Hunting Fear (9 page)

Lindsay noted that her hardheaded lover wasn’t pleased to hear that information; it put human faces on his easy targets and made it more difficult for him to lump them together under a neat label. It also made him aware of what he was trying to do, and that naturally irritated him.

She couldn’t help smiling wryly, but all she said was, “I guess we’re all eating lunch in today. What does everybody want, and I’ll go get it.”

For the remainder of that day, they were all in and out of the room, going over the paperwork again and again, discussing the previous kidnappings and murders. And getting nowhere.

Even what had seemed a promising clue—the handkerchief Samantha had picked up at the carnival—proved to be fairly useless according to the report from Quantico. Mass-produced and sold in any retail store one might name, the handkerchief held a few grains of dirt, undoubtedly acquired when it was dropped onto the ground, but no sign of any human secretions whatsoever.

The lab technician allowed that there was a faint spot containing an oily residue, as yet unidentified, but it would require more time to determine what it might be.

“Ten to one,” Metcalf said, “it’ll turn out to be popcorn oil. And they’ve got—what?—at least two booths selling the stuff?”

“Four on a busy night,” Lucas said with a sigh.

“Dead end,” Jaylene murmured.

There was no good reason for them to remain at the station that night and every reason for them to rest while they could, so they called it a day well before midnight and went to their respective homes or hotel rooms.

Thursday morning proved to be busy, with numerous calls pulling both Metcalf and Lindsay out of the station for a considerable period of time, so Lucas and Jaylene found themselves alone in the conference room more often than not.

“Is it just me,” he said around ten-thirty, “or is time crawling by?”

“It’s definitely dragging.” She glanced up to watch him prowling restlessly back and forth in front of the bulletin boards where they had pinned information and a timeline for the kidnappings and murders. “At the same time, we’re running out of it. If he’s going to act this week . . .”

“I know, I know.” He hesitated, then said, “You talked to Sam this morning.”

“Yeah.”

“And she didn’t have anything else to add?”

“No. But she’s as restless and jumpy as you are.”

Lucas frowned, and returned to his chair at the conference table. “I just hate knowing I’d rather he went ahead and did whatever he’s going to do so we might have something new to work with. I don’t want another victim, and yet—”

“And yet another victim will tell us we’re on the right track. More or less.”

“Yeah, goddammit.”

Metcalf came into the room and sat down with a sigh. “Did everybody go nuts all of a sudden? It’s Thursday, for Christ’s sake, and you’d think it was Saturday night. Fender benders, B&Es, domestic disputes—and some asshole just tried to rob one of our three banks.”

“Unsuccessfully, I gather,” Lucas said.

“Yeah, but not much credit to my people. Guy had a flare gun. A
flare
gun. I was ready to shoot him just on general principle. And because he fucked up my morning.”

Jaylene chuckled, and said, “Quite a lot of action for a small town. Maybe it’s the newspaper stories getting people all riled up.”

“Yeah, let’s blame them.” Metcalf sighed. “So have you two made any progress?”

“No,” Lucas replied shortly.

“He’s a little cranky,” Jaylene explained.

“Aren’t we all.” Metcalf looked up with a scowl as one of his deputies came in and handed him an envelope. “What the hell’s this?”

“Dunno, Sheriff. Stuart told me to give it to you.” Stuart King was the deputy on the front desk today.

Lucas looked across the table as the deputy left and Metcalf opened the letter. He saw a quiver disturb the sheriff’s long fingers. Saw his face go dead white.

“Jesus,” Metcalf whispered.

“Wyatt?” When he got no response, Lucas left his chair and went around the table to the sheriff. He saw the printed letter addressed to Metcalf. Saw a photograph. He actually looked at the photograph, conscious of a deep shock.

“Jesus,” Metcalf repeated. “The bastard’s got Lindsay.”

Lucas dropped the bagged photograph on the table in front of Samantha, and said evenly, “Please tell me you have something to say about this.”

Samantha picked it up, frowning, and lost what little natural color her skin could boast. “I don’t understand. Lindsay? He took Lindsay?”

“Obviously. Now tell me why you told us to watch Carrie Vaughn.”

“She’s the one I saw. Not this, not Lindsay.”

“Is everything else in the photo the same?”

“Lindsay. I don’t understand why—”

Lucas brought his hand down hard on the table, making her jump and finally look up at him. “Think, Sam. Is everything else the same?”

Clearly shaken, Samantha returned her gaze to the photo and studied it. “Same room. Same chair, same newspaper. Even the blindfold looks the same. The only difference between this and what I saw is Lindsay.” She dropped the bagged photo and half consciously pushed it away.

Lucas sat down across from her. “The photo has been printed; it’s clean, of course. Open the bag. Touch it.”

“I would have gotten something even through the bag.”

“Maybe not. Open it, Sam.”

She hesitated, then pulled the bag back and opened it. She took out the photo, handling it gingerly at first. And her frown told him even before she shook her head and said, “Nothing.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.” She returned the photo to the bag. “He took her this morning? It can’t have been too long ago; she was in and out, I saw her.”

“Wyatt received the note less than an hour ago. Twenty minutes ago, her car was found parked at the side of a small café where she often gets coffee.” His voice was still even, unemotional, as it had been from the moment he’d entered the room. “No one inside saw her arrive, and she didn’t go in. So far, we haven’t found anyone in the area who saw her.”

“The sheriff got the ransom demand?”

Lucas nodded.

“How much?”

“Exactly what he’s got in savings. Twenty grand.”

“
Exactly
that?”

Again, Lucas nodded. “The kidnapper has never been so precise before, just in the ballpark of what the family or significant other could afford. This time it’s almost to the penny. And I doubt it’s a coincidence.”

“No. No, I don’t think it is. He’s being bolder, isn’t he? Like he’s thumbing his nose at you.”

“At someone.” Lucas shook his head. “He took a cop this time, which is either very, very stupid or very brazen. And I don’t think he’s stupid.”

“When is the ransom to be delivered?”

“Tomorrow afternoon at five.”

Frowning, Samantha said, “But if he knows Metcalf has the right amount in savings, he must know the sheriff could get his hands on it today. Why give you more than twenty-four hours to try and find Lindsay?”

“Just for that reason, I think. To give us time to search. To see how good we are. Maybe he’s even out there watching, observing our methods.”

Samantha studied him across the table. “What else do you think? What do you feel?”

“I don’t feel anything.”

“You know Lindsay, you’ve been around her for days. You don’t feel anything from her?”

Lucas shook his head.

Refusing to leave it, Samantha said, “Because she’s unconscious, maybe.”

“Maybe.”

She didn’t have to touch him to know what lay behind the calm tone and expressionless face, but all she said was, “If Metcalf got the ransom note, do you think it’s because he’s Lindsay’s boss—or her lover?”

Lucas was clearly unsurprised by her knowledge of that relationship. “The latter. He knew their secret, and he wanted us to know he knew. He’s making it personal.”

“Where’s Metcalf now?”

“On his way out to the carnival.”

Samantha came up out of her chair. “He’s what? Jesus, Luke—”

“Calm down. Jay’s with him; she’ll see to it that nothing gets out of hand.”

“He can’t possibly believe anyone at the carnival had anything to do with this.”

“The carnival is fairly close to the café where Lindsay’s car was found. Someone could have seen something. He’s justified in wanting to talk to people out there.”

“Talk? You know damned well he wants to do more than talk.”

“I know he wanted to come in here and throw that picture in your face about ten minutes ago. Sit down, Sam.”

She did, but said bitterly, “Oh, it’s my fault again, is it? Because my prediction was only half right?”

“He’s not entirely rational at the moment. And don’t expect him to be anytime soon. You’re an easy target, we both know that, and he badly wants to get his hands on whoever’s responsible for this.”

“It is not me.”
Her voice was flat.

“I know that. On some level, Wyatt knows it. Even the media outside knows it. Which is another complication, since they also knew you were in here to prove your innocence.”

She sighed. “And what I’ve really proven is that I knew or strongly suspected there’d be another kidnapping.”

“Business should be brisk at your booth tonight, assuming you mean to open up for readings.”

Samantha leaned back in her chair, staring at him. “Yeah, genuine psychics are rare beasts. Isn’t it dandy—and useful—publicity that I’ll be validated in the media now.”

“I didn’t say—”

“You didn’t have to.”

Lucas drew a breath and let it out slowly. “People will be curious, that’s all I meant.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Stop being so goddamned touchy and help me find Lindsay Graham before this bastard kills her.”

“Are you asking?”

Getting to his feet, he said roughly, “Yes, I’m asking. Because I don’t have a clue, Samantha. Is that what you want to hear? I don’t even have a place to start. And I have no time for regrets, or explanations, or this little dance you and I always seem to do. I’m out of time because Lindsay is out of time; if we don’t find her by tomorrow night, in all probability she’ll be dead. So if you don’t want to help me, at least try to help
her
.”

“The sheriff,” Samantha said, “is not going to like it.”

“I’ll deal with Wyatt.”

She gazed up at him for a long moment, then shrugged. “Okay,” she said, getting up. “Let’s go.”

Lindsay wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but she was fuzzily aware that it had. Try as she might, the last thing she could remember was eating breakfast that morning with Wyatt; everything after that was a blank.

She wasn’t worried about it. In fact, she wasn’t worried about anything, and had the suspicion that it was because she’d been drugged. This groping-through-the-fog sensation was one she recalled experiencing years before while being heavily dosed with Valium before a minor medical procedure.

Okay, so she was drugged; she knew that much.

She was lying on a hard, chilly surface, on her belly. She also seemed to have something dark loosely covering her head, a hood or something like that. And her wrists were taped together behind her.

An experimental twitch—all she could really manage—told her that her ankles were not bound, but she couldn’t seem to make her muscles work well enough to roll over or try to free her hands. She wasn’t even sure she could feel her hands.

Bound, hooded, drugged.

Oh, Christ, I’ve been kidnapped.

Her strongest emotion just then was sheer incredulity. Kidnapped? Her? Jeez, if he wanted ransom money, then he was sure as hell out of luck. She had part of her last paycheck in the bank, but beyond that—

Wait. Sam had said it wasn’t about money. That it was all just a game, a broken, brilliant game—No. A man with a broken, brilliant
mind
wanted to play a game. A twisted game. With Lucas Jordan. To see who was smarter, faster. To see who was better. Like a chess game, Sam had said.

Which made Lindsay a pawn.

And she didn’t have to grope through the fog for long to remember what had happened to virtually all the other pawns.

Dead.

“Oh, shit,” she heard herself whisper.

She half expected someone—him—to reply to that, but even with her brain fogged she had a strong certainty that she was alone here. Wherever here was. Alone, bound, drugged.

Even through the muffling, quieting effects of the drugs, Lindsay began to feel the first faint twinges of anxiety and fear.

They went out the back way to avoid the media camped out front and encountered Deputy Glen Champion before they could leave the building.

He hesitated for an instant, looking at Samantha, then blurted, “Thank you. The dryer was—I had it checked out. The electrician said it was a fire waiting to happen. So thank you.”