Hunting Fear (17 page)

“What about the other place?” Jaylene asked.

Champion chewed on his lower lip as he stared at the map and considered. “The other place is the hunter’s cabin at Simpson Pond. It’s remote, but there’s a halfway decent service road running partway, where the old train tracks used to be. From here . . . less than an hour, probably. But that’s in a different direction, so even if we’re lucky as hell we won’t be able to check out both places. Not before five. Not even before six, if you want my opinion.”

“So we can only check out one of them.” Jaylene was watching her partner. “One of two places only slightly more likely than the other four on our list. Should we flip a coin? Or do you have something to give us better odds?”

Lucas looked at her for a moment, grim, then drew a deep breath, bowed his head, and closed his eyes.

Champion eyed the federal agent uncertainly, reached up to touch his hat as though instinctively feeling he ought to remove it, then whispered to Jaylene, “Is he praying?”

“Not exactly.” She kept her voice low but didn’t whisper. “He’s . . . concentrating.”

“Oh. Okay.” Champion clasped his hands behind him in a parade-rest stance and maintained a respectful silence.

Lucas tuned out his awareness of that silence and the curious stare that went with it. He tuned out the familiar presence of his partner. He tuned out the sounds of the forest all around them. And he focused on one small, bright point of light in his own mind.

The technique didn’t always work, but it was the most successful meditation exercise he’d been able to develop in his years with the SCU. He was in a sense trying to narrow his own psychic abilities, or at least aim them at the smallest possible target. Concentrate on one thing, only one, and direct all his energies there.

Focus on that small, bright point of light, clear everything else out of his mind, and then picture the face of the missing person. Picture Lindsay.

The situation was unusual in that he had spent time with Lindsay before she was taken. So he knew more than merely what she looked like. He knew the sound of her voice, knew the way she moved, the way she thought. He knew the way she took her coffee and her favorite blend of pizza toppings, and he knew the man she loved.

He pushed all that into the bright, white light, seeing nothing but the light and Lindsay.

Lindsay . . .

The water was up to her ankles when Lindsay admitted to herself that stuffing her sock into the pipe wasn’t even slowing it down. There was a lot of pressure in that pipe; every time she got the material wedged in there, it was forced back out, accompanied by a gush of water.

The water was up to her knees when she made a final attempt to kick out the glass, knowing that as the water got deeper in her tank she would be unable to use her full weight in an assault on the glass.

All she got for her trouble was soaking clothes when she slipped and fell in the attempt.

She was trying to stay angry, and at first it hadn’t been hard to do that. To yell and swear at the top of her lungs and damn the animal who had done this to her. To scream until her throat was raw, just on the off chance that he’d done the more common criminal thing and screwed up somewhere, somehow, picked the wrong place or made somebody curious enough to check this place out.

Whatever and wherever this place was.

It wasn’t hard, at first, for Lindsay to grimly make attempt after attempt to alter or delay her fate, staying focused on
doing
something.

She was no helpless maiden, dammit, to be rescued from the dragon. She’d taken down a few dragons in her time and intended to live long enough to take down a few more.

She had things to do, and not just with dragons. She wanted to see the Grand Canyon, Hawaii, and the Great Pyramid. She wanted to learn to ski. She wanted to have kids. She hadn’t realized that until now, but she was sure now, absolutely sure, that she wanted kids. Maybe with Wyatt, if she could knock some sense into his stubborn head. Or maybe with some prince she hadn’t met yet.

Prince.
Yeah, right.

Still, she didn’t doubt they were searching for her. A lot of good cops and a couple of good FBI agents. They were searching for her, and Luke and Jaylene were part of that hotshot elite unit that was supposed to be so good at stuff like this, so the odds were at least even that they’d find her.

Maybe better than even.

And maybe they had psychic help to improve the odds even more. At least—they might have if Samantha was as genuine as she seemed, as genuine as Luke seemed to believe she was. Odd, though, that she’d been right about there being another kidnapping but wrong about the victim.

Always assuming she’d told them the truth, of course.

Lindsay spent a good ten minutes thinking about that and finally decided that Sam had no reason to hate her enough to lie about it if she
had
seen Lindsay in that vision. So she must have gotten it wrong somehow.

But Luke and Jaylene, they were specialists at this sort of thing. They knew what they were doing.

Sure they do. And they followed this guy for a year and a half without catching him!

“They didn’t know he was playing a game,” she heard herself mutter defensively, her own voice a welcome sound over the rushing sound of the water pouring into her tank.

But if they’re so good at this . . . shouldn’t they have known?

“Different places, always on the move—they couldn’t catch up to him. But now they can. Now he’s here, staying put. And they’re here.”

And making great progress here before you were taken, weren’t they?

Lindsay grimaced at her own sardonic thought but also welcomed it. Because it kept her angry.

What were they
doing
out there all this time, all these hours? Sitting on their goddamned hands? They couldn’t find the signs that somebody had built himself a fucking
fish tank
big enough to hold people? How could he get the stuff he needed without somebody realizing?

Huh?

How was that even possible? It wasn’t like everybody needed huge sheets of shatterproof glass and bands of tempered steel for the little sunroom they were building out back, for Christ’s sake!

Golden was a small town, people talked, they talked about
everything,
especially the business of their neighbors, and strangers were
always
noticed, so how had this son of a bitch managed this shit?

And where was Wyatt, goddammit? He was supposed to be here. He was supposed to find her, because he was a good cop and that’s what good cops did.

Wyatt, goddamn you, why haven’t you found me? You should be able to find me. . . .

The anger lasted until the water reached her waist. She looked at her watch, some clear, calm part of her mind calculating, and realized that the tank would be full before five o’clock. At least half an hour before.

She’d be dead before the ransom was paid.

Dead before anyone could find her.

The bastard was cheating.

He had never intended to give Luke a chance to win this round.

When Lucas sucked in a sudden, painful breath, Champion nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Wha—Is he okay?”

“That’s not the question,” Jaylene said, her eyes fixed on her partner. “Is Lindsay okay?”

“No,” Lucas murmured. His eyes were still closed, his head bowed. All the color had drained from his face, and the tension in his lean body was obvious.

“What’s happening, Luke? What’s happening to Lindsay?”

“Afraid. She’s afraid. She’s . . . terrified. She doesn’t want to die.”

“Where is she?”

“Water . . . getting deeper . . .”

“Show me.” Jaylene’s voice was quiet but also commanding. “Which way, Luke? Where is Lindsay?”

He was utterly still for a moment, then startled Champion again by turning suddenly toward the west. “This way. She’s . . . this way.”

Before Jaylene could look at the map or ask, Champion said, “The mine shaft. That’s west of here. The way he’s pointing. Should we—”

“Yes, we should. Now.”

By the time Champion gathered up the map, Jaylene had guided Lucas into the passenger seat and climbed in back. The deputy got behind the wheel as before, admitting silently that he was a little creeped out by this.

“She doesn’t have much time,” Lucas murmured. “She’s afraid. She’s so afraid.”

Champion glanced at the federal agent and swore under his breath, more than a little creeped out now. Lucas gazed straight ahead, his face still ghostly pale and now beaded with sweat, and his eyes were peculiarly . . . fixed. As though he were looking at something far, far away.

Champion lost no time in heading west toward the old gold mine.

“How does he know?” he demanded.

Jaylene replied, “She’s afraid and he feels it. Luke? How sure are you?”

“She’s this way. This direction. It’s cold. It’s cold and wet . . . and she’s alone.”

“Glen, are either of the other search teams closer than we are to the mine?”

“I don’t think so. And radio reception up here is spotty as hell. But we can try.”

“I’ll use the radio. You drive.” She half climbed far enough forward between the front bucket seats to reach the radio and began trying to contact the other teams.

“Hurry,” Lucas said.

“You’re that sure? You have to be sure, Luke. If I can reach someone and pull one or both of the other teams away from their planned areas—”

“She’s there. She’s alone. The bastard left her alone.” His voice was strange, thin. Haunted.

Champion swallowed a sudden sour taste in his mouth, for the first time feeling real dread.

Jaylene kept trying to raise the other teams, but by the time Champion judged them to be nearly halfway to the mine she had pretty much given up hope. No radio contact at all, and with absolutely no signal their cell phones were worse than useless. “It’s us,” she told Champion. “If Lindsay’s there, we’re the only hope she’s got.”

“You’re sure she’s up there?”

“Luke is sure. And when he’s like this, he’s never been wrong.”

“Sit back and fasten your seat belt,” Champion ordered, shifting the ATV into a lower gear to climb the almost vertical slope before them.

Jaylene half obeyed, sitting back a little and hanging on to the front seats as the vehicle bounded through ruts deep enough to engulf most other cars or trucks.

“Hurry,” Lucas repeated. He coughed, seemed to gasp for air.

“Goddammit,” Jaylene said grimly.

“Jesus, is he there with Lindsay?” Champion demanded, pushing the ATV to its straining limits.

“He feels what she feels,” Jaylene repeated. “Hurry.”

Lucas gasped again. Breathed shallowly.

Champion was glad the ATV was making so much noise, its engine laboring and tires clawing like a cat for traction, because what was happening in the passenger seat was literally making his skin crawl.

It was as if Lindsay was there. Sitting there, in the leather seat. Drowning. Every faint gasp sounded like somebody drowning, and Champion knew it was Lindsay. He felt it was her, so strongly that he was afraid to turn his head and look, because he was absolutely sure she’d be there.

Drowning.

What he didn’t know was just how
connected
the federal agent was, never mind how he was doing this. The point was that he was doing it, that he was somehow tied to Lindsay, so what would happen if she did drown?

Champion didn’t ask.

Jaylene pulled herself forward and held on to keep herself steady in the jolting vehicle as she peered at her partner. “Luke?”

He coughed, muttered, “Dark.”

“Oh, shit. Glen, how far?”

“At least fifteen minutes,” he replied, fighting the wheel and the ATV’s tendency to buck.

“Luke—”

“No. No, god
dammit
. . .”

Champion sneaked a quick glance at Lucas and realized immediately that whatever thread had connected him to Lindsay had been snapped. He looked dazed, shaking his head as though to clear dizziness.

“Luke?”

Thickly, he said, “The bastard left her alone. He left her
alone
. All those hours.”

Jaylene didn’t say another word. And neither did Lucas. He sat there in the bucking, straining vehicle beside Deputy Champion, his pale face and haunted eyes telling anybody who cared to look what they would find when they reached the old gold mine.

Even so, when they broke into the cinder-block building that had once served as the storehouse for the mine, Champion wasn’t prepared for what they found.

To his dying day, he’d never forget the sight of Lindsay Graham suspended in a water-filled tank, garishly lighted from above, her open, sightless eyes accusing them all.

Monday, October 1

Detective Lindsay Graham was buried on a gray and misty afternoon, laid to rest in the family plot beside her parents. They, too, had died before their time, though in their case it had been the fault of a drunk driver and an icy highway. They hadn’t been carried to their graves in a flag-draped coffin by uniformed police officers, hadn’t been saluted by dozens of other cops, many of them openly weeping, while bagpipes played plaintively.