Authors: Lisa Gardner
TWENTY-SEVEN
Friday, May 18, 10:38
P
.
M
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T
WO HOURS LATER
Rainie and Quincy drove back to Bakersville. They had finally figured out how Dave Duncan vacated the room. He had cut a hole in the back of the closet, creating a small escape hatch that opened up behind a rhododendron bush at the side of the hotel. The police closed in. He squeezed out, taking his minimal baggage with him.
Quincy was right: The UNSUB liked to have contingency plans.
While the technicians dusted for prints, bagged the hair, and documented the words written in lipstick, Quincy gave them a more detailed profile of the person they were looking for. In his experience, an UNSUB of this type would most likely be male, middle-aged, and unmarried. The crime was highly organized, indicating above-average IQ and professional skills. The UNSUB also utilized manipulation, meaning he felt comfortable being around others and might even have a serious relationship, though chances were his partner often felt she didn’t understand her man very well.
According to profile statistics, the UNSUB had probably tried to join the police force or the military at one time but had either been turned away or dishonorably discharged. He was obviously mobile and would still be following the case quite closely.
Common wisdom held that the UNSUB’s name wasn’t Dave Duncan—he’d paid for the room with cash and showed a barely legible driver’s license. Perhaps he was finding a new motel even now, someplace a little more populated, where a “traveling salesman” would be hard to locate. He knew the net was closing in, and yet—they all shared the hunch—the man wasn’t done. The man wouldn’t flee.
Seaside would work to write up all the information they could find on David Duncan’s visit to their town—description, places he’d been, things he’d said. Sanders would once more coordinate processing the evidence with the CSU.
Luke still planned on watching Shep’s house for the rest of the night. Then he was heading to Portland to finish interviewing Mr. and Mrs. Avalon. This time he’d take a composite sketch with him. Maybe sit across from Mr. Avalon. Maybe push the drawing under the man’s nose and see what kind of reaction bubbled to the surface.
Rainie would inherit the fun-filled task of generating lists of hotels up and down the coast. Someplace not too far from Bakersville. Someplace not too far from Seaside. Maybe even a rental room in a house run by a little old lady. Or a rarely used hunting shack.
She’d never realized how many places there were to hide around her small town. She did not envy anyone her task.
It had been a long day. They were all exhausted beyond words. Sanders and Luke hit the road. Rainie and Quincy rode back in silence.
Inside the city limits, Rainie stopped at a small convenience store for a six-pack of beer. Then, by unspoken consent, she and Quincy went to his hotel.
There was an awkward moment. Rainie stood in the doorway with the Bud Light. Quincy stood in his room, surveying the space as if realizing for the first time how small and intimate it was.
He pulled out two chairs from the rickety table. Rainie pointedly bypassed them and headed straight for the bed. He didn’t say anything. After another moment he shed his jacket, drew off his tie, unbuttoned the top of his shirt, and sat on the mattress, not far from her.
It was hard to read his face from her angle. Half was lit by the lamp next to the bed, half was hidden in darkness. She didn’t know what he thought after days like this. Was he still excited, thrilled by the hunt? Or was the adrenaline fading now, leaving behind the sobering realization that another monster roamed the world? One more predator on top of last month’s predator and the one the month before that.
Did he get tired? She was tired. She was restless and back to the kind of mood where she didn’t trust herself. George Walker’s words echoed in her head. So did Officer Carr’s nervous look when he tried to figure out how to mention the accusation that she’d killed her own mother. She should have a thicker skin. Tonight she didn’t. She felt vulnerable and weary, sick of pretending she knew what she was doing, when she hadn’t known for days and the case was only getting worse.
She was soft tonight, a little bit aching. She looked at the hard plane of Quincy’s chest, the exposed smattering of dark chest hair, and she wanted to lay her head on his shoulder. A strong, capable man. She wondered how his heartbeat would sound against her ear. She wondered if he would curl his arms around her and hold her the way leading men always held leading ladies in the movies.
She had never been held. Slapped on the shoulder in good-natured ribbing. Even patted on the butt in pickup games of hoops. Lack of comforting touches wasn’t something she dwelled on. But tonight it bothered her.
Rainie got out a beer. She tossed a bottle to Quincy, placed her own against the top edge of the bedside table, and whacked it once with the base of her palm to pop the top off. A cool mist rose immediately from the neck. She took a deep breath, pulling the scent of hops inside her mouth and rolling it over her tongue. Damn. What she would give for just one drink. One long, soothing, numbing drink.
She slouched back against the old wooden headboard instead and cradled the bottle against her belly.
Quincy’s own bottle was unopened in his hand. He was watching her with a tight, dark look in his eyes.
“Talk to me,” she murmured.
“Rainie, that display had nothing to do with conversation.”
“Shut up and talk to me.”
He arched a brow pointedly at that clear statement.
“What’s your ex-wife like?”
“Christ, you’re trying to kill me.”
Rainie sat up. She gazed at him more frankly. “I mean it. What’s your ex-wife like?”
Quincy sighed. Apparently he decided she was serious, for now he took the cap off his beer bottle and drank deeply. Then he settled back on his elbows in the middle of the queen-size bed. Her curled feet loosened enough to nestle against the side of his hip. She admired the line of his throat against the open collar of his white dress shirt.
“Bethie’s a good mother,” he said finally. “She takes wonderful care of our daughters—daughter. Daugh-ters.”
“How did you meet?”
“College, when I was pursuing my doctorate in psychology.”
“Is she a psychologist?”
“No. Bethie’s from a wealthy family. College was a means of meeting an appropriate husband. A shame—she has a wonderful mind.”
“Is she pretty?” Rainie asked.
Quincy took more care with his answer. “She has aged well,” he said at last, his voice neutral.
“Pretty, smart, and a good mother. Do you miss her?”
“No,” he said firmly.
“Why not?”
“My marriage is old news, Rainie. When we met, Bethie admired my background as a Chicago cop, while fully expecting me to settle into a more socially elevated lifestyle as a private-practice psychologist. Hell, I expected the same thing. But then the Bureau started recruiting me. I didn’t say no. And poor Bethie ended up with an armed FBI agent for a husband. If I wanted to be fair to her, I should’ve stayed a psychologist. But I was true to myself. I got into this stuff, and then my marriage faded away.”
“Why don’t you say anything bad about her?”
“Because she’s the mother of my children and I respect that.”
“You’re a gentleman, aren’t you?” Her voice suddenly gained an edge. She didn’t plan on sounding bitter or looking for a fight, but she took a step down that road anyway. Fighting was what she did best, conflict more second nature to her than kindness. She thought of George Walker again and her eyes began to sting. She wished they would stop.
“I believe in the importance of civility,” Quincy said quietly. “I see enough inhumanity in my job without needing to add to it.”
“I’m not civil.”
“No.” He smiled wryly. “But somehow it works for you.”
Rainie stuck her beer on the nightstand. Her movements were restless. He had given her a gracious out. She couldn’t take it. The mood ruled her now, and she only knew how to go toward dark and dangerous places.
“You come from money, too, don’t you, Quincy? The nice suits, the expensive cologne. This stuff isn’t new to you.”
“I don’t come from money. My father is a Yankee swamp rat, born and bred. Owns hundreds of acres of God’s own land in Rhode Island, works it with his own sweat and will take it with him to the grave. He taught me the importance of manners. He taught me to love fall, when the leaves change and the apples grow crisp. And he taught me never to tell the people close to you that you care.” The corner of his mouth twitched wryly. “The suits I picked up on my own.”
Rainie got on her hands and knees on the bed. Her gaze was locked on his. She moved closer. “I’m white trash.”
He didn’t take his eyes from her. “Don’t degrade yourself.”
“I’m not. I’m telling you who I am now, so you can’t hold it against me later.” She kept advancing. He didn’t retreat. “I’m not civil. I hate to apologize. I have a bad temper, bad dreams, and a bad mood, and I shouldn’t be doing this, but dammit, I’m going to do it anyway.”
He said quietly, “Liar.” Then he reached up with his broad hand, cupped the back of her head, and dragged her down to his mouth.
She’d invited the kiss, but the first contact still shocked her. She felt cool, strong lips against her own hot, angry mouth. She tasted hops, smooth golden hops, and she opened her lips greedily, as if she would gladly get drunk off him. Then his tongue pushed into her mouth, strong and commanding, and in spite of her best intentions, the old panic reared hard.
She drove her fingernails into her palms. She did her best to control her mind. Yellow-flowered fields. Smooth-flowing streams. So many techniques she’d learned over the years. Keep it simple. Keep it quick. Never lose control. No one was ever the wiser.
Quincy’s palm was rough against her cheek. It tickled her and brought a flood of unexpected heat low in her stomach. She halted, a bit frightened. His lips whispered across her neck. She let her head fall back. She exposed her throat to him. His breath was warm and tantalizing across her collarbone.
He’d go lower, she thought. Must remember to moan. Yellow-flowered fields and smooth-flowing streams. She could feel his lips, firm and skillful. But she could also feel the dark places hovering just out of sight. Yellow-flowered fields and smooth-flowing streams. He would touch her breast. She would arch her back. Get it over with. Get it
done
.
She felt suddenly, unspeakably sad. She had started this, but it would not be what she needed in the end. And she’d been wrong to do this with Quincy. He wasn’t like the other men. With them it had been cheap and mindless. With this man, it would be blasphemy.
She lowered her head. Don’t let him see her eyes. Don’t let him see her stark and gray and thinking so hard about yellow-flowered fields and smooth-flowing streams and Danny O’Grady holding the shotgun that had blown off her mother’s head.
She ached. She suddenly ached so hard she didn’t know where the pain ended anymore and Rainie Conner began.
Quincy’s hands came up. He feathered back her hair with his fingers. He swept the long, fine strands from her face. And then he kissed the corner of her eye where the first of her tears had gathered.
Rainie scrambled off the bed. “For God’s sake, don’t be so damn
nice
.”
She came to a halt in front of the rickety table, holding the collar of her shirt shut with her hand and breathing much too hard.
On the bed, Quincy sat up slowly. His dark hair was mussed. She didn’t remember doing that. His cheeks were raspy with five o’clock shadow. She slapped a hand against her throat and belatedly felt the warm flush of whisker burn.
Shit. She was an idiot. She just was. And now she was going to cry, and that would be adding insult to injury. How could one person be so dumb? That was it. She grabbed her coat and headed for the door.
“Stop!”
Quincy snapped the word, shockingly loud in the silent room. Rainie froze.
“Please sit down,” he said more quietly.
“No.” She had her hand on the doorknob and she wasn’t letting go.
“Dammit, sit down!”
She sat in the hard wooden desk chair by the door.
“I’m sorry,” Quincy said shortly. “I didn’t mean to yell at you. I didn’t mean to let things get this far. I didn’t mean a lot of things tonight.”
That made her feel better. Rainie pasted a smile on her face that could’ve shattered glass and said, “Ah, thanks, fed. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.”
“Shut up, Rainie. And give the attitude a rest.”
Quincy rose tiredly off the bed. For the first time Rainie noticed that his hands were trembling. The lines were more pronounced around his eyes. His mouth carried a fresh, grim set. The sight of him like that hurt her. She had done that to him, and she knew it was wrong of her.
She wished she was the type of person . . . She wished she could erase the grimness from his face.
Instead, she sat, like a bad pupil who’d been caught red-handed and now waited for the blow to fall.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he said impatiently. “I’m not your mother, I’m not some abusive husband. Sometimes I feel like wringing your neck, but I’m not going to hit you.”
“Too well bred for that, Quincy? Don’t know how to get down and dirty?”
A muscle leapt in his jaw. She thought she might have pushed him over the edge and she actually felt triumphant.
What the hell are you doing, Rainie? Why won’t you just shut up?
She couldn’t help herself. She rose out of her chair, driven by demons she was smart enough to explain but too worn down to control. She walked toward him slowly, watching his eyes narrow again, feeling powerful because of the way his gaze fell to her lips. She undid the button at the top of her breasts.