Tuesday, 10:42 a.m. PST

THE RAIN WAS FINALLY RELENTING. Driving down Highway 101, Quincy watched the misty clouds ease their grip on the coastal range, allowing dark green peaks to appear here and there amid the gloom.

Rainie loved these mountains. She had grown up here, in the shadow of the towering Douglas firs, within whisper distance of the rocky coast. She believed the outdoors should be awe inspiring, a presence grand enough to make mere mortals shake in their boots. When Rainie was happy, she went outside. When she was nervous, she went outside. When she was excited, fearful, stressed, or content, she always went outside.

When Rainie was depressed, Quincy had learned the hard way, she stayed curled up inside her darkened bedroom.

Kincaid put his right blinker on. The detective was finally driving at less than the speed of light, lost in his own thoughts.

With the arrival of the note, the case had finally taken shape and Kincaid appeared to be settling in. He had an adversary. He had claim of a crime. He also had a note, which generated a slew of tangible leads and logical tasks. Kincaid could now work his phone like a general marshaling his troops for war.

In contrast, Quincy could feel himself slowly start to disintegrate. He was an investigator well versed in crime. He was also a man who knew, better than most, that bad things could happen to you. And yet still, up until this point, the night had contained a surreal feel. Rainie was tough. Rainie was capable. He worried about her drinking and he worried about her state of mind. But he’d never honestly worried that an outsider might cause her physical harm.

And now, this was one of those times when Quincy wished he’d never become a profiler. He wished he might be an engineer, or a high school math teacher, or even a dairy farmer. Because then he could be just a man, an anxious husband. And he could console himself with the fact that he did have ten thousand dollars and he would gladly pay ten times that amount to have Rainie safe in his arms.

He could tell himself everything was going to be all right. He could assure himself this was just a small, strange interlude, and in only a matter of hours, he would see his wife again.

He wouldn’t have to know so many statistics, such as that the majority of ransom cases ending with the kidnapped victim being discovered dead.

Kincaid made the turn. In front of them, the Tillamook Air Museum finally loomed into view.

Under normal conditions, it would be hard to miss the air museum. Housed in an old World War II blimp hangar, it had the distinction of being the largest wooden structure in the entire world. It soared over fifteen stories high and engulfed a whopping seven acres. The museum’s collection of thirty different warplanes barely made a dent in the dark, cavernous space.

He and Rainie had toured it once. At the end, Rainie had turned, regarded him thoughtfully, and said, “You know, this would be a great place to hide a body.”

The blimp hangar was part of a Naval Air Station. Though NAS Tillamook was decommissioned in ’48, it still had the look and feel of a Navy space. Low, sprawling buildings to house officers, men. Vast tracts of land for various training exercises. A maze of roads looping in and around the compound.

In addition to the air museum, a plane charter company had taken up residence. Then there was the neighboring prison, its walls topped by guard towers and rolls of barbed wire.

It was a busy area, but not too busy. Given the tourist traffic to the museum, a stranger wouldn’t be out of place. Even after hours, Quincy would bet any man could travel the grounds unquestioned as long as he looked like he knew what he was doing. In other words, it was the perfect place for an illicit rendezvous.

Following the map, they took a hard right before hitting the museum. That took them straight to a small cemetery, plopped in the middle of open pastureland.

“It’s the Catholic cemetery,” Kincaid remarked as he parked the car and they both climbed out. “Maybe your UNSUB’s got issues.”

“Don’t we all?” Quincy murmured, and crossed to study the map.

It took a moment to orient the crude drawing to the space. A road had been sketched into the left side of the map, a small bush toward the back. It was a rough system. Nothing appeared to scale, and given the lack of trees or shrubs on the grounds, none of the landmarks appeared particularly distinct.

“Well, I can tell you one thing,” Kincaid said after a moment. “The UNSUB clearly failed art class.”

“I think the trick is not to try too hard. Treat the landmarks like points on a compass. We want the bushes to be south of us, the trees to the left. If we stand that way…”

“X doesn’t mark the spot,” Kincaid filled in. “But a cross does.”

“Let’s go.”

The five-foot gray granite cross was pockmarked with age and green-tinged from decades of rain. Moss had sprung up on the edges. Ferns sprouted along the base. The tombstone maintained a certain timeless dignity, however. The last sentinel of an entire family, it maintained its watch over four generations.

Ashes to ashes, Quincy thought, dust to dust.

“I don’t see anything,” Kincaid said. “Do you?”

Quincy shook his head, still circling. The family plot was old and appeared undisturbed. No fresh flowers, no churned earth. He frowned, backed up, frowned again.

The cemetery was active. Dark mounds of fresh-turned earth indicated new additions. Bright-colored flags adorned many monuments, leftovers no doubt from Veterans Day. Here and there, vases boasted fresh bouquets of carnations, daisies, roses. He took the map from Kincaid, studied it, and decided he hated this whole game.

“Time check,” Kincaid said.

“Ten fifty-eight.”

“So we have an hour until deadline.” The sergeant eyed the cemetery. “If we got a whole hour, how hard can this be?”

“Let me ask you something,” Quincy said abruptly. “This deadline… how will he know if we don’t meet it?”

Kincaid had the sense not to whip around. Instead, his body went perfectly still. “You think he’s watching?” he whispered.

“Or has a lookout. Or… electronic surveillance?”

“Not easy out here.”

“If he’s set up a wireless surveillance system, I think you would have to categorize him one step up from a ‘dumb mutt,’” Quincy agreed.

“Shit. That’s all we need, a little felonious MacGyver.”

“I don’t think I’d care for it much myself.”

Quincy expanded his walking path, moving more carefully now, trying to get a broader sense of his surroundings. The neighboring buildings could conceal someone quite easily. The tall surrounding grass as well. And as for cameras… behind a flag, peering out from a basket of flowers, nestled within the ferns. The possibilities were endless. They would need a full team of trained investigators to cover such a broad complex. No way two men could do it in an hour.

“Maybe you should tell me about this Fox guy,” Kincaid said tightly, staring hard at the surrounding buildings, the overgrown roads, any tombstone over five feet tall.

“He kidnapped a twelve-year-old daughter of a prominent banker in L.A.,” Quincy supplied. He started working his way toward the lone bush, still acting casual. He noticed Kincaid had his hand inside his jacket, near where an officer might holster a gun. “Her father received a series of ransom notes, all demanding fifteen hundred dollars in cash and signed ‘The Fox.’”

“Fifteen hundred dollars isn’t much money.”

“It was in 1927.”

“Say what?”

“Perry Parker, the father, gathered the money. As per the instructions, he handed over the bag to a young man who was waiting for him in a car. In the passenger seat of the vehicle, he could see his daughter. As soon as Perry handed over the money, however, the suspect drove off with Marion Parker still in the car. At the end of the street, he dumped her corpse onto the pavement.”

Quincy had reached the rhododendron now. He was just about to take another step when the bush suddenly shook.

“Duck,” Kincaid roared.

Quincy ducked. The black raven took flight. And Kincaid nearly blew off its fool head.

“Holy mother of-”

“It’s a bird, it’s a bird! Cease fire, for God’s sake.”

Kincaid drew up short, body still shaking, eyes wide and white-rimmed in his dark skull. He had his finger off the trigger, but remained in a shooter’s stance, every muscle tense. Quincy felt it as well.

His gaze was ping-ponging all over the place. Trying to see everything, focusing on nothing. He was losing it, Kincaid was losing it. They had started out as professionals, and now were two schoolboys, spooked out in the local cemetery.

“I don’t see anything,” Kincaid said brusquely.

“Me neither.”

“But I’m pretty sure if he was around, he’d know we’d followed his stupid map.”

“Seems like a safe bet.”

Kincaid inhaled. Exhaled. He finally eased up, his Glock.40 disappearing once more inside his jacket. He took a few steps, then shook out his arms. “I’m going to have to report discharging my weapon thanks to that damn bird,” he muttered, still sounding royally pissed off, but at least in a healthier sort of way.

“The bird that got away,” Quincy observed.

“Ahh shit. I shoulda become an accountant. You ever think that? My father, he’s a CPA. Maybe it’s not the most exciting job in the world, but he’s off most of the summer, and better yet, I don’t think he’s ever had to run around a cemetery hunting for masked men. He sits at a desk and adds numbers. I could do that.”

“I’ve always wanted to be a teacher myself. It would still involve spending large periods of time with violent offenders, but at least it would be at the beginning of their careers, and not later when they’d already killed half a dozen people.”

Kincaid stared at him. “You got a really interesting way of looking at things, Mr. Profiler Man.”

“I’m an absolute hit at cocktail parties,” Quincy assured him.

Kincaid sighed and resumed inspecting the grounds for signs of an X. “So you were saying? About this Fox guy?”

“Oh. Mr. Parker paid the ransom, and in return, the Fox dumped out his twelve-year-old daughter’s body. Marion’s legs had been chopped off, her innards cut out, and her eyes wired open to make it appear as if she were alive. Later, the police found her internal organs strewn all over sections of L.A.”

Kincaid looked faintly ill. “Jesus. This really happened?”