The Third Victim (Quincy / Rainie)

by Lisa Gardner

  “You shouldn’t underestimate yourself, Rainie.”

  “I don’t underestimate myself. I’m simply honest.”

  She watched him take another swig from his beer. He was definitely interested. She could see the light in his eyes. He was reluctant, bemused, but interested. Call her a fool, but it made her smile.

  She leaned forward, sweeping her long hair to one side as she prepared to get serious. “So tell me more, Quincy. We’re here in a bar, a long way from crime scenes, and you’re almost through your first beer. Tell me all the baggage. I like starting with the junk out in the open. It saves time later.”

  “I don’t have interesting baggage.”

  “Everybody does.”

  “No, I just have typical law-enforcement stuff. The ex-wife. The two grown children who barely know I exist. Too much dedication to the job, not enough attention at home. The usual mistakes.”

  “Yeah? So why are you avoiding phones?”

  He jerked, caught off guard. Then he gave her a more measured stare. It pleased her to surprise him. She was beginning to realize that with an academic like him, it was a form of flirtation.

  “I didn’t realize it was that obvious.”

  “Pierce?”

  “Don’t call me that. Only my ex-wife uses my first name. Everyone else calls me Quincy, like the medical examiner from the old TV show. Serial killers and their sense of humor,” he murmured.

  She kept looking at him. He finally set down his beer.

  “One of my daughters,” he said abruptly, “is in the hospital.”

  “Is it serious?”

  “She’s dying. No, that’s not true,” he corrected himself. “She’s dead. She’s been dead for four weeks. Twenty-three years old and involved in such a bad automobile accident that the front windshield carries an imprint of her face. I know. I made the police show it to me.” He looked off in the distance a moment. Rainie was struck by how haggard he appeared. Then how exhausted.

  “Now she lies in a hospital room,” he said quietly, “where machines breathe for her and pump her heart and feed her food, while the rest of us sit by her side day after day, desperate for some miracle to save her. Except that her brain is dead and the machines can’t fix that. The miracles of science take us so far, and yet not nearly far enough.”

  “Jesus. Shouldn’t you be there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, why aren’t you?”

  “Because if I had to spend one more minute sitting in that room, watching that mockery of human life play out in front of me, I was going to lose my mind.” His eyes suddenly glinted with moisture. He brushed it away with the back of his hand and looked at her almost impatiently. “Rainie, my daughter doesn’t have a face anymore. Her vehicle hit a telephone pole going thirty-five miles per hour without her seat belt on. Do you really want to hear how the force of impact pushes a body not just forward but up in the air? That steering-wheel columns are designed to collapse so they won’t crush a person’s chest or internal organs, but that they also can’t halt all the G forces once they’ve been unleashed? How the body keeps going forward, keeps going up. How the person’s skull now slams into the metal frame of the windshield, which isn’t designed to collapse, which isn’t designed to give way? And then comes the nose and face, slamming into the windshield, shattering all those bones, while the skull is driven deeper into the person’s brain. . . .

  “My daughter doesn’t have a head anymore. She has a pulpy mass carefully held in place by staples and thread and miles of fluffy white gauze. The only reason she was even put on life support was that the doctors were waiting for permission to harvest her organs. But now she’s there, a grotesque doll animated purely by machines, and my ex-wife, Bethie, keeps mistaking that for life, so she won’t let go. And I don’t think it’s right. I don’t think there’s any . . . dignity . . . in that. And I don’t think my younger daughter, Kimberly, should have to sit at her sister’s side and listen to her mother and me fight over when to pull the plug. My feelings on the subject are clear. Now it’s up to Bethie to figure out when she can let go.”

  “So you arrived, you gave your expert advice, and you left.”

  Quincy blinked several times. “You know, you could at least pretend not to see through me,” he said at last. “Particularly when you’re sober at the time.”

  He took another swallow of beer, looking as if he needed it now. His bottle was nearly empty. The waitress stopped by to ask him if he wanted a second. He hesitated, his gaze clearly thirsty, but then shook his head.

  “Surprised you didn’t go to whiskey,” Rainie commented.

  “I did, for a week. Then I had to give it up due to irony. Amanda was killed by a drunk driver.”

  “Ah.”

  “I tried eating. Potato chips, candy bars, Gummy Bears. Anything that came out of a hospital vending machine. But I kept forgetting to chew, and that made things difficult. I resumed jogging. That seems to do the trick. You?”

  “Twelve miles, four days a week. Bet I could run you into the ground.”

  “I’m nearly fifteen years older than you, Rainie. I bet you could run me into the ground.”

  “Quincy, you’re not that old.”

  The space between them sparked again. He looked away first.

  “Now it’s your turn,” he said abruptly. “Tit for tat.”

  “All right.” She brought up her chin gamely and got a good grip on her Bud Light. “My mom was a drunk. A mean drunk. A promiscuous drunk. Trailer trash, you know the type. She got into a lot of brawls, hung out with men who beat her, and, following the trickle-down theory of family management, returned home to beat me. Except one day when I came home, she’d been decapitated by a shotgun blast to the head. And unfortunately for me, I was the first person at the scene.”

  “Did Shep O’Grady arrest you?”

  “Yep.” She shrugged. “I would’ve arrested me too. The whole town knew what she was doing. Now here she was dead, and I had her brains in my hair. I made a great suspect. But I was the wrong one.”

  “And who was the right one?”

  “Officially, it’s still unsolved. Unofficially, they’re pretty sure it was her man of the moment. A neighbor saw him at the house right before she heard the gunshot. Maybe it was some kind of lover’s quarrel, or maybe he was just too drunk to think straight. My mother didn’t exactly date rocket scientists. He was a trucker, I think. They put out an APB, but no one ever saw him again. Just some guy passing through. And now it’s been so many years I don’t even remember his name.” Rainie shrugged again. “Given the way my mother lived, I don’t think the story could have ended any other way.”

  “And for you?” Quincy said quietly. “After all that, I’d think you would’ve left Bakersville for good.”

  “I tried. Went to Portland. Enrolled in the university. Got drunk. For four years. Then joined AA. When I finally graduated, I decided I might as well go home, because for all of my running I was ending up in the same place I began. Besides, I like it here. I inherited my mother’s house, all paid for, which is good when you’re making fifteen grand a year.”

  “You still live in the house where you grew up?” He gave her a skeptical look.

  “I don’t mind. It’s the deck I like the best anyway.” She gave him a funny smile. “Honestly, I like small-town police work. I get to deal with people, not paper. And Bakersville is a good community. We have a lot of nice folks.”

  “Excluding the neighbors who never said a word about your mother beating you each night. And excluding the neighbors who still believe that you’re a murderer.”

  “Oh, the ones who think I killed my mother don’t mind. In their opinion, what goes around comes around.”

  “But you don’t think that, do you, Rainie? And these last two days, staring at Danny O’Grady—that must have been very difficult for you.”

  She stiffened. Her hands tightened around her Bud Light. “Don’t psychoanalyze me.”

  “I�
�m not,” he said evenly. “I can’t help noticing, however, that today you gave an instant explanation of attachment disorder. Combine that with the fact you grew up in an abusive household, in circumstances not that different from those experienced by most violent kids. These issues aren’t new to you. You’ve given it some thought. Long after this case is over, you’ll still be giving it some thought.”

  “Well, at least my interest is personal and not some misplaced hero complex.”

  She had lashed out reflexively. It did not occur to her just how bitter and vicious she sounded until she saw him wince.

  “Touché,” he murmured.

  Rainie promptly looked down, embarrassed. It was in poor taste to ask a man to share his troubles and then hold them against him. She wanted to be a better person than that, but she knew she wasn’t. She had a quick temper and a bristly personality. Apologies came hard to her.

  “I don’t mean to make you self-conscious,” Quincy said quietly.

  “Danny bothers me,” she said abruptly, before she changed her mind. “I saw his eyes. Trapped. Angry. Confused. I know that stare, and I looked at those bodies and I wondered . . . Everyone says kids can’t be that angry, homicidally angry, but I know they can be. Sometimes it’s hard not to be. To be young and helpless and defenseless . . .” Her voice broke off. She sat there, holding the rest of the words in and feeling her heart beat against her chest like a trapped bird.

  “You worry you could’ve been Danny O’Grady?” Quincy asked.

  She didn’t say anything.

  “You’re not Danny,” he said firmly.

  “I know that! I’m a woman, and women don’t displace rage. We don’t become mass murderers or serial killers. We focus our anger instead, going after whoever hurt us, or self-destructing. It doesn’t matter, though. That’s not what this is about. It’s the violence, I think. Because it’s a shooting and not an automobile crash or combine accident. I’m not sure. But it’s bringing it back. Everything. Like it happened yesterday. And everyone was just so busy wondering that day if I’d killed her or not, no one bothered to ask me how I felt. I’m not sure I even bothered to wonder how I felt. All those times, all those nights, the screaming fits. But she was my mother, and it took so much bleach to get the blood out of the ceiling. I think I scrubbed for days and still you could see the pink stains and she was my mother, for God’s sake. The only family I had.”

  “Rainie, are you okay?”

  “Yes, fine. Dammit, I need to shut up.” He had taken her hand at some point. She didn’t remember when, and the fact she hadn’t noticed such a thing jolted her. She always noticed when she was touched. All these years later, she was very careful about physical space. She took her hand back, raking it through her hair and discovering that she was more agitated than she’d realized. Quincy was looking at her again with concern. It made her want to laugh flippantly, but that would do no good.

  “I’m sorry,” she said shortly. “I accuse you of treating me like a patient, then I treat you like a shrink.”

  “I’m not your therapist,” he said evenly. “Let’s keep that straight.”

  “Of course not. I don’t need a therapist!”

  He raised a brow. She grew more flustered. He took back her hand.

  His gaze was reassuring. “Rainie, listen to me. What you’re going through is very real. It’s called post-traumatic stress syndrome. Fourteen years ago you suffered a major trauma. And even though you’ve dealt with that trauma on many levels, it still affected you. Now you’re going through a similar situation and that’s bringing the first one back. It happens to everyone. When the Gulf War happened, the Veterans Administration had to set up hotlines for the Vietnam vets who were suddenly experiencing flashbacks to twenty-year-old firefights. Sadly, every time one of these school shootings happens, it puts all the other families in all the other communities through the wringer again. Flashbacks, nightmares, anxiety attacks. All part of the drill.”

  “I’m a professional. It’s my job. Will attend homicide. Won’t bat an eye.”

  “You’re human.” His fingers squeezed hers. “You’re an intelligent human. Your brain is going to work in spite of you.”

  “Well, take this brain back. It’s stuck on instant replay and I’ve had enough.”

  He smiled faintly. “The older the trauma, the sooner it will fade. In the meantime, it might help to talk to someone. Does the sheriff’s department provide any mental-health resources?”

  “Our department doesn’t even provide coffee.”

  “Perhaps some of the professionals flying in to help the kids.”

  “Yeah, perhaps.” But her tone of voice told them both she’d never go. Seeking out a real professional would be too much like admitting a weakness. She didn’t do that anymore.

  “It’s getting late,” Quincy said.

  Rainie looked around. The music was dying down and tables had cleared out. He was right; they should both be going. Separate rooms, she knew. She had said too much, and you couldn’t hook up for a one-night stand after baring your soul.

  She rose on her own. After a moment Quincy followed suit.

  “Quincy . . . Sorry about your daughter.”

  “Thank you. It doesn’t help, but it does.”

  “I know.” She hesitated. “I’m also sorry for what I said earlier. The misplaced hero complex. I’m not the best at playing nice with others.”

  “And here I thought it was part of your charm.”

  Quincy placed his hand on the small of her back and guided her toward the door.

  Outside, the night was cool and Rainie was back to watching him expectantly. His hand still rested on her back. His body was close. She could smell his aftershave, subtle and expensive. She didn’t know what it was about him. He was strong, intelligent, sophisticated. She’d never tried finding someone who challenged her. She’d always just gone with the unquestioning young stud, the kind who wouldn’t ask too many questions. It was safer.

  Now she studied the exposed hollow of Quincy’s throat, where a light smattering of dark hair rippled across it. Now she gazed at his other hand with those long, deft fingers. Now she looked up into his face and peering blue eyes that saw too much.

  She took an instinctive step back, confused and suddenly spooked. His head had already dropped forward and his lips brushed her cheek.

  “I’m not your therapist, Rainie.”

  “I know.”

  His lips brushed her other cheek, warm, firm, dry.

  “I don’t know what I’m doing here. I have policies about these things.” His lips fell to the hollow of her neck. Her head had fallen back. She knew better, but she didn’t. The kiss was light. It teased her.

  “No fraternizing?” she murmured.

  He raised his head. “No one-night stands. No passing through. I’m too old for that shit, Rainie. I’ve been to too many towns, spent too much time studying the worst that men can do. I’ve tried marriage and I’ve tried fatherhood and I have all the things I’m proud of in my life and all the things I wish I’d never done. I don’t believe in one-night escapism anymore. I don’t see the point.”

  She tried to open her mouth to argue, but he cut her off by brushing his lips over hers. She startled in surprise. He stopped, lingered, his mouth moist, seeking. His hands were splayed across her back. He held her lightly, giving her plenty of room, and that made her both grateful and disappointed.

  She had just started to lean forward when he broke off the kiss.

  “I’m interested in you, Rainie,” he murmured against her ear. “You’re not what I expected. You’re smart. You’re complicated. And I already know you won’t go home with me tonight.”

  “I won’t,” she whispered.

  “You’re going to torture yourself with the drive to the ME’s office tomorrow. You’re going to dream of your mother and dead little girls.”

  “Don’t—”

  “I’m not your therapist, Rainie. I’m simply a man who’s been there.”


  His hands fell from her back. He stepped away and she felt the night intrude bitterly. Her arms grew cold. She shivered as she watched him walk over to his car, but she didn’t call him back. She had her own vehicle to drive home. One of her rules. One of her many, many rules designed to keep herself safe.

  Supervisory Special Agent Pierce Quincy drove away.

  And, after another moment, Rainie went home alone.

  FOURTEEN

  Thursday, May 17, 1:08 A.M.

  SHEP WAS WAITING FOR Rainie on her back porch when she got to her house. Judging by the pile of empty beer bottles at his feet, he’d been there a while, and the wait had done nothing to improve his mood.

  “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded when she finally walked through the sliding glass door.

  Rainie eyed him for a minute. It was late, well past midnight, and she didn’t have the patience for this conversation. On the other hand, she supposed she should’ve seen it coming.

  She loosened the cuffs of her worn chambray shirt. “Go home, Shep.”

  “Aren’t you meeting with the ME first thing in the morning? Christ, Rainie, this is a murder investigation. What are you doing running around till the small hours of the morning?”

  “I believe I’m acting as primary on the case. Now get the hell off my back deck.”

  Shep pretended not to hear her. He set down his beer and stood authoritatively, as if he was still acting sheriff. The fact that he swayed on his feet didn’t help. Rainie shook her head.

  “We gotta talk about this case.”

  “You’re drunk, you’re not thinking straight, and if anyone sees you here, George Walker will have even more ammunition to take to the five o’clock news. Suspect’s father cavorting with police.”

  “Danny didn’t do it!”

  “We got his prints on the casings, Shep.”

  “Not all of them.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Oh, Sanders didn’t tell you, did he?” Shep got a smug glow in his eyes. He pounded his chest. “I got my own contact at the state crime lab. When I talked to him this afternoon, he told me they’d found prints on the shell casings from the .38 and the .22—except for one .38 casing. A single casing with no smudges, no dirt, no prints. In other words, wiped clean. And get this, there’s something odd about the shell casing. My contact couldn’t tell me what, but he’d sent it out for further analysis. So there you go. Something’s odd about the evidence, Rainie. Something else went down in those halls, and this proves it.”