Gone Read Free Page B

remained at heart a secret optimist, trying to see good in a world that delivered so much bad. Who knew that he really couldn’t give up his job, because if people like him didn’t do what they did, then who would? Who knew that he honestly loved her even when he seemed quiet and withdrawn; it was just that the emotions he felt most strongly were not the kind he could put into words.
    When Quincy and Rainie had finally married two years ago, he’d considered himself embarking on a new, healthier chapter in his life. Kimberly had graduated from the FBI Academy and was doing well as an agent in the Atlanta office. They spoke, if not as much as some fathers and daughters, at least enough to satisfy both of their needs.
    And he’d done the unthinkable—he’d retired. Or pseudo-retired. Retired as much as a man such as he could.
    Now he and Rainie worked only a handful of cases, offering profiling services as private consultants to the law enforcement industry. They’d moved to Oregon, because Rainie had missed the mountains too much to ever call anyplace else home. They had even, God help him, looked into adopting a child.
    Imagine, becoming a father at his age. And yet he had.
    For a brief three weeks, after the photo had come in the mail, he’d even been excited about it.
    And then the phone had rung. They’d gone out on the call.
    And the bottom had fallen out of Quincy’s life for the second time.
    He should probably start finding an apartment.
    Maybe tomorrow, he thought, but already knew that he wouldn’t. Even a brilliant man could be stupid when it came to love.
    A soft rapping sounded at the door. The owner of the B&B stood on the other side, looking frazzled. There was a police officer downstairs, she said. The policeman was asking for Quincy. He was saying it was urgent. That they had to speak right away.
    Quincy wasn’t surprised.
    He had learned a long time ago that life could always get worse.
    Tuesday, 4:20 a.m. PST
    K INCAID RETIRED to the relative shelter of his car, cranking up the heat and working the cell phone.
    First, the Special Agent in Charge of the FBI’s Portland office. Waking a feebie in the middle of the night was never a great thing, but Kincaid didn’t have a choice. The trunk of the abandoned vehicle had yielded a particularly disturbing find: photos of an eviscerated female body, all stamped “Property of the FBI.”
    He reached Jack Hughes on the first try. The FBI SAC confirmed that Lorraine Conner was a private-practice investigator, who had worked as a consultant for the Portland field office in the past. To the best of his knowledge, she wasn’t handling a case right now, but maybe she was working with another office. Hughes passed along the name of Conner’s partner for follow-up, asked to be kept updated, then yawned several times before returning to his nice warm bed.
    Kincaid had the same luck with his next two calls. He reached the crime lab supervisor and reported their find. Weather was too bad, conditions too wet to warrant sending out a primary examiner, the supervisor reported back. They’d talk again when the car was in a dry, secure location. And then Mary Senate went back to bed. Ditto Kincaid’s call to Latent Prints—you can’t print a wet car, so hey, when it dries out, give us a buzz. Good night.
    Which left Kincaid alone, soaked to the bone, and wondering why the hell he hadn’t become an accountant like his father.
    He stepped out of his car long enough to touch base with Sheriff Atkins. The sheriff was organizing her local deputies to do a little bushwhacking. In the bad-news department, the rain continued to pour and visibility was about nil. In the good-news department, the November night hadn’t fallen below the low fifties. Still damn chilly if you were wet, but not immediately life threatening.
    Assuming Lorraine Conner was out in those woods, stumbling around.
    What would make a woman get out of her car on a night like this? Particularly a