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Lisa Gardner

Gone

CHAPTER 01

Tuesday, 12:24 a. m. PST

S HE IS DREAMING AGAIN. She doesn’t want to. She wrestles with the sheets, tosses her head, tries to keep the dream version of herself from walking up those stairs, from opening that door, from entering the gloom.

She wakes up stuffing the scream back into her throat, eyes bulging and still seeing things she doesn’t want to see. Reality returns in slow degrees, as she registers the gray-washed walls, the dark-eyed windows, the empty side of the bed.

She heads for the bathroom, sticking her head under the faucet and gulping mouthfuls of lukewarm water. She can still hear the rain thundering outside. It seems like it has been raining forever this November, but maybe that’s only her state of mind.

She goes into the kitchen. Note’s still on the table. Seven days later, she doesn’t read it anymore, but can’t quite bring herself to throw it away.

Refrigerator inventory time: yogurt, tuna fish, pineapple, eggs. She grabs the eggs, then realizes they expired two weeks ago.

Screw it, she goes back to bed.

Same dream, same images, same visceral scream.

One a. m. , she gets up for good. She showers, scrounges for clean clothes, then stares at her gaunt reflection in the mirror.

“How do you spell fuckup? R-A-I-N-I-E. ”

She goes for a drive.

Tuesday, 2:47 a. m. PST

“BABY ’S CRYING, ” he mumbled.

“Wake up. ”

“Mmmm, honey, it’s your turn to get the kid. ”

“Carl, for God’s sake. It’s the phone, not the baby, and it’s for you. Snap out of it. ”

Carlton Kincaid’s wife, Tina, elbowed him in the ribs. Then she tossed him the phone and burrowed back under the covers, pulling the down comforter over her mocha-colored head. Tina wasn’t a middle-of-the-night sort of person.

Unfortunately, neither was Kincaid. Sergeant Detective, Major Crimes, Portland office of the Oregon State Police, he was supposed to be prepared for these sort of calls. Sound intelligent. Commanding even. Kincaid hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep in nearly eight months now, however, and was feeling it. He stared sulkily at the phone, and thought it had better be damn good.

Kincaid sat up straight and attempted to sound chipper. “Hell-oh. ”

A trooper was on the other end of the line. Had gotten called out by a local deputy to the scene of an abandoned vehicle on the side of a rural road in Tillamook County. So far no sign of the owner at the vehicle’s site or at the owner’s legal address.

Kincaid had one question. “Is the vehicle on public or private property?”

“Dunno. ”

“Well, figure it out, ’cause if it’s private, we’re gonna need consent to search the grounds. You’ll also need to contact the local DA for a warrant to search the vehicle. So get the DA rolling, buckle up the scene, and I’ll be there in”-Kincaid glanced at his watch- “fifty-five minutes. ”