by Kay Hooper
This one, he thought, would be one of the best. When she finally broke, her terror would be extreme. He didn’t know if Jordan could feel it or smell it, but either way it would hit him like a punch to the gut.
To be this close.
To have an innocent taken from beneath his very nose.
To begin to really understand the game.
“Jesus, Sam.”
“What? What was I supposed to do, Luke? Ignore what I saw? Let that lady and her baby die?”
“Of course not.”
“Well, then. I gave him the calmest, most low-key warning I could come up with, spur-of-the-moment. I’m sure you could have done better in disguising the psychic origins of the information, what with all your training and experience in these things, but—”
“Will you stop with that shit? I didn’t make the rules, Sam. I wasn’t the one who decided that anything that smacked of carnivals or sideshows could never be part of what we are. But you know what? For the record, I agree with Bishop on that one. I have had to deal with too many hard-nosed, skeptical cops like Wyatt Metcalf not to have learned that we have to look serious and act serious if we have even a hope of being accepted for what we are and believed. So we can do our jobs.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’re right. You usually are, after all.” She closed the take-out box and pushed the salad away. “Lost my appetite. Can’t imagine why.”
Lucas was sorely tempted to turn around and walk out but fought the impulse. Instead, he pulled the other chair out and sat down across from her.
“Please,” she said, “join me.”
“Thanks, I will.” He kept his voice even. “Do you think we can talk like two rational people for a minute?”
“Maybe a minute. Though I wouldn’t bet on it.”
“Jesus, Sam.”
“You already said that.”
What he said then was something he hadn’t wanted or intended to say. “I never meant to hurt you.”
Samantha laughed.
Lucas supposed he deserved that, but it didn’t make it any easier to take. “I didn’t. I know you don’t believe that, but it’s the truth.”
“As a matter of fact, I do believe it. So what?”
He wasn’t a man who was easily knocked off his balance, but he had to admit, at least silently, that Samantha always managed to do just that. “So can we stop fighting?”
“I don’t know. Can we?”
“Christ, you’re a stubborn woman.”
“That’s not even conversation.”
“Do I have to remind you again that I’m in the middle of a serial kidnapping and murder investigation?”
“We’re in the middle. I’m here too, Luke.”
“You being here is just—” He stopped, then slowly finished, “a fluke.”
Samantha didn’t say a word.
“Happenstance. A coincidence.”
She picked up her drink and sipped.
Lucas was aware of a second impulse to get up and walk out of the room, and he very nearly obeyed that one. Instead, he drew a deep breath, let it out slowly, and said, “The carnival isn’t in Golden because the next town on the schedule just hosted a circus. The carnival is in Golden because you wanted it to be here.”
“I didn’t want to be here, Luke, believe me. In fact, I would have gone a long way to avoid being here just now. But we both know some of the things I see simply can’t be changed. And unfortunately for us both, this is one of them. It’s the real punch line of the cosmic joke. In that vision where I saw you playing chess with the kidnapper, I also saw myself standing behind you. You can’t win the game without me.”
Lindsay stretched languidly and yawned. “God. Do we have to go back to the station?”
Metcalf eyed smooth flesh still clinging to its golden summer tan and reached over to touch her. “Somebody might wonder if we never come back from lunch,” he noted absently.
“Ummm. What lunch? I’ve lost ten pounds with these lunches of ours.”
“We can stop for a quick burger on the way back.”
“You always say that, but when it comes down to it neither one of us is hungry.”
“So we lose a few pounds and go back to work relaxed and destressed; I’d call that a good lunch break.”
Lindsay started to reach for him but saw over his shoulder the clock on the nightstand and groaned. “We’ve been gone almost an hour now.”
“I’m the sheriff. I can be late.”
“But—”
“And so can you.”
They were very late in returning to the station, and when absolutely nobody commented, Lindsay wondered for the first time if their “secret” affair was as secret as she’d believed.
People were very studiously not commenting.
They found both Lucas and his partner in the conference room. He was pacing with the wired energy of a caged cat; Jaylene was sitting on the end of the conference table, watching him meditatively.
“Sorry,” Lindsay said as they came in.
Lucas paused and looked at her. “Why?”
“Lunch. We’re late getting back.”
“Oh. That.” He resumed pacing. “I’m not hungry.”
Gesturing to two Styrofoam containers behind her on the table, Jaylene said, “I brought him something, but he’s been a little . . . preoccupied.”
“Has something happened?” Metcalf asked.
“No,” Lucas said. He glanced at Jaylene, then added, “Nothing’s changed.”
Metcalf looked at Lindsay. “Was that a qualified statement? It sounded qualified to me.”
“Don’t ask,” Lucas told him. “You won’t like the answer, believe me.”
“It’s Samantha,” Jaylene said. “She believes she’s meant to be here, to be involved in the investigation. To help Luke win the game.”
“Shit,” Metcalf said.
Lindsay asked, “Help him how?”
“If she even knows, she isn’t saying.”
“I don’t think she knows,” Lucas said. “Just that she’s somehow involved.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying,” the sheriff reminded them.
Lucas stopped pacing and took a chair. “Involved in the investigation. On our side.”
“Your side,” Jaylene murmured.
“Is there a difference?” he demanded.
“Maybe so.”
He gestured slightly as though pushing the comment away, then said, “Whether Sam’s involved doesn’t change the fact that we’ve got nothing to go on. No evidence, nothing to I.D. him or even point us in his direction. If this bastard follows his usual pattern, he’s already in another state and planning his next abduction.”
Lindsay said, “But Sam says his next abduction is here in Golden.” She frowned. “If we assume for a minute that she’s right, why would he change his M.O. now? I mean, why plan two kidnappings in the same area? Isn’t that asking for trouble?”
“Maybe it’s asking for Luke,” Jaylene offered. “Maybe part of the game was to eventually get us in position before the fact. It would be the first time.”
“And really the only way he could do it,” Lucas said slowly. “We’re here investigating his last abduction, so if he wanted us on the scene before his next one, he’d pretty much have to plan it here, while we were here.”
Jaylene looked at the clutter of files and photographs on the table. “So . . . if he got us here before the fact, and it’s part of his game, then it’s at least possible that he has left us a . . . clue, for want of a better word. Something that offers Luke at least a fighting chance against him. Otherwise, the game’s winner is predetermined. And there’s no contest.”
Metcalf scowled. “I hate to admit that Zarina had a point, but that comment about broken minds makes a certain amount of sense. I mean, can we reasonably expect this guy to play by any kind of rules?”
“He’ll play by his rules,” Lucas said slowly. “He has to. Being careful and meticulous has been a point of honor
for him, so this will be too. The game has rules. And he will abide by those rules. The trick for us . . . is figuring out what they are.”
Jaylene said, “Which goes back to my point. He can’t reasonably expect you to play his game unless and until the rules are clear. So at some point they have to be. Maybe at this point. And since he didn’t send us a printed list, they have to be here.” She gestured to the paperwork spread out on the table. “Somewhere.”
Metcalf said, “You can’t be serious? It’s the proverbial needle in a haystack.”
“Not much of a haystack,” Lucas reminded him. “Even after eighteen months, we have very little in the way of evidence. We have cause of death; we have crime-scene reports but only from locations where the bodies were found, never where the vics were killed; we have the statement from the single surviving victim, which tells us only that he spoke to her, sounded intelligent and, in her words, ‘scary as hell’; we have statements from friends, family members, and coworkers of the vics; we have some minor trace evidence, hair and fibers that may or may not be connected to the kidnapper; we have ransom notes printed on a very common brand of ink-jet printer—and that’s about it.”
“Lotta paper,” Lindsay said. “But not a very helpful haystack.”
“Yeah, but it has to be,” Jaylene pointed out. “Doesn’t it? He’s here, we’re here. After following him around for a year and a half, we’ve apparently reached the next stage of the game.”
“If Zarina’s right about that,” Metcalf reminded them.
“Her name,” Lucas said, “is Samantha.”
“That’s not what the posters say.”
“Wyatt,” Lindsay murmured.
“Well, it isn’t. She goes by Zarina, right?”
“Only when she’s working,” Lucas said. “Wyatt, please. The problem with assuming about Sam’s prediction—either way—is that we have to wait. We won’t know if the kidnapper is still in this area unless and until he abducts another victim. Now, we can assume he’s already gone and wait for a kidnapping report somewhere in the East, or we can assume he’s still here and about to snatch his next vic—and wait for that to happen.”
“Our part of the game plan sucks,” Metcalf noted.
“Or,” Lucas continued, “we can expect him to grab someone by tomorrow evening or Thursday morning—Carrie Vaughn, if Sam’s right—and we can spend that time looking for his goddamned game rules and watching the potential target very, very closely.”
“We already know one of his rules,” Lindsay said. “When he takes the victims. Sometime between noon on Wednesday and noon on Thursday. Right?”
Jaylene nodded. “Right. Every single victim was snatched during that twenty-four-hour period.”
“Rule number one,” Lucas said. He reached out to draw a file folder close. “Let’s start looking for rule number two.”
Wednesday, September 26
Metcalf came into the conference room, saying briefly, “Carrie Vaughn has a detective in her living room as well as a patrol car in her driveway. She’s safe. She’s not happy, but she’s safe.”
Lucas glanced at his watch. “Just before noon. If he’s still in Golden and has another kidnapping planned so soon, he’ll move by noon tomorrow.”
“If we got that rule right,” Lindsay said.
“Yeah. If.”
Metcalf said, “Just for the record, I locked Zarina in her room.”
Lucas frowned slightly but didn’t look up as he said, “A sensible precaution, from your point of view.”
“I thought so. And she didn’t seem too upset about it.”
“Probably because you didn’t call her Zarina to her face.”
Shrugging, Metcalf sat down at the table. “I’m still surprised all her carnie friends haven’t shown up here.”
“She probably told them what she meant to do and asked them to stay away. They’re a tight group; they’d handle it however she asked them to.”
“You almost sound like you respect them.”
“I do. Most of them have been on their own since they were kids but still managed to carve out a fair living for themselves without breaking a law or hurting others. That puts them in the Decent Human Being column of my book.”
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?”
“D
unno, 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.”
4
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.”
