Kay Hooper - Hunting Fear

The word was barely out of her mouth when there was a sudden loud sound, and a blinding light came on directly overhead.

For a moment, Lindsay could only blink as her eyes adjusted to the light after being in darkness for so long. When she finally could see, what she saw didn't make sense. Not at first.

It was the sheriff who said, "Some of the media out there could have seen you, we all know that. If you're a potential catch for this bastard, aren't you taking a chance by coming here and at least appearing to involve yourself even more in the investigation?"

"Maybe." Samantha shrugged.

"Wyatt's right." Lucas gazed at her steadily. "What the kidnapper has seen so far is explainable without unduly linking you to us in any formal sense; you were under suspicion and remained here only long enough to be cleared. But if you're seen with any of us, or seen coming here now that you're clearly not a suspect…" He frowned. "Maybe the Carnival After Dark should move on."

"And turn away throngs of the curious, eager to spend money at our games and attractions? If we did that, the sheriff here would lose all faith in his own judgment."

Metcalf scowled but remained silent.

"Sam, don't be stubborn," Lucas said.

With another shrug, she said, "Maybe you'd better hear why I came tonight. Caitlin Graham surprised me by dropping a ring on my table. She told me afterward that it was one Lindsay had worn when they were kids. She wanted me to touch it, to find out if I could pick up anything. I didn't know who she was, so I picked it up."

"And?"

Samantha held up her right hand, palm out. The once-white ring was now, like the line across her palm, a reddish mark, but it was quite visible. "So cold it burned," she said.

"What did you see?" Lucas asked.

"It's not what I saw, it's what I felt." She glanced at Metcalf, then returned her gaze to Lucas. "The places you're searching. Are any of them near water?"

"Streams and creeks," Lucas said without having to refer to a map. "One small lake, I think."

"Simpson Pond," the sheriff confirmed.

Samantha nodded. "You might want to put those places at the top of your list."

"Why?" Metcalf demanded. "Because you felt water wh«n you touched a ring?" / She looked at him steadily but didn't answer.

Quietly, Lucas said, "Sam."

"He is not going to want to hear this," she said, her gaze still on the sheriff but the statement clearly aimed at Lucas.

"If it will help us find Lindsay, he'll have to hear it."

"All right." But Samantha returned her gaze to Lucas when she said, "What I felt was Lindsay choking. Drowning."

"Lindsay swims like a fish," Metcalf said tightly.

"She was drowning. It hasn't happened yet, but she's running out of time. I can almost hear the clock ticking."

"Do you really expect us to run this investigation based on some vision you had because your turban was too tight or you breathed in too much incense?"

Samantha got to her feet. "Run your investigation any way you want, Sheriff. I'm just telling you what I saw." She was expressionless, her voice calm. Still looking at Lucas, she added, "If I'm right, whatever happens to put her in that water terrifies her."

He half nodded. "Thanks."

"Good luck." She left the conference room.

Metcalf said, "What I can't figure out is whether you two are enemies-or something else. It seems to tip back and forth every time you meet."

"I'll let you know when I figure it out." Lucas drained his cup and rose. "In the meantime, I want another look at that map before we go back out."

"Simpson Pond?" The sheriff shook his head. "Not much more than a wide place in a stream dammed up by a beaver. And the so-called property on your list is an old log cabin so remote even the hunters don't like using it."

"If I were a kidnapper holding a victim I needed to keep safely immobile and silent for another fourteen hours or so, remote is just what I'd want."

"I can't believe you're listening to that nut."

Evenly, Lucas said, "It's twelve-thirty. The ransom is due to be delivered tomorrow afternoon at five. Sixteen and a half hours, Wyatt. I say Sam is reliable, and the direction she's indicating makes sense given our kidnapper's M.O. So unless you have a better idea, I plan to continue searching these remote properties- with those on or near water moving to the top of the list."

Metcalf shook his head, the stubborn jut of his jaw mitigated only by the worry and sick dread in his eyes. "I don't have a better idea, goddammit."

"Neither do I. And we didn't need Sam to point out that Lindsay's running out of time."

"I know. I know." Metcalf climbed to his feet, weariness in every line of his body. "So, you're really psychic?"

"I really am."

With the vague understanding that psychic covered a wide range of possibilities, the sheriff said, "What kind of psychic are you? What do you do? Look into crystal balls like Zarina? See the future?"

"I find people who are lost. I feel their fear."

Metcalf blinked. "She was warning you? That's why she said-"

"Yeah. That's why."

"Shit," the sheriff said.

At first, Lindsay thought it was odd that the kidnapper had left her watch on her wrist and untouched. But then, as the minutes ticked away into hours, she began to understand his purpose.

Scaring the shit out of her.

Part of his game.

That dawned on her at about nine o'clock on Friday morning, after she'd made her umpteenth failed attempt to kick a hole through the clear walls surrounding her and into the featureless darkness beyond. The several steel bands wrapping and reinforcing the thick sheets of apparently shatterproof glass provided all the strength necessary to resist her best attempts to break through.

Worse, she had a strong suspicion that she was running out of air. That was when she'd looked at her watch.

Nine o'clock.

Nine o'clock on Friday morning.

He always wanted the ransom delivered by five o'clock on Friday afternoon. And they were positive-almost positive-that he never killed his victims until the ransom had been safely delivered. So she had eight hours, probably.

Eight hours to find a way out of this sealed fish tank.

Eight hours to live.

Assuming he hadn't miscalculated how much air she needed to survive that long.

"Shit," she muttered. "Shit, shit, shit." Swearing usually made her feel better. It didn't this time.

She sat cross-legged on the floor of her tank and studied it, trying to remain calm and rational enough to think clearly, trying to find a weakness. She had thrown her entire weight against various points and corners, only to end up bruised, winded, exhausted, and strongly reminded of a bird flinging itself against the bars of its cage.

Think, Lindsay.

Wyatt's face swam into her mind, and she fiercely shoved it away. She couldn't think about him now. She couldn't think of mistakes or regrets or anything except figuring out a way to come out of this alive.

There would be time for everything else later.

There had to be.

Lindsay tried to concentrate, to study her prison. Then she heard an unfamiliar little sound.

Dripping.

She got to her feet and went to the corner where the pipe protruded through the heavy glass. The pipe that had, until now, been perfectly dry. Now it was dripping water. Not much, and not fast, just water steadily dripping.

She looked around at the cage.

At the tank.

Glass walls. Glass ceiling. Some kind of metal floor. All beautifully sealed. Waterproof.

It wasn't about running out of air, she realized.

As she watched, the dripping water became a trickle.

"Jesus," she whispered.

Most of them had taken another short break around noon, but nobody wanted to waste any time. They had managed to check out less than two-thirds of the properties on their list, and no one on any of the search teams was under any illusions that they'd be able to reach all the remaining properties in time.