“Her husband, a former FBI profiler, would no doubt tear the town apart looking for answers,” Candi said bluntly. Then filled in the rest of the pieces: “So they gave you one: a stranger, kidnapping people for money. And they inverted things. Rainie isn’t kidnapped because of Dougie-Dougie is kidnapped because of Rainie.”

“Tying up two loose ends. The incorrigible boy who is proof of the liaison, and the court-appointed representative who made the connection.” Quincy closed his eyes, not liking what he was thinking, but thinking it nonetheless. “It would fill in the blanks. Why Rainie was kidnapped. How the subject knows so much about her. The persistent attempt to mislead us by stating the kidnapper isn’t local, doesn’t know Rainie, just wants money. It’s all part of a carefully crafted scenario, engineered to keep me-and everyone else-in the dark.”

Quincy glanced at his watch. Forty minutes until one o’clock. “We need to speak to Stanley Carpenter.”

“He’s not at home. Laura claims he’s still looking for Dougie in the woods. For the record, however, his truck’s not in the driveway. I looked on my way out.”

“We’ll pull Stanley’s records from the DMV, get an APB out on his license plate. That ought to round him up.”

“Hot damn!” Candi said, and Quincy could hear the sound of her hand slapping the steering wheel. “Now we’re cooking with gas. Okay, I’m coming in.”

“No you’re not.”

“I’m not?”

“Forty minutes isn’t long enough to locate a truck in all of Tillamook County. If Stanley isn’t available, then we’re going straight to Peggy Ann. Unless, of course, you really want to wait quietly next to the phone.”

“Not in a million years.”

Quincy pawed through his notes, rattled off an address.

“Ten minutes,” he said. “I’ll meet you there.”