. She had one final thought and it made her smile—she was going to have the last laugh after all.

  Then she passed out cold, leaving the man furious and all alone.

  32

  Wednesday, 4:28 a.m. PST

  Quincy had set his alarm for five. He rose at four thirty instead, threw on nylon shorts, a runner’s shirt, and lightweight jacket, then hit the road. He ran for three miles down the twisty back road where he and Rainie lived. Rain pelted his face, rolled down his cheeks, splashed his legs.

  His sides ached. His stomach rumbled. He ran down the empty road, around the winding corners. He startled two deer, who responded to his bright yellow coat by crashing into the woods.

  He hit the three-mile marker, swung around and headed back, jogging uphill now and making his legs burn.

  Five fifteen a.m., he was back home and in the shower.

  Five thirty, Supervisory Special Agent Glenda Rodman returned his call. An experienced agent as reserved and overworked as Quincy, she didn’t bother with pleasantries:

  Andrew Bensen had enlisted in the Army three years ago and served one year in Iraq. His unit had been recalled six months ago, but he had failed to show, and was now considered AWOL. She had already spoken to a contact in the Pentagon; they had no leads.

  Andrew was six foot two, brown hair, brown eyes. On his upper left shoulder, he sported an American Chopper tattoo. He liked his Harley and was known to frequent biker bars. His military record had been clean, if unimpressive, before he’d gone AWOL. His fellow grunts liked him, his officers found him to be quick and cooperative. The tour in Iraq had not been great for him. At least one officer noted that Bensen exhibited signs of post-traumatic stress disorder. Bensen, however, had never followed up with his local VA.

  And that’s all she could tell him about Private Andrew Bensen.

  Quincy thanked Glenda for her time, hung up the phone, and got dressed. Navy blue suit, starched white shirt, a Jerry Garcia red, orange, and turquoise tie. Rainie had given him the tie one Christmas as a joke. He wore it anytime he felt he needed luck.

  Five forty-five a.m., he headed for the task force room.

  Kincaid was already there.

  Kimberly was up at five. She showered for what felt like an hour but was probably only five minutes. Her shoulders were already tight, her body pumping with unfocused adrenaline. She felt like going for a run. She harnessed the energy for later, when she would need it most.

  Five twenty, she rolled Mac out of bed. He landed on the floor with an “Oomph” and still refused to open his eyes. She went with the time-honored approach and tickled him. Who knew a grown man could be so ticklish under his chin?

  That, of course, led to some earnest groping on Mac’s part. She swatted his hands away and sent him to shower.

  Alone in the room, she sat on the edge of the bed and once again studied the engagement ring. She put it on, she admired it in the light. She thought of her mother, who hadn’t lived to see this day. And of her older sister, Mandy.

  Then she closed the ring box, hid it in her duffel bag, and packed up her clothes.

  Five fifty, she and Mac were checked out and loading up the car. He wasn’t a morning person, so she did the driving. They had just closed the doors when he started to speak.

  “I’ve been thinking about the Astoria case,” Mac said. “The double murder in August.”

  “The case that upset Rainie.”

  “Exactly. I was wondering if it was purely coincidental that Rainie should be kidnapped after working such a disturbing case.”

  “Unless the fact she’s been so upset made her a more vulnerable target.”

  “It’s possible. I asked your father some questions yesterday.”

  “And?”

  “And they think they know who did it. The victims lived in a duplex maintained by a local kid named Charlie Duncan. Duncan’s a twenty-one-year-old high school dropout. Known for being good with his hands, but not so into bodily hygiene. Lives on his own in a studio apartment in another unit owned by the same landlord. Neighbors consider him to be quiet, if perhaps a little creepy. He has a tendency to show up at female tenants’ units unannounced and let himself in with his master key. The landlord said he’s been working with Duncan on his ‘communication skills.’ ”

  Kimberly rolled her eyes.

  “Here’s the deal,” Mac said. “Duncan’s fingerprints were all over that crime scene. Same with his bloody shoe prints. But he had a built-in alibi—he’s the main
tenance man. Of course his fingerprints are in the unit, and he’s the one who called in the bodies—claimed he discovered them when he went over to change a lightbulb.”

  “Change a lightbulb? Because a young, single mom is so helpless she calls the maintenance man to fix a broken bulb?”

  “The guy’s not brilliant,” Mac conceded, “but he gets the job done. Which makes me wonder, of course, if he hasn’t moved on with his crime spree.”

  “He doesn’t fit the profile,” Kimberly said immediately.

  “He’s lower socioeconomic class, has a connection with Rainie.”

  “You’re assuming he knows she’s involved with the investigation.”

  “Duncan likes to drop by the duplex, remember? Including showing up one day when Rainie and Quincy were reviewing the crime scene. He asked all sorts of questions about the investigation, including their role.”

  “Like they told him anything.”

  “They didn’t have to. Their job is implicit in their presence at the unit. Plus, Rainie is beautiful, which gets any man to pay attention.”

  Kimberly shot him a look.

  “You’re prettier,” he said immediately.

  “Nice save.”

  “Look, Duncan’s not a perfect fit. According to Quincy, we’re looking for a white-trash anal-retentive. Duncan’s clearly not anal-retentive, and way too socially stunted to snag a girlfriend. But still. The guy is smart. Sounds like he’s already getting away with two murders. Maybe we shouldn’t underestimate him.”

  “The murder of the little girl bothers you,” Kimberly said softly.

  “The mom fought hard. She had to know what he’d do next.”

  “It’s a sucky world,” Kimberly murmured.

  “Quincy devised an interview strategy. Tried to trick Duncan into saying what he’d done. Didn’t work. They installed cameras at the grave sites. Nothing. Only hope they have now is if the guy confesses to someone. Unfortunately, the only person Duncan hangs out with is his mom, and apparently, she thinks he walks on water.”