The Third Victim (Quincy / Rainie)

by Lisa Gardner

  “Let go of my arms or you’ll never sing baritone in the church choir again.”

  “Talk to me, Rainie. I want to listen. I might even understand.”

  She shuddered in his arms. He saw the conflict in her eyes again. Some part of her wanted to talk. Some strong, fierce part of her took good care of herself even in spite of herself. But he also saw the layers of fear and doubt and confusion. Years of baggage, accumulated every time her mother opened a fresh bottle and turned on her daughter with an open fist.

  Her face shuttered. One moment he thought he might be on the brink of discovery, the next she was gone. Her jaw settled, her eyes went flat, and he knew the battle was over. He released her. She stepped back, shaking out her arms.

  “Not bad,” she drawled with a clear edge in her voice. “I wouldn’t have picked you for a tough guy, SupSpAg.”

  Quincy didn’t bother with a reply. She had retreated behind her brittle shell. From here on out, all he’d get from her would be attitude. Her mother had taught her well.

  “I’m leaving,” she said defiantly.

  “Good night, Rainie.”

  She faltered, then scowled. “You can’t stop me.”

  “Sweet dreams, Rainie.”

  “Son of a bitch,” she told him flatly, and stalked to the door.

  She opened it with more force than necessary. He didn’t interfere. She slammed it behind her. He didn’t move.

  Long after the sound stopped ringing in the room, he was still standing by the bed, thinking of Rainie Conner and all the things that could’ve happened fourteen years ago. He thought of shotguns and Danny O’Grady and his own daughter, whom he loved with all his heart.

  The world needed more kindness, he thought not for the first time. The world needed more faith.

  “Isolation is not protection,” he murmured. But he wondered sometimes if his epiphany hadn’t come too late.

  RAINIE’S HOUSE WAS DARK when she got home. She never remembered to turn on the patio lights before leaving for work, and now her tiny house was hard to see as it sat nestled in the woods. She parked outside on the dirt driveway and fumbled with her keys.

  When she finally stepped inside, no one came to greet her. This was the way she wanted her life, but tonight the emptiness deepened her mood.

  She went around the two-bedroom ranch, turning on lamps. The space still seemed oppressive. She couldn’t get Quincy’s words out of her head or the scent of his cologne off her skin.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about the shotgun, Rainie? Why didn’t you tell me it disappeared from evidence?”

  She entered the kitchen and opened the fridge. She was the proud owner of twelve bottles of Bud Light, one pound of Tillamook cheese, and an expired quart of milk. She closed the refrigerator.

  She went out to her deck.

  The woods were dark around her. The moon was in its waning phase, and it was hard to see where the tops of the pine trees ended and the velvety night sky began. The bracing air brought goose bumps to her skin, and she hugged her middle for warmth.

  She walked around her deck, then walked around her deck again.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about the shotgun, Rainie? Why didn’t you tell me it disappeared from evidence?”

  She couldn’t. She’d been an idiot to go see Quincy in the first place. He just radiated such strength. All those lines in his face. It made her believe there was nothing she could tell him that he couldn’t handle. And she was so very tired these days.

  But there were things she couldn’t tell him. She’d been naive to think it would be enough to talk around the issue. She’d forgotten that Quincy was not the kind of man who would settle for less. Damn him for grabbing her like that, making her breath catch in her throat and her stomach turn tiny flip-flops.

  One more inch and her body would’ve been pressed against his. She could’ve run her hands all over the lines of his face. She could’ve felt the steel bands of his arms and legs. She could’ve been just a woman and he could’ve been just a man and maybe that would’ve been easier in the end.

  She could’ve crept out of the room the minute he fell asleep. Some habits were hard to break.

  Rainie went back inside. She found every picture of her mother that she owned. She turned them all facedown. It still wasn’t enough. Tonight she didn’t think anything could be enough.

  She finally curled up on the sofa, fully dressed and desperately needing sleep. She was thinking of Quincy again and his intense gaze. She was thinking of Charlie Kenyon and Danny O’Grady and all the things that wouldn’t give her peace.

  She finally fell asleep.

  And an hour later she woke up screaming. She was on the floor and her mother’s body was splayed out in front of her and someone was standing on her back deck staring in at her. The man in black! The man in black!

  Rainie bolted for her bedroom. She needed a gun. The CSU had taken her Glock .40. She tore through her closet until she found her old 9-millimeter in a shoebox, then went storming out into the night. But the deck was clear and the air was cold and it was all in her mind after all. No man. No intruder. Just the lingering effects of a very bad dream.

  She went back inside shakily. She kept her 9-millimeter. She curled up with an afghan. And she stared at the white ceiling of her family room and willed the blood to stay away.

  You’re too smart to be doing this to yourself, Rainie.

  But apparently she wasn’t, for the night went on and on.

  She finally fell asleep around five. At six-thirty, the phone woke her up, ringing shrilly. Sandy O’Grady sounded frantic on the other end.

  “I have to talk to the FBI agent,” Sandy said at once. “Oh God, Rainie, I don’t know what else to do.”

  Rainie got up to face another day.

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER, walking out to her patrol car, she found a note tucked under her windshield wipers. It said: Die, bitch.

  She crumpled it up and threw it away.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Friday, May 18, 7:18 A.M.

  ED FLANDERS HAD BEEN a bartender for thirty-five years. He hadn’t meant to do that. In the beginning it had been just a gig, a mindless summer job that would let him hit on girls while making a ton of money in tips. He was passing down the Oregon coast on his way to L.A., where he was going to make it big. Hanging out in Seaside to catch a community play, he’d first seen the Help Wanted sign and decided what the hey.

  It had been a long time since.

  In the beginning, he told himself he stayed for his art. Seaside had a decent community theater program and enough tourists passing through to make it worthwhile. Each summer he’d audition for a lead role and work on building his résumé. Then, when he never moved beyond parts such as Peasant #3, he told himself he stayed for the money. A bartender could make a little dough during the wild summer months. Then he told himself he stayed for the benefits, because he’d finally hit thirty and realized the true joy of a good HMO. Truth was, he’d met Jenny by then and, stick a fork in him, he was done.

  Next thing Ed Flanders knew, several decades had passed, he was now a grandpa and pretty little Jenny was still the love of his life.

  Ed Flanders didn’t have any complaints.

  Until two days ago. That man, coming into the bar and ordering his buffalo wings. That man, getting Darren all riled up, though God knows it didn’t take much anymore.

  That man, talking about those poor little girls and all the things that had gone wrong over in Bakersville.

  Ed Flanders had met a lot of people in his time, and that man bothered him.

  Not the questions, he decided after a bit. Everyone in town was talking about the shooting that happened just an hour and a half away. Some people claimed to know Shep personally. Lots of people had some sort of family involved.

  Oh, people talked about the shooting, all right. In the bars, in the churches, in the streets.

  But not that many locals, let alone strangers, went around spouting some junior offic
er’s name. Lori . . . Liz . . . Lorraine. Lorraine Conner. She wasn’t even the one on TV. That was the mayor, and some state guy named Sanders.

  So how’d this guy know Conner’s name like that?

  And worse, why did Ed Flanders think he’d seen the guy before? Something about the eyes, or maybe it was the nose. Take away the years, maybe soften the hair . . .

  Damn, he couldn’t quite place the face.

  That strange, uncomfortable man who had walked into his bar and made everything wrong.

  Ed didn’t like him. Didn’t trust him. He just didn’t know what to do about that yet.

  BACK IN THE HOTEL room, the man finally allowed himself to collapse. Damn, he was tired. The pace of the last few days, the things he still had to get done . . . People who thought murder was easy had obviously never tried it.

  The man fished around in his pockets until he dug up a cellophane wrapper of pills. He ripped it open with his hands and downed four herbal diet pills, one after another, then poured a glass of water. The caffeine made him a little light-headed, but he needed the pick-me-up.

  Lots of things done, lots of things left to go.

  Last night he’d almost botched the whole affair. Lorraine Conner had looked so wiped out when she’d finally returned home, it had never dawned on him she’d wake up. One minute he thought he’d safely made it from her bedroom closet to the back deck, the next she was flying off the couch like some banshee.

  Holy shit, he’d barely cleared the deck railing in time. Even then he’d been about to crash through the woods like a maniac, when something about her movements drew him up cold. She was acting stilted, surreal, looking at things that weren’t even there. A second later he figured it out. She was still asleep, chasing some phantom in her twisted dreams.

  Maybe he’d triggered something. Maybe night turned her into a raving loon. Hell if he knew. He’d taken cover in his normal spot and simply waited her out. After another moment she’d gone back into the house and he’d been free and clear.

  He’d gotten a little giddy after that. He even remembered laughing, one of those high-pitched sounds like you hear in movies. He’d have to watch that. Can’t lose control.

  Not just yet.

  Today, after all, was the funeral. And then . . .

  He was a very smart man. Someday soon Lorraine Conner would get to appreciate that.

  Lorraine Conner, Pierce Quincy, Shep O’Grady, and little Becky.

  Now this, he told his old man silently, this is how you have some fun.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Friday, May 18, 7:53 A.M.

  DANNY CALLED ME this morning. I know it was him.” Sandy O’Grady sat on a metal folding chair in the task force’s HQ, twisting her hands on her lap and trying very hard to sound calm. “I could hear clanging in the background and people talking. Institutional noises. But the caller was silent. I said, ‘Danny, I know it’s you. Please talk to me, Danny. I love you.’”

  “What did Danny say?” Quincy asked. He was sitting in a chair beside her, impeccably dressed, which immediately made her think of Mitch, her boss. She pushed the thought to the back of her head.

  “He didn’t say a word. He just sighed. Heavily. Like . . . like someone hopeless. Then he hung up.”

  “You’re sure it was Danny?” Rainie spoke up for the first time. She was leaning against the windowsill all the way across the room. Her arms were crossed over her chest. Her cheeks were gaunt. Frankly, she looked the worst that Sandy had ever seen her.

  Not that Sandy was in a position to talk. She’d quickly grabbed a nearby OSU sweatshirt after receiving Danny’s call, and it turned out to be stained in four different places with old yellow baby spit-up and new white patio paint. Her normally bright blond hair was dull and matted from sleep. She hadn’t showered, let alone put on makeup. She didn’t have the energy anymore to worry about these things.

  “It was Danny,” she told Rainie firmly. “Shep changed our number to an unlisted one two days ago. Only family members and Danny’s lawyer know how to reach us now. We haven’t gotten one of those calls since.”

  “Are you getting a lot of pressure from your neighbors?” Quincy asked gently.

  “Some.” Sandy kept her chin up. “Others, our good friends, are still there for us. One couple on our block—I don’t even know them that well—came over last night with a plate of brownies and sat with us. There are . . . bad moments, but there are good ones too. Danny’s innocent until proven guilty, you know.”

  Unable to help herself, she turned once more toward Rainie.

  “It’s official police business,” Rainie said curtly. “I can’t talk about it.”

  “Rainie, he’s my son. He’s upset, he’s suicidal. Just yesterday he tried to gouge his wrist with a fork, for chrissakes. I’m not sure how much longer he can take being locked up in the detention center, and I don’t know what to do. Shep tells me there’s proof someone else was involved—mysterious shells, I don’t know. Can’t you do something with that? Drop the charges? Bring Danny home? Please—” Sandy’s voice broke off pleadingly. She didn’t know Rainie well. She would call her a friend, but more because they had Shep in common than because they’d ever spent any time talking. Still, Rainie had come to their house for dinner at least once every few months. She played with Danny and Becky. She seemed to honestly enjoy time with the kids. Surely she wouldn’t forget those moments now. Surely she wasn’t completely immune to Danny’s plight.

  The woman in question, however, remained impassive. Her uniform suddenly loomed as a wall between them, and for the first time, Sandy got it. Rainie wasn’t looking at her as the sheriff’s wife. This morning Sandy was in the task-force center as a mass murderer’s mother.

  Sandy threw out desperately, “Maybe Shep can help find out who did it.”

  “We don’t want Shep,” Rainie said flatly. “We want Becky.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Is she still sleeping in closets, Sandy?”

  “That’s not anyone’s business—”

  “She saw something; we all know it. You and Shep keep saying you want the truth. Let us ask for it.”

  “Avery Johnson would never permit it.”

  “It’s not his call.”

  “Yes, it is! He’s our lawyer. My God, we’re going to have to mortgage our home just to pay his fees. After all that, how can we not listen to what he says? He’s acting in our best interests.”

  “What about Becky’s best interests?” Rainie pressed relentlessly. “The girl only feels safe in enclosed spaces. She’s having nightmares, and Luke says she’s as pale as a sheet. How long are you going to let that go on?”

  “The doctor said she’ll grow out of it with time—”

  “We can make it sooner versus later.”

  “You can’t have Becky! Dammit, Rainie, she’s all I have left!”

  Rainie pressed her lips into a thin line. She gazed at Sandy disapprovingly. Sandy returned the stare. Rainie didn’t understand what she was asking. She wasn’t a mother.

  “We can prove that Danny didn’t shoot Miss Avalon,” Rainie said abruptly. “We can tell by the slug that was recovered and the trajectory of the shot that it was done by someone other than Danny.”

  “Oh thank God.” Sandy sat back in the metal chair. For the first time in three days, she felt weight lift off her chest. “So there was this man in black at the scene. He’s the killer, and Danny’s just confused and traumatized by what he saw. Can’t you drop the charges now?”

  “Mrs. O’Grady,” Quincy said quietly, “I think there are some things about Danny you need to know. I suspect you’re beginning to wonder about them, too, or you wouldn’t have called this morning.”

  Rainie supplied bluntly, “We’re not sure he didn’t kill Sally and Alice.”

  “But the man, the man in black—”

  “Ballistics matched the slugs that killed those two girls to the .38 revolver Danny brought to school. And we have his prints on the other
.38 shell casings recovered at the scene.”

  “That just means he loaded the guns,” Sandy countered. “Shep explained this to me. The prints don’t prove a thing.”

  “Danny’s fingerprints are on over fifty shell casings. That means he also reloaded the guns during the shooting.”

  “Shep told me that rapid loaders were used. So Danny prepped the guns and the rapid loaders. This other person did all the shooting.”

  Rainie finally pushed away from the window. She shook her head impatiently. “Listen to yourself! Danny brought a revolver and a semiautomatic weapon to school. He loaded them, and he prepared additional ammunition. Does that sound like an innocent bystander to you?”

  “He’s just thirteen—”

  “You don’t have to be old to pull a trigger.”

  “He’s confused—”

  “He confessed multiple times!”

  “He’s frightened! He’s angry, he doesn’t under-stand—”

  “He told Charlie Kenyon he wanted to hack Shep into twenty pieces and run him through a blender! Jesus, Sandy, we’re beyond simple acting out. You didn’t catch Danny smoking a cigarette or staying out after curfew. He’s involved in a triple homicide. At the very least, he supplied the murder weapons. At the most, he may have massacred two eight-year-old girls. For God’s sake, wake up!”

  “My son is not a killer!”

  “But maybe he is! Now, what the hell are we going to do about it?”

  Rainie drew up short. She was breathing hard. Sandy was breathing hard too. She glared at her husband’s most senior officer, and she thought she had never hated anyone more. How dare she talk about Danny that way. After all those dinners in Sandy’s home. All those times Danny had asked to sit next to her, sweet and adoring. The cold, unfeeling—

  And then she realized that Rainie’s eyes were overbright. And then she realized that Rainie Conner had thinned her lips in order not to cry.