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."

"You're sure?"

"Positive." She returned the photo to the bag. "He took her this morning? It can't have been too long ago; she was in and out, I saw her."

"Wyatt received the note less than an hour ago. Twenty minutes ago, her car was found parked at the side of a small cafe where she often gets coffee." His voice was still even, unemotional, as it had been from the moment he'd entered the room. "No one inside saw her arrive, and she didn't go in. So far, we haven't found anyone in the area who saw her."

"The sheriff got the ransom demand?"

Lucas nodded.

"How much?"

"Exactly what he's got in savings. Twenty grand."

"Exactly that?"

Again, Lucas nodded. "The kidnapper has never been so precise before, just in the ballpark of what the family or significant other could afford. This time it's almost to the penny. And I doubt it's a coincidence."

"No. No, I don't think it is. He's being bolder, isn't he? Like he's thumbing his nose at you."

"At someone." Lucas shook his head. "He took a cop this time, which is either very, very stupid or very brazen. And I don't think he's stupid."

"When is the ransom to be delivered?"

"Tomorrow afternoon at five."

Frowning, Samantha said, "But if he knows Metcalf has the right amount in savings, he must know the sheriff could get his hands on it today. Why give you more than twenty-four hours to try and find Lindsay?"

"Just for that reason, I think. To give us time to search. To see how good we are. Maybe he's even out there watching, observing our methods."

Samantha studied him across the table. "What else do you think? What do you feel?"

"I don't feel anything."

"You know Lindsay, you've been around her for days. You don't feel anything from her?"

Lucas shook his head.

Refusing to leave it, Samantha said, "Because she's unconscious, maybe."

"Maybe."

She didn 't have to touch him to know what lay behind the calm tone and expressionless face, but all she said was, "If Metcalf got the ransom note, do you think it's because he's Lindsay's boss-or her lover?"

Lucas was clearly unsurprised by her knowledge of that relationship. "The latter. He knew their secret, and he wanted us to know he knew. He's making it personal."

"Where's Metcalf now?"

"On his way out to the carnival."

Samantha came up out of her chair. "He's what? Jesus, Luke-"

"Calm down. Jay's with him; she'll see to it that nothing gets out of hand."

"He can't possibly believe anyone at the carnival had anything to do with this."

"The carnival is fairly close to the cafe where Lindsay's car was found. Someone could have seen something. He's justified in wanting to talk to people out there."

"Talk? You know damned well he wants to do more than talk."

"I know he wanted to come in here and throw that picture in your face about ten minutes ago. Sit down, Sam."

She did, but said bitterly, "Oh, it's my fault again, is it? Because my prediction was only half right?"

"He's not entirely rational at the moment. And don't expect him to be anytime soon. You're an easy target, we both know that, and he badly wants to get his hands on whoever's responsible for this."

"It is not me." Her voice was flat.

"I know that. On some level, Wyatt knows it. Even the media outside knows it. Which is another complication, since they also knew you were in here to prove your innocence."

She sighed. "And what I've really proven is that I knew or strongly suspected there'd be another kidnapping."

"Business should be brisk at your booth tonight, assuming you mean to open up for readings."

Samantha leaned back in her chair, staring at him. "Yeah, genuine psychics are rare beasts. Isn't it dandy- and useful-publicity that I'll be validated in the media now."

"I didn't say-"

"You didn't have to."

Lucas drew a breath and let it out slowly. "People will be curious, that's all I meant."

"Yeah, right."

"Stop being so goddamned touchy and help me find Lindsay Graham before this bastard kills her."

"Are you asking?"

Getting to his feet, he said roughly, "Yes, I'm asking. Because I don't have a clue, Samantha. Is that what you want to hear? I don't even have a place to start. And I have no time for regrets, or explanations, or this little dance you and I always seem to do. I'm out of time because Lindsay is out of time; if we don't find her by tomorrow night, in all probability she'll be dead. So if you don't want to help me, at least try to help her."

"The sheriff," Samantha said, "is not going to like it."

"I'll deal with Wyatt."

She gazed up at him for a long moment, then shrugged. "Okay," she said, getting up. "Let's go."

Lindsay wasn't sure how much time had passed, but she was fuzzily aware that it had. Try as she might, the last thing she could remember was eating breakfast that morning with Wyatt; everything after that was a blank.

She wasn't worried about it. In fact, she wasn't worried about anything, and had the suspicion that it was because she'd been drugged. This groping-through-the-fog sensation was one she recalled experiencing years before while being heavily dosed with Valium before a minor medical procedure.

Okay, so she was drugged; she knew that much.

She was lying on a hard, chilly surface, on her belly. She also seemed to have something dark loosely covering her head, a hood or something like that. And her wrists were taped together behind her.

An experimental twitch-all she could really manage-told her that her ankles were not bound, but she couldn't seem to make her muscles work well enough to roll over or try to free her hands. She wasn't even sure she could feel her hands.

Bound, hooded, drugged.

Oh, Christ, I've been kidnapped.

Her strongest emotion just then was sheer incredulity. Kidnapped? Her? Jeez, if he wanted ransom money, then he was sure as hell out of luck. She had part of her last paycheck in the bank, but beyond that-

Wait. Sam had said it wasn't about money. That it was all just a game, a broken, brilliant game-No. A man with a broken, brilliant mind wanted to play a game. A twisted game. With Lucas Jordan. To see who was smarter, faster. To see who was better. Like a chess game, Sam had said.

Which made Lindsay a pawn.

And she didn't have to grope through the fog for long to remember what had happened to virtually all the other pawns.

Dead.

"Oh, shit," she heard herself whisper.