Greenwich Village
, New York
City
"Mace."
"Mace."
"Firearms?" Quincy asked.
"I carry a Glock forty," Rainie replied. "I have to check it, though. Private investigators don't qualify to carry onboard."
Quincy nodded, then turned toward his daughter who was standing over her open suitcase, having just handed her father her canister of Mace.
"I have a Glock, too," Kimberly said, which caused her father to do a double take.
"You have what?"
"As long as you're armed, you might as well be well-armed," she replied seriously. "What can you really accomplish with a twenty-two?"
Quincy raised a brow. He brought out his own pistol, a stainless steel 10mm Smith amp; Wesson, standard FBI issue. The Smith amp; Wesson held nine cartridges in the magazine plus one in the chamber. Clipped to his belt in a brown leather holder, he carried two additional magazines, giving him total access to thirty rounds. Firepower would not be a problem.
"As the only person in this room qualified to carry on a plane," he said, "I'll cover us during transit. I'll also take the Mace. Otherwise, pack up, Thelma and Louise. Upon arrival in Portland, I want you carrying at all times."
"I have to meet with Luke Hayes once we get to Portland," Rainie said. "I can ask him if any of the deputies would like to moonlight as bodyguards. That would give us more coverage."
Kimberly's face brightened at this suggestion, but Quincy shook his head. "Too conspicuous. Plus, I don't think bodyguards will do us any good. He's not going to strike long distance. Drive-by shootings, sniper fire, isn't his style. He'll create an elaborate ruse, something to get up close and personal. Bodyguards can't protect you when you're the one letting the UNSUB through the front door."
"Dr. Andrews said he'll be someone I know," Kim-berly said quietly. "The man… the UNSUB, works on identifying what the victim needs or wants. Mandy always wanted someone to take care of her. Mom wanted Mandy. Me… I have an instinctive trust of anyone wearing a badge."
Quincy had been folding one of his daughter's shirts. Now his hands stilled. He looked down at the blue-and-white-striped top as if he didn't see it.
"Kimberly…"
"It's not your fault, Dad. It's not your fault."
Quincy finally nodded, though both Rainie and Kimberly could tell he didn't believe her. He finished placing the shirt in the single duffel bag. It was a little after one in the morning. None of them had slept much in the last two days and they were working off a list to keep their minds functioning through a sleep-deprived haze.
"What's next?" Quincy asked.
"Toiletries," Kimberly announced. She went into her bathroom, and a moment later, they heard the clatter of the medicine cabinet as she started throwing things into a waterproof bag.
"Did you meet with the private investigator?" Quincy asked Rainie under his breath, his gaze on the open bathroom door.
"Yes. Nothing. You?"
"They don't know about the note yet. It's a big crime scene; it will take the technicians several days to process everything. If I'm lucky, they'll get to the note last."
"How can it be your handwriting? You didn't write it!"
"I don't know, but that's my handwriting. The loops, the slant, the dot over the I's… He's obviously been practicing."
"Isn't there a way of telling that it's forgery? Hesitation marks, something like that?"
"Depends on how good he is. Depends on how good the handwriting analyst is. In all honesty, I doubt the forgery is perfect, but I also doubt that will help me in the end. All the UNSUB needs is an initial report that the handwriting
appears
to be mine. The Bureau will follow up, but by then I will also have been arrested, disarmed and discredited. This UNSUB is not only clever, but efficient. He knows just how half-assed he can be, and still get the job done. In a perverse way, I admire that."
Kimberly walked back into the bedroom. She tossed the plastic bag into the suitcase. "What's next?"
They didn't have any items left on the list. They zipped up the small collection of bags and piled them by the door. In three hours, Rainie would drive them all to JFK airport where they would return her rental car and board the six A.M. flight to Portland. Outside the storm still raged and from time to time Quincy glanced nervously at the window. Rainie knew he didn't care about thunder and lightning. He was extremely concerned, however, about their flight possibly being delayed.
They huddled around the small kitchen table. Kimberly poured fresh cups of coffee, though they were already twitchy from too much caffeine. The roommate Bobby was gone. Quincy had suggested it might not be safe for him to be in the apartment either. Given the option between being terrified of every sound in his apartment or having unlimited sex at his girlfriend's place, Bobby had decided to stay at his girlfriend's. Bobby was a smart guy.
Rainie drank more coffee, her hands wrapped around the steaming mug. She'd gotten a chill running around in wet clothes, and now nothing she did made her warm.
"So what else did Dr. Andrews say?" she asked Kim-berly at last.
The young girl shrugged. She was holding up remarkably well, Rainie thought. Pale, jumpy, but functional. Rainie supposed they'd all hit the edge where you either kept moving or completely collapsed. Dying was not preferable to living at this point, so they kept moving.
"He… he told me I should tell you something," Kimberly said abruptly. Her gaze flicked to her father, before becoming locked once more on her coffee mug. "I um… a few months ago, I started having what I thought were anxiety attacks. I felt as if someone was watching me. I'd get goose bumps, find it hard to breathe. The hair would stand up on the back of my neck."
Quincy set down his mug hard on the old table. Hot coffee sloshed over the edges. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"At the time, I thought it was stress related. The situation with Mandy, I've been carrying a heavy course load plus the internship… It doesn't matter. What's important is that I'm telling you now and that maybe it wasn't all in my head. Maybe it wasn't stress induced – "
"He's been watching you," Quincy said flatly. "Some man has been stalking my daughter and you didn't even tell me!"
"I carry Mace! I pay attention to the people around me. I make eye contact. You can't hold my hand, Dad, and you can't always protect me – "
"Like hell! It's my job and what's the purpose of all these years of training if I can't protect my own family?"
"No father can protect his family. All children grow up. It's what we do."
"I'm a professional – "
"You're human, just like all other fathers."
"You should have told me – "
"So, I'm human, just like all other daughters."
"Dammit, I'm sick of this!" Quincy roared.
"Good, I am, too!" his daughter yelled back. "So let's catch this son of a bitch, so I can return to ray classes and finish up my degree. Then I'll join law enforcement, neglect my own family, and the cycle will be complete!"
Quincy pressed his lips into a thin line. He opened his mouth, shut it. Opened his mouth, then shut it again. Finally, he picked up his mug of coffee and stared at the rain-splattered window.
"You know," Rainie said, "these family moments are very touching."
* * *
"I may have a lead," Quincy said thirty minutes later. The clock had now struck two. By some unspoken agreement, it appeared that none of them were going to bed. Quincys 10mm sat on the kitchen table for easy access.
"We sit," Kimberly murmured. "We wait. We wonder where he'll strike next."
"We're ahead now," Rainie rebutted firmly. "He had the advantage with Mandy because she was his first victim. He continued his advantage with Bethie, because we didn't know any better. We know now. And in exactly" – she glanced at her watch – "three hours, we'll be out of strike zone. We'll finally be ahead of his game."
Kimberly and Quincy nodded tensely. Rainie returned to her notes. "Now then, I have another person for us to pursue. According to the AA president, Mandy's sponsor at the meetings was her boss. Larry Tanz owned the restaurant where she and Mary both worked. Now, I don't know a thing about Mr. Tanz, but given Mary's strange behavior and the fact that Mr. Tanz knows both Mary and Mandy…"
"He's worth considering," Quincy said.
"I told my new best friend Phil de Beers to work on it. You know," she added seriously, "he makes his coffee with sour mash. I think my cream-and-sugar habit is now looking quite respectable."
As a unit, Quincy and Kimberly rolled their eyes. They looked just like father and daughter when they did that. Huh.
Rainie flipped the page of her notebook. "Finally, I have the two aliases that the UNSUB has used thus far. He used Tristan Shandling in Philadelphia – we should run that through a database of names from your past cases, Quince, to see if it rings any bells. Then, twenty months ago in Virginia, he used the name Ben Zikka to approach Mandy at her AA meeting."
"What?" Quincy spoke up sharply.
"Ben Zikka," Rainie repeated. "The name Ben Zik – "
"No!
Son of a bitch. No, no, no!"
Quincy bolted from the table. He grabbed the cordless phone, fumbled it for a moment, then got a hard grip. His knuckles were white. Rainie didn't even recognize his face. Something bad had happened. She didn't understand what. She glanced at Kimberly and saw the girl's face turn the color of bone.
"Grandpa," Kimberly whispered.
"Oh no." Rainie closed her eyes. None of them had even thought about Quincy 's father. He was a sick old man, stricken with Alzheimer's, tucked away in a retirement home. "Oh no…"
"Shady Acres Elder Care," Quincy barked into the phone. "Put me through!" And a moment after that, "Abraham Quincy, please. What do you mean he's not there? Of course he's there; he requires full-time medical attention. His son picked him up? His son, Pierce Quincy, picked him up earlier this afternoon. Of course you made him show ID. Of course he had a driver's license. His son, Pierce Quincy…"
A horrible stillness had come over Quincy 's face. Rainie couldn't move.
Go to him,
she thought.
Touch him.
But she knew she couldn't. She knew Kimberly couldn't. Because they were watching a man in the throes of something terrible and it had only just begun.
He punched off the phone. He lowered it, cradling it against his neck as if the plastic receiver were something special.
"Ben Zikka was my father's best friend," Quincy murmured. "They grew up together, went to war together. He used to tell stories.."
Kimberly and Rainie remained silent.
"He's an old man," Quincy whispered. "Seventy-five years old, can't even remember to piss in a toilet, for God's sake. He's sick, he's easily frightened. He doesn't recognize his own reflection, doesn't know he has a son. He doesn't even remember the name Pierce Quincy."
Kimberly and Rainie didn't say a word.
"He worked hard his whole life. Built a farm, raised a son, helped pay my way through college when money was tight. Never even wanted a thank-you. He did it because that's what he did. Seventy-five years old. At the stage where he deserves to die with dignity."
" Quincy…"
"He's doesn't even know he has a son! How can the man kill him? He doesn't even remember I exist. Goddammit, goddammit,
goddammit!"
He hurtled the phone receiver to the floor. It shattered into bits but it wasn't enough. He grabbed a chair and smashed it into the stove. He hurtled the coffeepot into the sink. He flipped over the table with a roar.
"Dad…"
"I can't go I have to stay he might be alive you never know. I can't leave him he's my father and he doesn't even know he has a son. He's going to be tortured and murdered and oh God did you see what that monster did to Bethie and he's just a sick old man he doesn't even know he has a son. Jesus Christ, Rainie, he doesn't even know he has a son…"
"You're coming to Portland."
"No."
"You're coming to Portland, Quincy. We won't let you stay. It's exactly what this sicko wants."
"My father – "
" Quincy, he's dead. I am so sorry, but he's dead. You know he's dead. I am so sorry…"
Quincy 's knees buckled. He went down on the floor, surrounded by glass and wood and fragments of plastic phone. He went down on the floor and he looked at Rainie with an expression she hoped she would never have to see again.
"My father," he whispered. "My father…"
"Daddy, I'm scared. Please Daddy, I need you."
Quincy turned toward his daughter. She had begun to cry. A heartbeat passed. Rainie didn't know what he was thinking. Looking at his daughter and seeing traces of his rapidly vanishing past? Or looking at his scared, stricken little girl, and seeing a future that could still happen?
Quincy held open his arms. Kimberly flew into his embrace.
"It's going to be all right, Kimmy," Quincy murmured. "I promise you, it's going to be all right."
Then he closed his eyes, and Rainie knew why. He didn't want any of them to see that he had just told a lie.
JFK International Airport
,
New York
Friday morning
, five thirty-five, eastern standard time, they boarded the first flight for Portland, Oregon, proud owners of three tickets purchased with cash the day before. They had shown ID to pick up the tickets, then Quincy had used the power of his FBI creds to get the woman at the counter to change their names to aliases so there would be no record of their flight. The attendant had looked secretly excited to be involved in some sort of covert law enforcement operation. The three of them had remained pale and drawn, exhaustion making them sway on their feet.
The thunderstorms had finally passed, though the sky was still dark and the runway slick with rain. Ground crews in yellow windbreakers ran around the plane, loading bags. Onboard, Rainie watched them shout orders at each other, but could not hear their words.
Kimberly sat next to the window. She had taken her seat and almost immediately fallen asleep, her head slumped against the bulkhead. Rainie had the middle. She'd passed the threshold where sleep was still possible and now she was too awake, unbearably aware of the world around her. Quincy sat on her right. His face had become a mask. Once, she'd touched the back of his hand. He had moved it away from her. She had not tried again since.
"When my mother died, I hated my father," he said.
"What caused her death?"
"Heart attack. She was only thirty-four. No one saw it coming."
"Doesn't sound like it was your father's fault."
"I was a boy. My father had the power to make everything right, ergo he was also responsible for everything that went wrong. I used to ask him why she died. He always gave me the same answer. 'Because she did.' "
"Shit happens," Rainie said.
"Yes, the swamp Yankee version of shit happens. It took me years to realize it was the best answer he could give. Sometimes there's simply no reason for why things happen. What is karma to a little boy? What is the divine wisdom of God? What is the fecklessness of fate? Why did my mother die? Because she did. In his own way, my father was teaching me a very important lesson."
Rainie didn't say anything.
"Mandy didn't deserve to die," Quincy said. "Bethie didn't deserve to die, and my father didn't deserve to die. Shit didn't happen. One man did."
"We'll find him, Quincy."
"I'm going to kill him, Rainie. I spent four years being trained to heal as a psychologist, and the thought doesn't bother me. I'm going to find him and kill him. What does that make me?"
She hesitated. "Vengeful," she said at last.
He nodded as the plane finally powered up and prepared for ascent. He said, "I can live with that."