Gone, Baby, Gone Read Online Free PDF Page A

noon as it was now, at eight o’clock in the evening.
    The room was musty, the furniture sparse. The dresser across from the bed looked as if it had been picked up at a yard sale, and the bed itself had no frame. It was a single mattress and box spring placed on the floor, covered in a top sheet that didn’t match the bottom and a Lion King comforter that had been pushed aside in the heat.
    A doll lay at the foot of the bed, looking up at the ceiling with flat doll’s eyes; a stuffed bunny turned on its side against the foot of the dresser. An old black-and-white TV sat up on the dresser, and there was a small radio on the bedside table, but I couldn’t see any books in the room, not even coloring books.
    I tried to picture the girl who’d slept in this room. I’d seen enough photos of Amanda in the last few days to know what she looked like, but a physical likeness couldn’t tell me what set her face had taken when she walked into this room at the end of a day or woke to it first thing in the morning.
    Had she tried to put those posters back up on the wall? Had she asked for the bright blue and yellow pop-up books she’d seen in malls? In the dark and quiet of this room late at night, when she was awake and alone, did she fixate on the lone nail sticking out from the wall across fromthe bed or the sallow brown water mark that puddled down from the ceiling at the east corner?
    I looked at the doll’s shiny, ugly eyes, and I wanted to close them with my foot.
    “Mr. Kenzie, Miss Gennaro.” It was Beatrice’s voice, calling from the kitchen.
    Angie and I took one last look at the bedroom, and then I used my key to switch the light off and we walked down the hall into the kitchen.
    There was a man leaning against the oven, hands stuffed in his pockets. By the way he watched us as we approached, I knew he was waiting for us. He was a few inches shorter than I am, wide and round as an oil drum with a boyish, jolly face, slightly ruddy, as if he spent a lot of time outdoors. His throat had that paradoxically pinched and flabby look of someone nearing retirement age, and there was a hardness to him, an implacability that seemed a hundred years old, seemed to have judged you and your entire life in a glance.
    “Lieutenant Jack Doyle,” he said, as he fired his hand into my own.
    I shook the hand. “Patrick Kenzie.”
    Angie introduced herself and shook his hand, too, and we stood before him in the small kitchen as he peered intently into our faces. His own face was unreadable, but the intensity of his gaze had a magnet’s pull, something in there you wanted to look into even when you knew you should look away.
    I’d seen him on TV a few times over the last few days. He ran the BPD’s Crimes Against Children squad, and when he stared into the camera and spoke of how he’d find Amanda McCready no matter what it took, you felt a momentary pity for whoever had abducted her.
    “Lieutenant Doyle was interested in meeting you,” Beatrice said.
    “Now we’ve met,” I said.
    Doyle smiled. “You got a minute?”
    Without waiting for an answer, he crossed to the doorleading out to the porch, opened it, and looked back over his shoulder at us.
    “Apparently we do,” Angie said.
     
    The porch railing needed a paint job even more than the ceiling in Amanda’s bedroom. Every time one of us leaned on it, the chipped, sun-baked paint crackled under our forearms like logs in a fire.
    On the porch I could smell the odor of barbecue a few houses away, and from somewhere on the next block came the sounds of a backyard gathering—a woman’s loud voice complaining about a sunburn, a radio playing the Mighty Mighty Bosstones, laughter as sharp and sudden as ice cubes shifting in a glass. Hard to believe it was October. Hard to believe winter was near.
    Hard to believe Amanda McCready floated farther and farther away out there, and the world continued turning.
    “So,” Doyle said, as he leaned over the railing. “You solve