genuinely missed detecting. The thrill of the chase, the camaraderie of fellow police officers, the comforting weight of his gun. When a friend in the Bureau approached him later that year, it wasn't a hard sale.
The next thing Quincy knew, he was working one hundred and twenty cases a year. He routinely traveled to four cities in five days. He carried a briefcase filled with photographs of the most savage crimes imaginable. He gave advice that saved lives, and sometimes, he missed clues that cost lives.
While his girls grew up. And his marriage fell apart. And the man who'd once testified in custody hearings was so knee-deep in dead bodies he was the last one to see it coming.
By the time Jim Beckett broke out of a Massachusetts prison by slaughtering two prison guards, Quincy was already a walking advertisement for burnout. By the end of that case, when he was done burying the bodies of various law enforcement officers he'd known and respected, he knew it was time for a change.
He'd transferred to the BSU where he could scale back his travel schedule and make more time for his daughters. He'd missed their childhood. Now, he belatedly tried to catch their high school years.
He designed and taught classes at Quantico while watching soccer games and school plays. He took up researching past cases, including the notorious child killer Russell Lee Holmes, for entry into the FBI's database. He attended Mandy's graduation from high school. He revisited the cold case files, examining records of serial killers who had never been caught. He helped Kimberly select the right college. He created a checklist for identifying potential mass murderers. He got a call to come to a hospital in Virginia, where he watched his older daughter die.
Time had given Quincy regrets. It had also taught him honesty. He understood now that he no longer did what he did to save the world. He worked as an agent for the same reason people worked as accountants and lawyers and corporate clerks. Because he was good at it. Because he liked the challenge. Because when the job was done right, he felt good about himself.
He had not been the husband he had wanted to be. He had not been the father he had hoped to be. Last year, however, he'd connected three mass murders that local officials had thought were one-off crimes.
He was a damn good agent. And year by year, he was working on becoming a better person. He had honestly tried connecting with Mandy not long before the accident. He was definitely trying to connect with Kimberly now, though she seemed hell-bent on ignoring his calls. Last month, he'd even gone to the Rhode Island nursing home and spent an afternoon with his eighty-year-old father, who was so stricken with Alzheimer's that he didn't recognize Quincy anymore and had started the visit by ordering Quincy to go away. Quincy had stayed. Eventually, Abraham Quincy had stopped yelling. Then, they sat in silence, and Quincy worked on remembering the other moments that they had shared, because he knew his father could not.
Quincy was learning the hard way that isolation was not protection, that no number of crime scenes ever prepared you for the death of your own child, and that no matter how many nights passed, it was never any easier to sleep alone.
Rainie had once accused him of being too polite. He had told her that there was enough ugliness in the world without him having to add to it, and he'd meant it.
He had genuinely loved Mandy.
And he was so sorry now that she never knew.
* * *
Virginia
When Rainie's plane touched down at Ronald Reagan National Airport, she felt a little giddy. She grabbed her bag from the overhead compartment, collected the small suitcase containing her Glock.40 from baggage claim, and proceeded straight to the car rental agency where she secured the world's tiniest economy car without a hitch. Not bad for her first trip – Dirty Harry, eat your heart out.
Her stomach was rumbling; she hadn't trusted the
The next thing Quincy knew, he was working one hundred and twenty cases a year. He routinely traveled to four cities in five days. He carried a briefcase filled with photographs of the most savage crimes imaginable. He gave advice that saved lives, and sometimes, he missed clues that cost lives.
While his girls grew up. And his marriage fell apart. And the man who'd once testified in custody hearings was so knee-deep in dead bodies he was the last one to see it coming.
By the time Jim Beckett broke out of a Massachusetts prison by slaughtering two prison guards, Quincy was already a walking advertisement for burnout. By the end of that case, when he was done burying the bodies of various law enforcement officers he'd known and respected, he knew it was time for a change.
He'd transferred to the BSU where he could scale back his travel schedule and make more time for his daughters. He'd missed their childhood. Now, he belatedly tried to catch their high school years.
He designed and taught classes at Quantico while watching soccer games and school plays. He took up researching past cases, including the notorious child killer Russell Lee Holmes, for entry into the FBI's database. He attended Mandy's graduation from high school. He revisited the cold case files, examining records of serial killers who had never been caught. He helped Kimberly select the right college. He created a checklist for identifying potential mass murderers. He got a call to come to a hospital in Virginia, where he watched his older daughter die.
Time had given Quincy regrets. It had also taught him honesty. He understood now that he no longer did what he did to save the world. He worked as an agent for the same reason people worked as accountants and lawyers and corporate clerks. Because he was good at it. Because he liked the challenge. Because when the job was done right, he felt good about himself.
He had not been the husband he had wanted to be. He had not been the father he had hoped to be. Last year, however, he'd connected three mass murders that local officials had thought were one-off crimes.
He was a damn good agent. And year by year, he was working on becoming a better person. He had honestly tried connecting with Mandy not long before the accident. He was definitely trying to connect with Kimberly now, though she seemed hell-bent on ignoring his calls. Last month, he'd even gone to the Rhode Island nursing home and spent an afternoon with his eighty-year-old father, who was so stricken with Alzheimer's that he didn't recognize Quincy anymore and had started the visit by ordering Quincy to go away. Quincy had stayed. Eventually, Abraham Quincy had stopped yelling. Then, they sat in silence, and Quincy worked on remembering the other moments that they had shared, because he knew his father could not.
Quincy was learning the hard way that isolation was not protection, that no number of crime scenes ever prepared you for the death of your own child, and that no matter how many nights passed, it was never any easier to sleep alone.
Rainie had once accused him of being too polite. He had told her that there was enough ugliness in the world without him having to add to it, and he'd meant it.
He had genuinely loved Mandy.
And he was so sorry now that she never knew.
* * *
Virginia
When Rainie's plane touched down at Ronald Reagan National Airport, she felt a little giddy. She grabbed her bag from the overhead compartment, collected the small suitcase containing her Glock.40 from baggage claim, and proceeded straight to the car rental agency where she secured the world's tiniest economy car without a hitch. Not bad for her first trip – Dirty Harry, eat your heart out.
Her stomach was rumbling; she hadn't trusted the
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