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.

Samantha had been told more than once that her visions were unnerving for onlookers. Not because they saw what she saw, of course, but because they saw her.

Apparently, it was quite a show.

All she saw, however, was the black curtain that swept over her, always the first sign. Blackness, thick as tar. Then the abrupt, muffling silence. She felt the wheel beneath her hands as she gripped it, then even the sense of touch was gone.

The chilling sensation that enveloped her was one Samantha had often thought of as limbo. She was suspended, weightless and even formless, in some void that felt emptier than anything most people could imagine.

Even she could never remember just how horribly empty it felt until she was in it.

And the only way out when a vision pulled her in this deep was to wait, grimly, for the glimpse into another life, another time, another place. Wait while her brain tuned in the right frequency and the sounds and images began playing before her mind's eye like some strange movie.

Flickering images at first. Echoing sounds and voices. Everything distorted until it, finally, snapped into place.

… understand.

… you understand.

… personal, you understand.

"It's nothing personal, you understand."

Lindsay was still a bit groggy from the drugs, but she knew a lie when she heard one. "It's very personal," she murmured, instinctively stalling for time even as she tried to hear something in that cool, conversational voice that might help her to understand her captor.

A chink in his armor, that's all she asked for. A chink she could work on, widen. A vulnerability she could exploit.

"Not at all. At least, not where you're concerned."

"I'm a pawn," she said, regretting it the instant the words were out of her mouth.

"A pawn?" He sounded interested. "A chess game. I wonder who put that image into your head. Lucas?"

Lindsay was silent. She was in a chair now, her wrists still bound and the bag over her head keeping her in darkness. Her captor was somewhere behind her.

"So he's at least figured out it's a game, has he?"

"You know it's only a matter of time before you're caught." She kept her voice steady, concentrated hard to damp down the terror crawling deep inside her, so she could think clearly enough not to give away any knowledge that might help her captor. "Especially now. Kidnappers who stick around too long paint themselves in neon."

"Oh, I imagine I'm safe enough for the time being." His tone became relaxed, almost chatty. "I have no connection to Golden, you see. No connection to any of you."

"So we're just random victims, huh?"

"Definitely not. No, you were chosen with care, all of you. Each of my guests has been an important element of the game."

"I'm sure that was a great comfort to them."

He laughed. Actually laughed in amusement.

And it didn't give Lindsay even a tinge of hope.

"It's good that you have a sense of humor," he told her. "Humor is a great help in getting through life."

"And through death?"

"You'll find out before I will," he said cheerfully.

Santa Fe, New Mexico

A place this beautiful," Special Agent Tony Harte said, "should not have a murderess living here."

"You won't get an argument," Bishop said.

"How sure are we that she is living here?"

"Reasonably. The police chief is getting the warrant now."

"So we'll be closing up shop?"

"If we're right about her. And if there are no problems in arresting her."

"Should I pack?" "Did you even unpack?"

"Some of us aren't as good at living out of a suitcase as you are," Tony pointed out.

"Wait until we get word from the chief." Bishop looked up from his computer with a slight frown. "What?"

"Now, see, that isn't supposed to happen. You're a touch telepath, not an open telepath."

"And your face is an open book, never mind that overly casual tone. What's up?"

Tony straddled a chair and faced Bishop across the makeshift conference table in their hotel room. "Nothing good. I just got a tip from a pal back East. He's a journalist. A friend of his is covering the story in North Carolina."

Bishop didn't have to ask which story. "And?"

"The news of a serial kidnapper is about to break."

"Shit."

"It gets worse, boss."

"What else?"

"Samantha Burke."

After a moment, Bishop leaned back in his chair and sighed. "Luke didn't mention her when he reported in yesterday."

"Probably not so surprising."

"No. Not so much."

"Well, what he should have told you is that it seems the sheriff there got all nasty and suspicious of her, so she voluntarily put herself under house arrest in his jail to prove she wasn't a kidnapper."

"Thus alerting the media to the fact that another kidnapping was expected."

"Yep. And confirming that prediction when Detective Graham was taken earlier today." Tony frowned. "So Samantha knew the guy would hit again, and there in Golden. He's been on the move all these months, and now he's staying put? Why?"

Bishop shook his head, frowning.

Tony eyed him, then said, "My pal says the bit about a carnival psychic and her apparently accurate prediction is too good to pass up. It's only a matter of time before images of Zarina in her turban appear on the six o'clock news."

"Naturally. Aside from being colorful, there's also the tempting evidence that future events can be predicted. A lot of people want to believe that."

"Speaking of which, have Luke and Jay confided in the sheriff?"

Shaking his head again, Bishop replied, "They felt he wouldn't be open to the idea of psychic investigators."

"So what happens if Luke's able to connect to the victim? It's not exactly something that would go unnoticed."

"They'll have to wing it. Tell the sheriff only as much as he seems able to accept. He may be more open to it as time goes on. Samantha's prediction of another kidnapping may have at least set the stage."

"Looking for the positive?"

"What choice do I have?"

A little surprised, Tony said, "I seem to recall that the last time Samantha entered the picture, you were a lot more concerned with the credibility issue."

"She's not connected with the unit," Bishop pointed out.

"She wasn't then. Or is there something I don't know about that?"

"There were… possibilities then. That she might join the unit."