The Third Victim (21 page)

“Emotions are already running high, add to that a little booze . . .” Quincy trailed off. They both knew what could happen. Young men and guns, vigilante justice.

“We’ll be doubling up the guard around Shep’s house,” Rainie said quietly. “Luke asked to lead the effort.”

“And you?”

“I can’t. There would be more talk.”

“George Walker isn’t very happy with you.”

“No. A lot of people aren’t. I was hoping . . . I wanted to be able to say that Danny didn’t do it. Before we got to the funerals, I wanted to have so much evidence I could look George Walker in the eye and say, ‘A thirteen-year-old boy didn’t murder your daughter, sir. Some other bastard did it.’ As if that would make a difference.”

“You’re not so sure about Danny anymore, are you?”

Her expression grew strained. She said softly, “No.”

“Charlie Kenyon?”

She slowly nodded. “His account of what Danny told him. That he wanted to cut his father into pieces, run him through a blender. . . . So much anger. I didn’t realize . . . I didn’t know things had gotten that bad.”

“It’s not your fault, Rainie. It’s hard for any of us to believe that people we personally know and care about are capable of violence. People seem to forget: Mur-derers don’t come from test tubes. They’re born into this world like the rest of us, and they also have family and friends.”

“That’s just a platitude. I don’t
want
any more platitudes. I’m sick of easy answers or thirty-second analyses of complicated crimes. Kids are shooting up their schools, grown men are walking into offices and mowing down their coworkers. And I understand your point that schools and businesses are still safer than driving on the highway, but that explanation is not enough. These shootings are happening everywhere, even places like here, where they don’t belong. And they are happening to everyone, even to Danny O’Grady, who just three days ago seemed like a normal kid going through a hard time. And . . . and I feel like I missed something. I should’ve seen this coming. But then I look at it again, and I know I still never would’ve expected violence. Because I don’t understand it, Quincy. Even I, who was raised by a woman who lived by her fists, can’t imagine shooting up strangers. And I need to know why this happened to my town, because no matter how hard I try, I just can’t get to sleep.”

“It’s not your fault, Rainie,” he said again.

She shook her head impatiently. “Explain the shootings to me. I need to know. Is it because of guns? As an officer, should I be banning them from my community? Or is it video games and violent movies, and books. . . . Is it all because of that?”

“Those things are factors. On the other hand, do I think censoring Hollywood and banning guns would end all the crime? No. Some people, even kids, are that angry.”

“Then it’s inevitable? We’ve become a violent culture and there’s nothing we can do about it?”

“I don’t think that. There’s always something we can do. We’re an intelligent society, Rainie. Nothing is beyond our grasp.”

“Tell that to George Walker. Tell that to the parents of Alice Bensen. I’m sure they’re sitting home right now thinking about how capable society is.”

Quincy fell silent. She was in a mood tonight.

“Do you want a solution, Rainie,” he asked after a moment, “or do you want an excuse to be angry?”

“I want a solution!”

“Fine,” he said crisply. “I’ll give you my two cents, for what it’s worth. Society is not filled with evil souls. But it is filled with people who are mobile, fractured, overworked, overweight, overcrowded, and overtired. That’s a potent combination, particularly for people with poor coping skills and volatile tempers. And we’re seeing the proof of that in the increasing number of impulsive, angry acts, such as mass murders and road rage.”

Rainie sighed. She rubbed her temples. “It’s a sign of the times?”

“It’s a sign of stressful living,” Quincy said, then shrugged. “In the good-news department, some of the solutions are fairly simple. Why not teach rage-management classes and stress-coping skills in school? While we’re at it, we could emphasize good communication skills and self-monitoring. Physical care also makes a big difference. In fact, the first thing a child psychologist does when he begins treatment of a new client is address sleep, exercise, and eating habits. You think you have trouble with rage? Try getting eight hours of sleep at night, eat more fruits and vegetables, and enjoy a good workout. Ironically enough, very few people bother with these basic steps anymore, and then they wonder why they’re tense all the time.”

He gave her a pointed look, his gaze sliding to the untouched carton of food by her side. Rainie nodded slowly. She said, almost hesitantly, “I took a class in anger management.”

“In Portland?”

“Yes. After I’d joined AA. Alcohol numbs a lot of emotions. Then you give it up . . .”

“I think that was a great thing for you to do,” Quincy said honestly. “I wish more people would think that way.”

Rainie immediately shook her head. “I’m not so great, Quincy. Don’t admire me too much.”

He didn’t say anything, waiting to see if she would elaborate. The darkness still rimmed her eyes, and she was clutching her cup of tea as if she wished it were a bottle of beer. Apparently, however, she still wasn’t in the mood to share.

“How’s your daughter?” she asked shortly.

“The same. I called this morning.”

She regarded him curiously. “That doesn’t make you feel worse? She’s your daughter, she’s dying, and you’re not there for it. A phone call doesn’t seem like much in the face of all that.”

“Rainie, when I said my daughter was killed by a drunk driver, I was being a little misleading.”

She froze. “I see.”

“My daughter wasn’t hit by a drunk driver,” Quincy said matter-of-factly. “She
was
the drunk driver. She loaded up at a friend’s house, then tried to drive home at five-thirty in the morning. And she killed an elderly man out walking his dog before she wrapped her car around a telephone pole. My daughter is dead. The man is dead. The dog is dead. And yes, a phone call to a hospital room is completely inadequate.”

“Quincy, I’m sorry.”

He smiled roughly. “So am I. I’m not perfect either, Rainie. Some things, like what really matters in life, we all learn the hard way.”

She nodded. Her expression was still troubled, though. She had more things to say; he could feel the words churning just below the surface. He leaned forward as if he could will the truth out of her. He hadn’t lied to her last night. She fascinated him. She had worked her way into his mind, and now he wanted to cup her cheek with his hand, brush her lips with his fingertips . . .

She was a fighter, and he had so much respect for that.

Her face relented a fraction. Yearning burgeoned in her soft gray eyes. A need to share. A need for connection. He wished he could reach out and touch her. He was too afraid she’d bolt at the first sign of movement.

“Rainie—”

“I should go.”

“I’ll listen.”

“I don’t have anything to say! I just need a little time.”

“Another fourteen years? Or maybe just five, until the next homicide comes along? It’s eating you up inside. Get it out! What happened with your mother? What did you do with that shotgun?”

She stood abruptly. He was stung by the fire in her eyes, the sudden hard set of her chin.

“Don’t bring up my mother again.”

“No dice.”

“It’s not your business—”

“Too late. You should’ve stuck with dating rednecks, Rainie. Because you have a real man now and I’m not going anyplace.”

“You arrogant son of a bitch.”

“Yes. Now, tell me about your mother, Rainie.”

“The number one line most abused by psychologists. That’s what I am to you, aren’t I, Quincy? A very interesting case study. Something you can write up for the American Society of Shrinks—otherwise known as ASS—later on in the year.”

“Shut up, Rainie.”

“Oh, good comeback.”

Quincy frowned angrily. Then he shocked them both by striding forward and grabbing her arms.

“Brute force?” she whispered, and her lips parted. He saw something dark come into her eyes.

“It’s what you want, isn’t it?” he countered levelly. “A pattern you recognize, a way to bring me down to the level you think you deserve. If you can keep it physical, then you’ll never have to feel. Right?”

She stared at him mutinously. He brought her even closer, until her lips were a mere inch from his.

“Let me go,” she muttered.

“You’re only going to leave here to pace your house all night long. You’re terrified of sleep. You’re terrified of nightmares. You want them to end, but you still won’t do what it takes to make them go away.”

“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.