Tuesday, 4:05 a.m. PST

THUNDER OUTSIDE.

Quincy woke up too fast. His breath caught, his hands grabbing the mattress, his body steeling for the blow. In the next instant, he rolled fluidly onto his side and was up out of the bed.

His chest was heaving. He had to force himself to look at the heavily floral wallpaper, to remember where he was and how he’d gotten here. The conclusion of those thoughts took the rest of the fight right out of him. His shoulders sagged. His head came down. He leaned heavily against the window and watched the rain slash hard diagonal lines across the glass.

He’d been in the cute country bed-and-breakfast for seven days now, which was about seven days too long. The owner was kind, at least. She didn’t comment on a lone man renting a room in an inn obviously intended for lovers. And she didn’t pry when each morning he quietly asked to extend his reservation one more day.

Where was this leading? When would it end? He honestly didn’t know anymore. And that thought left him tired. It made him feel, for the first time in his life, very, very old.

Quincy was fifty-three, at the stage of his life where his dark brown hair held more salt than pepper, where the crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes had dug in deep, where he felt more and more distinguished and less and less handsome. He still ran twelve miles four times a week. He still trained each month at the firing range. Twice in his lifetime he had dealt with serial predators up close and personal, and he wasn’t about to go soft just because he’d passed the half-century mark.

He wasn’t an easy man. He understood that. He was too smart, spent too much time living inside his head. His mother had died young and his father hadn’t been a talker. There were entire years of his life that had passed in silence. A boy who grew up like that was bound to turn into a particular kind of man.

He’d joined law enforcement on a whim, starting his career with the Chicago PD. Then, when it turned out he had a natural gift for pursuing unnatural minds, he’d joined the FBI as a profiler. He’d logged the miles, working over a hundred cases a year, traveling from motel to motel, always studying death.

While his first wife left him. While his two daughters grew up without him. Until one day, he’d looked around and realized that he’d given so much to the dead, he had nothing left.

He’d transferred to some internal projects within the bureau after that, tried to be home more for his girls. He’d even worked on repairing the fractious relationship with his ex-wife, Bethie.

Maybe he’d made some progress. It was hard to know. It seemed the next time he blinked his eyes, he was receiving a call from Bethie. There had been an automobile accident. Mandy was in the hospital. Please, come quick…

His oldest daughter had never regained consciousness. They’d buried her shortly before her twenty-fourth birthday, then Quincy returned to his windowless office at Quantico, once again wading through photos of death.

That had been the hardest year of Quincy’s life. Worse had been the horrible realization that someone had killed Mandy, and that that same someone now stalked Bethie and his younger daughter, Kimberly. He had moved quickly then, but still not quite fast enough. The killer had gotten to Bethie first, and maybe would’ve succeeded in killing Kimberly as well, if not for Rainie.

Rainie had fought that day. She had fought for Kimberly, she had fought for herself, and she’d fought simply for the sake of fighting, because that’s what she did and that’s who she was and he’d never met anyone quite like her.

He had loved that Rainie. He had loved her big mouth, her wiseass manner, her quick-fire temper. He loved the way she challenged him, provoked him, and infuriated the living daylights out of him.

She was tough, independent, cynical, bright. But she was also the only woman he’d ever met who understood him. Who knew that he 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 amp;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

KINCAID 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 trained member of law enforcement, on a road this dark, this remote, this daunting? Kincaid could think of some answers for those questions, but none of them were good.

He called the towing company. If the scientists needed the vehicle safe and dry, then by God, he’d get it someplace safe and dry.

The flatbed tow truck came, driver stepping into the deluge, looking at the muddy swamp surrounding the vehicle, and promptly shaking his head. Car was dug in now. Trying to pull it out would spray mud everywhere and destroy what little trace evidence was left.

Car wasn’t going anyplace for at least another few hours.

Kincaid cursed, shook his head in disgust, and finally had a bright idea. He found a local deputy with an easy-up tent and sent him home for the canvas. Thirty minutes later, he’d erected the makeshift shelter over the vehicle and its immediate surroundings. Any impressions evidence was no doubt long gone, but hey, a guy had to try. Besides, beneath the cover of the tent, he could at least get to work.

Kincaid started snapping digital photos, getting halfway around the vehicle before Trooper Blaney returned, followed by a second car.

Kincaid watched as the second vehicle parked behind Blaney’s cruiser and a man stepped out into the downpour. He wore a London Fog coat that probably cost half of Kincaid’s monthly salary. Expensive shoes. Sharp-pressed slacks. So this was Pierce Quincy. Former FBI profiler. Lorraine Conner’s husband. Obvious person of interest. Kincaid took a long, hard look.

Quincy didn’t waste any time coming over.

“Sergeant Kincaid.” The man stuck out a hand, rain already molding his hair to his skull.

“You must be Quincy.” They shook. Kincaid thought the profiler had a strong grip, lean face, and nearly crystalline blue eyes. A hard man. One used to being in control.

“What happened? Where’s my wife? I’d like to see Rainie.”

Kincaid merely nodded, rocking back on his heels and continuing his assessment. This was his party. Best to make that clear now and save them both a lot of pissing wars.

“Nice coat,” he said at last.

“Sergeant-”

“Like the shoes, too. Bit muddy though, don’t you think?”

“Mud washes off. Where’s my wife?”

“I’ll tell you what. You answer my questions, then I’ll answer yours. Sound like a plan?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Actually, since this is my scene, no, you don’t.”

Quincy thinned his lips but didn’t protest. Kincaid allowed himself one moment to puff out his chest. Score one for the state guy.

He still should’ve stayed in bed.

“Mr. Quincy, when was the last time you saw your wife?”