"How many days?" Steven asked, gritting his teeth.

"Seven to ten." Kent sat back on his heels again. "Where's the dog?"

Steven looked over to one side where the sheriff stood with his arm around the shoulders of the dog's owner. "Probably back at the owner's house. The vet should be on his way to patch him up." He hoped the dog was treatable, for the old man's sake, but the Lab had lost a lot of blood during whatever altercation had occurred here in this clearing. "Why?"

"I want to swab the dog's teeth."

Steven's brows went up. "Why?"

"If the dog bit your perp, there might be some skin cells lodged in his teeth."

Steven reconsidered the young man who'd joined the SBI only a few months before. "Okay, I stand corrected. You are good. I wouldn't have thought to check the dog's teeth."

Kent grinned again. "Can't take credit for that one. Saw it on Law and Order."

Steven rolled his eyes. "Of course. We should bypass the academy and just make all our recruits watch Law and Order reruns."

"It'd save the taxpayers money," Kent said with another chuckle, his eyes glued to the grass.

Steven smiled in spite of himself. He was finding he. Liked the young man's easy manner a whole lot more than Kent's boss's waspish edge. Kent's boss would have normally supervised an investigation of this magnitude, but Diane was currently sunning herself on a cruise ship. It gave Kent a chance to show his stuff and gave the rest of them a much-needed break from Diane. "I'll make sure the vet doesn't do anything that would compromise the dog's teeth."

"Thanks. Tell the old man I won't hurt his dog," Kent added, dropping his head back down to search.

Steven looked over to where Sheriff Braden and the old man stood silently watching on the other side of the yellow tape. "Any more than he's already hurt," Steven murmured. Sheriff Braden's eyes met Steven's and in them. Steven saw a wild mixture of abject anguish and terrified helplessness. Samantha Eggleston was Sheriff Braden's sixteen-year-old niece.

Looking now at Braden's shoulders bowed in grief and terror, Steven felt a connection with the man that went past the polite but inadequate empathy law enforcement felt for the victim, past the kinship for a fellow cop. Steven knew how Braden felt. Knew how Braden's sister felt. Knew how it felt to live with the terror that a madman held your child.

Steven carefully made his way to where Braden and the old farmer stood watching his approach. "We may have something," Steven said and Braden nodded, tight-lipped. "You did a good job in securing the crime scene. Mother Nature helped by holding off the rain," he added when Braden said nothing. Steven wasn't sure Braden could speak and Steven couldn't blame him. Braden had seen the dog's wounds, and undoubtedly his mind was conjuring every possible outcome while his heart broke at the mental picture of his niece at the mercy of a vicious abductor with a knife. Steven reached out and briefly clasped Braden's shoulder, meeting his eyes. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I really do know how you feel."

Braden swallowed hard. Cleared his throat. "Thanks," he managed. Then he straightened his back, lifted his chin, and dropped his arm from the old man's shoulders. "My men are chompin' at the bit for something to do here. Anything you guys need, just name it."

Steven looked over his shoulder. Kent was still on his hands and knees while Harry was searching the woods. "I think the best thing would be to limit the number of feet trampling the crime scene at this point, but they could reassemble the search party. How many acres are here?"

Braden deferred to the old man. "Bud?"

"Three hunnerd and sixty-two," the old man answered without hesitation. His voice was stronger than Steven would have expected given the old man's whole body shook in constant trembles. One gnarled old hand gripped a cane. The other he stuck out in greeting. "Name's Bud Clary. I own this land."

Steven shook the old man's hand. "I wish we were meeting under other circumstances, Mr. Clary. I do have a special request. Your dog, sir."

One gray brow went up. "Pal?" Mr. Clary asked.

" Yessir. We want to check his teeth when the vet is finished sewing him up. There might be some evidence there if Pal bit the person who stabbed him."

"Hope he did," Clary muttered. "Hope he took a chunk outa the sonofabitch."

"Me, too," Steven agreed grimly. "Sheriff, can you tell the vet not to touch Pal's mouth?"

Braden was already moving toward his cruiser. "Will do."

Steven turned back to Mr. Clary. "Do you need to sit down, Mr. Clary?" Steven gestured toward his car. "I have a folding chair in my trunk."

Clary nodded and Steven quickly retrieved the chair and set it up. He'd sat in it next to every stream between Raleigh and William's Sound, fishing for whatever would take his bait. "It might smell a bit fishy," he said as Mr. Clary lowered himself into the chair.

"It's okay, boy," Clary replied, attempting a tired smile. "So do I." He settled himself, then drew a deep breath. "I have Parkinson's and the shakes get worse when I'm stressed." He looked over his shoulder at Kent, still on his hands and knees in the middle of the bloody grass, then back at Steven, his old eyes clear and piercing. "Will you find Samantha, Agent Thatcher?"

Probably not, Steven thought, considering the vicious attack on the dog and the fate of the first victim. Not alive anyway. Still, he forced optimism into his voice. "I hope so, Mr. Clary."

Clary shook his head. "Call me Bud. Callin' me Mr. makes me feel old."

Steven smiled down at the old man. "Bud it is, then." He sobered and watched Bud Clary do the same. "Can you tell me what happened, sir?"

Bud sighed. "Pal's always takin' off after a bird or a rabbit or somethin'. Sometimes he'll be gone for a couple hours at a stretch, so I didn't think anything about it when he took off about ten this mornin'."

"You're sure about the time, sir?"

Bud nodded. "I had to take my wife into town for some sundries. We left about ten and Pal followed us out of the house, then took off after a squirrel." He looked up, the midafternoon sun making his eyes squint. "You need to know where we went in town?"

"Not right now, sir. What time did you get back?"

"It was around twelve-fifteen. Pal was lying on the back porch, bloody and all tore up. The missus saw the trail of blood and right off thought to call the sheriff."

Steven's lips curved at the obvious pride in Bud's voice. "Mrs. Clary's a sharp thinker."

"Always has been," Bud answered with a satisfied nod. He thumbed over his shoulder. "I took the tractor across the field, following the blood trail until I got to the trees, then I walked the rest of the way till I got to this clearing. Took me twenty minutes or so from the house." He shrugged his thin shoul-ders. "Then I hightailed it back and called Sheriff Braden again and I guess he called you."

Then they'd all driven to this clearing, accessing it from an unpaved dirt road that forked off the main highway. Which was how Samantha's abductor had brought her here. And taken her away.

"What exactly did you see when you first got to the clearing?" Steven asked gently.

Bud swallowed. "I knew I'd see some blood-Pal bleedin' like he was. I guess I didn't expect to see so much blood. I got off the tractor to see if there was anything else, then I saw somethin' white when I got closer."

"Samantha's underwear?" They were in an evidence bag, on their way to the lab.

The old man's jaw clenched. "Yeah. Her underthings were off to the side, blown under the limbs of one of those pine trees."

"Did you touch anything, Bud?"

Bud frowned up at him. "No, I did not," he replied indignantly. "I may be old, young man, but I'm far from stupid."