Kay Hooper - Hunting Fear

Since it didn't look as though Metcalf was willing to admit any such thing, Jaylene said, "Mr. Tedesco, could you excuse us for a moment?"

Promptly, he nodded and turned away, saying, "I'll be in the office caravan, Agent. Sheriff."

Staring after him, the sheriff muttered, "Caravan. It's an RV that cost every penny of a hundred and fifty grand."

"And his home," Jaylene pointed out quietly. "Wyatt, we've checked out these people. You've checked them out. Police in about eight states have checked them out. They're decent, law-abiding citizens who run clean games and shows, treat their animals well, and educate their children. They've caused absolutely no trouble and have even been going to church in Golden since they've been here. Half your town would make better suspects than these people."

"Goddammit."

"You know it's the truth. And what Tedesco said was also the truth. We'll only waste time we don't have in concentrating our efforts here. Leave a few of your deputies to take statements if you feel you have to, but we need to move on. We won't find Lindsay here."

"And you're absolutely certain of that?" he demanded.

She held his gaze steadily. "Absolutely."

Metcalf looked away finally, his shoulders slumping. "Then we've got shit for leads, you know that too."

"We've got a little more than twenty-four hours to find something before the ransom is due. I'm telling you, we won't find anything here."

"Then where?" The desperation in his voice was clear, and he made no effort to hide or disguise it. "I don't know where to look, Jaylene. I don't know what to do."

"I'll tell you what you might have to do," she said, still quiet. "You might have to look past a few of your beliefs and limits and accept the undeniable fact that ordinary police work may not be able to help us here."

Grim, he said, "You're talking about Zarina."

"I'm talking about Samantha Burke."

"Same difference," he snorted.

Jaylene shook her head. "No, there is a difference, and that's what you've got to get into your head. Zarina is a carnival seer and mystic, who takes money to tell fortunes. It's how she makes her living, and it's mostly theater, drama. Give the customers what they expect. Offer them a show. She sits in a booth draped in exotic silks and satins and wears a ridiculous turban while she peers at palms and into her crystal ball. That's Zarina. But Samantha Burke is a genuine, gifted psychic."

"I don't believe in that shit."

"I'm not asking you to believe, Wyatt. I'm just asking you to accept the fact-the fact-that there are things beyond your and my understanding, things science will undoubtedly be able to explain one day. Accept the fact that Samantha Burke may well be one of those things. And accept the fact that she will be able to help us. If you let her try."

After a moment, he said, "You sound very sure of that."

"I am," she said. "Absolutely positive."

"Because she helped you and Luke before? Helped resolve another investigation?"

"Yes. And because I know Sam. She'll do everything in her power to help us."

"You, maybe. I doubt she'll be too eager to help me."

"She likes Lindsay. And besides that, she has a strong sense of responsibility. She'll help."

"How?"

"Let's go see," Jaylene said.

"You mean he's a natural profiler," Lucas said.

"I doubt he has a degree in psychology so, yeah, probably self-taught. God knows there are plenty of books on the subject now, never mind the Internet. Maybe he got interested in the art and science of profiling-beginning when you entered the picture."

"You're giving me too much credit for this."

"Or blame?" she murmured, then shook her head. "You didn't create this monster. If he wasn't playing this game with you, he'd be playing some other game in which people died. It's his thing. Killing. Playing with people's lives. But I'm willing to bet that if you ever get the chance to interview him, he'll tell you that he decided to play this particular game when he saw you on TV or read about you in the newspapers and realized that you were so good at finding people-and he was so good at losing them."

"Christ," Lucas said.

Samantha shrugged, then turned her head to study the cruiser Lindsay had driven. "It's just a theory, mind you. An uneducated shot in the dark."

"It was never about education," he said.

"I know. It was about a purple turban." Her mouth twisted a little, but she kept her gaze on the car. "It was about… credibility."

"We walk a fine line, Sam. Without credibility, we wouldn't be allowed to do this work. And it's important work. It's necessary work."

"I also know that."

"Then stop blaming Bishop for making the decision he had to make."

"I don't blame Bishop. I never blamed him." She took a step closer to the car, adding almost absently, "I blame you."

"What? Sam-"

"You took the easy way out, Luke. You let Bishop clean up the mess you left behind. And you moved on, telling yourself it was all for the best."

"That isn't true."

"No?" She turned her head and looked at him. "My mistake."

"Sam-"

"Never mind, Luke. It hardly matters now, does it?" She returned her attention to the police cruiser. "This is the car Lindsay usually drove, right?"

Lucas wanted to refuse the change of subject, but the ticking clock in his head as well as the proximity of the deputies guarding the car told him this wasn't the time or the place. So he merely said, "Yeah, it was her assigned car."

Samantha circled the car warily, hoping her reluctance didn't show but very afraid Luke saw it. Chances were, she wouldn't get anything when she touched the car, sat in it; most of the time she went through life touching things without feeling anything except the physical sensation of them, just like any normal person.

Most of the time.

But emotionally charged situations, she had learned, tended to increase the frequency and intensity of her visions. Luke would say that the strong emotions altered the electromagnetic fields around them, bringing those fields and her own brain into sync- and opening the door for the visions.

She wasn't much interested in the science, established or speculative, behind her abilities. She never had been. Understanding how and why they worked didn't change the fact of them. All she knew for certain was that the visions that had so affected and shaped her life were real and painful, always a burden she couldn't escape, and sometimes terrifying.

She wondered if Luke even realized that.

"We have no leads, Sam," he said, watching her. "No evidence. No hint of who this bastard is or where he might be holding Lindsay. We need something. Anything. Just a place to start."

Stalling, she said, "You still don't feel anything?"

"No. Either I can't connect with her or else she's drugged or unconscious."

"Or already dead."

His jaw tightened. "Unless he's changed his M.O., she isn't dead. He always waits for the ransom to be delivered."

"So far."

"Yeah. So far. No matter what, unless I can get closer to her I may not feel anything even if she does."

"You mean closer physically?"

"Distance seems to make a difference. So do other things. How well I know them or can get to know them. Some idea of how they react to stress and trauma. Even a direction, an area. I need something to focus on, Sam."

"And if I can't give you that?"

"I don't believe traditional police work will get us close to Lindsay by tomorrow afternoon."

"But no pressure?"

For the first time, he smiled, crooked though it was. "Sorry. I never was much good at sugarcoating the truth."

"Yeah. I remember."

Lucas decided not to comment on that. "Please. See if you can get anything from the car."

Mentally bracing herself, for all the good it wouldn't do, Samantha reached out for the driver's side door handle. She felt something the instant she touched it, a familiar sort of inner quiver that was impossible to describe, but didn't pause; she opened the door and slid behind the wheel.