"Yes. Rich knew you'd want to look over the location before we moved it." Joy's voice was sympathetic. "I'll keep in touch, Sam."

The vehicle with Robby Brent's body was starting to back up. Three bodies in less than a week in that meat wagon, Sam thought. Don't let the next one be Jean Sheridan, he prayed. Please don't let the next one be Jean.

87

Jake Perkins had immediately regretted not acknowledging Sam Deegan when their eyes met. It was one thing not to give the detective any information he might come across, but it was another thing to cut off all contact with him. No good reporter, no matter how insulted he'd been, would ever do that.

He would have loved to ask Deegan for a statement about Robby Brent's murder, but he knew better than to do that. He knew what the official line would be-that Brent was the victim of a homicide by person or persons unknown. They hadn't released the cause of death, but it was a cinch it wasn't suicide. Nobody climbs into the trunk of a car while it's rolling into the river.

Maybe Deegan knows where Dr. Sheridan is, Jake thought. He had tried to phone Jean, but there was no answer in her room. He did want to get confirmation from her that Laura Wilcox had slept in the murder bedroom on Mountain Road.

Struggling with the heavy camera, Jake worked his way through the crowd of photographers and reporters and caught up with Sam at his car. "Mr. Deegan, I've been trying to get in touch with Dr. Sheridan. Do you by any chance know where I could reach her? She doesn't answer her phone."

Sam was about to get into his car. "What time did you try her?" he asked sharply.

"About nine-thirty."

That was the same time I tried her, Sam thought. "I don't know where she is," he snapped as he got in his car. He slammed the door closed and turned on the siren.

Something's up, Jake thought. He's worried about Dr. Sheridan, but he's not making the turn back to the hotel. He's going too fast for me to follow him. I might as well go back to school and clean up the darkroom. Then I'll head over to the Glen-Ridge and see what's going on.

88

On the way to the observation point, Sam phoned the Glen-Ridge House and asked to be put through to the manager immediately. When Justin Lewis got on, Sam said, "Look, I can get a subpoena for your phone records, but I can't waste the time. Dr. Sheridan's car has just been found, and she is missing. I want you to give me right now a list of the phone numbers of all calls received by Dr. Sheridan between ten o'clock last night and nine o'clock this morning."

He had been prepared for an argument but did not get one. "Give me your number. I'll call you right back," the manager said crisply.

Sam put his cell phone on the passenger seat as he raced toward Storm King Lookout. He rounded the bend and saw Jean's blue convertible with a policeman standing beside it. He pulled up behind it and had his notebook and pencil out when Lewis called back. The man obviously had understood the need for urgency. "Dr. Sheridan received seven phone calls this morning," he said crisply. "The first came at quarter of seven!"

"At quarter of seven?" Sam interrupted.

"Yes, sir. It was made on a cell phone from this area. The name of the subscriber was not given. The number is…"

Stunned and disbelieving, Sam wrote down the number that he recognized as the same one Robby Brent had called from on Monday night when he had imitated Laura's voice on the call to Jean.

"The other calls have been identified as coming from a Mrs. Alice Sommers and a Mr. Jake Perkins. They both tried to reach Dr. Sheridan several times. There are two from your own number."

"Thank you. You've been very helpful," Sam said abruptly, and he clicked off. Robby Brent has been dead for a couple of days, he thought, but someone used the phone he bought in the drugstore to entice Jean Sheridan to leave the hotel. She must have rushed out right after that call came in. Her car was spotted here at 7:45 this morning. Who was she expecting to meet here? She had promised to be careful, and there were only two people she would have met without question. Sam was sure of it.

He was aware that the cop standing by Jean's car was giving him a curious stare, but he ignored him. Jean expected to meet either her daughter, Lily, or Laura, Sam thought as he looked blankly at the mountains on the other side of the river.

Had she been forced from her car at gunpoint, or had she walked over to another vehicle on her own?

Whoever this psychopath is, he has Jean. Is Jean's daughter really safe? Sam wondered suddenly. He opened his wallet, raced through the cards inside, found the one he wanted, tossed the others on the passenger seat, and dialed Craig Michaelson's cell phone. After five rings a computer voice advised him to leave a message. Swearing under his breath, he dialed Michaelson's office.

"I am so sorry," his secretary apologized. "Mr. Michaelson is in a conference at another attorney's office and cannot be interrupted."

"He's got to be interrupted," Sam snapped. "This is a police matter-a matter of life and death."

"Oh, sir," the manicured voice chided, "I'm sorry, but-"

"Listen to me, young lady, and listen hard. You get Michaelson, and you tell him that Sam Deegan phoned. Tell your boss that Jean Sheridan has disappeared and that it is imperative he contact West Point immediately and warn them to put a bodyguard on her daughter. Do you understand me?"

"Of course I do. I will try to reach him, but-"

"No buts. Reach him!" Sam shouted, then snapped his phone closed. He got out of the car. I have to put a track on Robby Brent's phone, he thought, but it probably won't do any good. There's only one hope.

He brushed past the policeman, who started to explain that he knew the salesman who had alerted them to the car being there and that nobody could be more reliable. Jean's shoulder bag was on the seat.

"Nothing has been taken out of it?" he snapped.

"Of course not, sir." The young policeman was clearly offended at the suggestion.

Sam didn't bother to assure him that he meant nothing personal by the question. He dumped the contents of Jean's bag on the passenger seat, then searched the glove compartment and all the storage areas inside the car. "If it's not too late, we may have gotten the break we need," he said. "She was probably carrying her cell phone. It's not here."

It was 11:30 a.m.

89

It was 11:45 a.m. before Craig Michaelson phoned Sam, who by then was back in the Glen-Ridge House. "My secretary tried to get me, but I had left the meeting and forgot to turn on my cell phone," he explained hurriedly. "I just got to the office. What's going on?"

"What's going on is that Jean Sheridan has been abducted," Sam said tersely. "I don't give a damn if her daughter is in West Point and surrounded by an army. I want you to be sure that a special guard is put on her. We have a psychopath running loose around here. The body of one of the other Stonecroft honorees was pulled out of the Hudson a couple of hours ago. He'd been stabbed to death."

"Jean Sheridan is missing! The General and his wife are on the eleven o'clock shuttle from Washington right now, on their way to have dinner with her tonight. I can't get in touch with them while they're on a flight."

Sam's pent-up worry and frustration exploded. "Yes, you can," he shouted. "You could get a message through the airline to the pilot, but it's too late for that now anyway. Give me the name of Jean Sheridan's daughter, and I'll call West Point myself. I want it now."