Wednesday, 10:41 a.m. PST

LIEUTENANT MOSLEY HAD SPENT TWENTY YEARS of his life in the OSP uniform. Two decades of starting each day with navy blue pants, a gray short-sleeved shirt, and a black patent-leather utility belt.

He drove a state trooper car, updated now with a gold star shooting across a navy blue backdrop. He worked out of the latest incarnation of the Portland field office, actually a former post office located smack-dab in the middle of a strip mall; last time a registering sex offender had decided to make a run for it, they’d gotten to chase him past the Hometown Buffet into the Dollar Tree store. It was the kind of thing that was frightening at the time-a convicted sex offender bolting through a public area filled with little kids-but made for a good story when all was said and done and the felon was safely behind bars.

In his career, Lieutenant Mosley figured he’d worked hundreds of motor vehicle accidents and written thousands of traffic citations. He’d learned firsthand what a speeding car could do to a sixteen-year-old kid as well as to a family of five. Then he’d served three years on a gang task force, right about the same time the L.A. gangs brought their particular brand of violence to the Portland area and taught nine-year-old boys to beat each other to death with baseball bats. Finally, he’d spent five years fighting the war on drugs, watching the growing crack epidemic envelop entire city blocks in a wave of addiction and decay.

When the public information officer position became available two years ago, Mosley figured he was ready for a change. And maybe other officers thought he was coasting, easing his way toward the retirement years, but at this stage of the game, he knew he’d paid his dues. He’d driven the highways; he’d walked the streets. He’d won battles; he’d lost fights. He had a pretty good idea of both how much and how little law enforcement could do.

In colloquial terms, he thought he’d seen it all. And yet he’d never seen anything quite like what he was seeing now.

Mosley finally turned away from the small TV the Fish and Wildlife officers had blaring at the front desk. He poked his head back into the conference room.

“Hey,” he said to Kincaid and Quincy, “you got to see this.”

Wednesday, 10:45 a.m. PST

ADAM DANICIC WAS HOLDING a press conference. Impeccably dressed in a charcoal gray suit with a pastel pink shirt and darker pink satin tie, Danicic seemed to be channeling Regis Philbin as he stood on the lawn of a small white house, hands clasped in front of him, face painfully sincere.

The yard was filled with an assortment of reporters, cameramen, and awestruck neighbors.

“After much soul-searching,” Danicic was declaring to the gathered masses, “I have decided I have an obligation to come forward as a civilian and not as a member of the press, to report what I know about the tragic kidnappings of a woman and child right here in Bakersville. As a newspaper reporter, naturally I was honored and excited to be covering the kidnappings for the Bakersville Daily Sun and the ensuing investigation. Indeed, I was up most of last night working on this morning’s front-page story for the Sun.

“I feel, however, that a journalist has an ethical obligation to be an objective outsider in any story, to be separate from the events unfolding. The longer I worked on my story, the clearer it became to me that I am no longer an objective outsider. In fact, just minutes ago, I received new information that puts me at the heart of this investigation. Thus, I feel I must remove myself as lead reporter for the piece and, instead, fully disclose everything I know, in the hopes that it might lead to the discovery of Lorraine Conner and seven-year-old Douglas Jones.”

“What the hell is he talking about?” Kincaid asked Lieutenant Mosley.

“Who knows,” the PIO said flatly. “But we are about to get screwed.”

“It all began yesterday morning,” Danicic continued expansively, waving his arms now, playing to his audience, “when the Daily Sun received the most frightening letter addressed to the Opinions Editor. This letter declared that someone among us had kidnapped a woman, but that she would remain unharmed, as long as we did as the kidnapper said. ”

Danicic went on to describe yesterday’s events in detail after painful detail. The deal the Daily Sun had struck to cooperate with the law enforcement task force: “Because a local paper is by definition part of the community, and thus must show restraint and compassion when a fellow member of the community is in harm’s way.”

The attempt at renegotiating the ransom drop: “A desperate move from a desperate task force, racing against the relentless drumbeat of time.” The kidnapper’s unexpected retaliation against Dougie Jones, and the letter left on the windshield of Danicic’s car: “I started to realize then that in the events that were unfolding, I might be called upon to play an unusual and unexpected role.”

But it wasn’t until this morning, Danicic assured his fellow members of the press, that he realized clearly what that role might be. Upon e-mailing his lead story directly to Owen Van Wie, the Daily Sun’ s owner, he finally caught some badly needed sleep. Only to wake up to the sound of a doorbell and discover an envelope, addressed to him, sitting on his front steps.

“Ah shit,” Kincaid groaned.

“We should’ve locked him up last night,” agreed Lieutenant Mosley.

Quincy continued to study the screen.

“This note was typewritten, but similar in tone and content to the other letters, which I have been privileged to see,” Danicic reported. “I have no doubt of its validity, and that it came from the kidnapper himself. In this note, the kidnapper reiterated his desire to ransom Lorraine Conner and Douglas Jones for twenty thousand dollars. The writer of the note, however, declared that he no longer trusted the police task force and did not feel that he could work with them. He indicated that if this matter was not resolved shortly, he felt he would have no choice but to kill both his victims. As proof of his claim, he included this.”

Danicic held up a photo. The local network camera zoomed in. The picture was dark and distorted. The face of a small boy appeared in the middle, but the flash had bleached out the child’s face, making individual features hard to discern. The boy was holding something.

“This photo clearly depicts Dougie Jones. Note the boy’s fingers, pointing to the date on the top of the front page of this morning’s paper as he poses next to his own photo in the Daily Sun. I believe you can just make out the face of a woman, lying behind Dougie. I believe the woman is Rainie Conner, but the police will need to be the judge of that.

“To say the least, I was deeply disturbed to receive this photo and this note. My first impulse, of course, was to call the authorities, as I have done with all communications I have received. This note’s tone, however, gave me pause. Needless to say, I’m distressed to hear that the kidnapper feels he can no longer cooperate with law enforcement. Having seen firsthand what that kind of distrust can do-the abduction of an additional victim, a small boy, just yesterday afternoon-I am concerned about what this means for both Dougie and Rainie. Thus, I reached a difficult decision. I have decided I must handle this note in a different manner.

“I am bringing it to you, the public. I am standing here right now, in the hopes that my message will reach the person who is holding Rainie Conner and Dougie Jones. And I am offering my services as a negotiator.” Danicic turned slightly to peer directly into the camera lens.

“Mr. Fox,” he said solemnly. “Following is my cell phone number. I encourage you to call it anytime. And I promise to do everything in my power to assure that you receive your twenty thousand dollars. All I ask is that you do not harm Dougie Jones or Rainie Conner. Do not make innocent victims pay for the mistakes of law enforcement.”

Danicic rattled off his phone number. A few of his neighbors began to clap.

In the front lobby of Fish and Wildlife, Kincaid shook his head, as if trying to wake himself from a particularly bad dream.

Mosley recovered first. “We need to hold our own press conference immediately. We will issue a statement that we are in contact with the kidnapper and are working with him to meet his demands. We need to say that while we appreciate any help the public has to give, it is crucial to give the task force time and space to handle this delicate case. We should also mention we brought in a professional negotiator; that will increase public confidence.”

“Let’s pick Danicic up,” Kincaid decided. “I want him and that note down at the Tillamook field office ASAP. Call the lab and get a scientist from QD up here to analyze the note, as well as some kind of expert on photos. And I want Danicic cooling his heels in an interrogation room. If the UNSUB does take him up on his cockamamie scheme, I don’t want to be hearing the details on CNN.”

Mosley nodded. Both men turned toward Quincy, who was still staring at the TV screen.

“You’re quiet,” Kincaid stated. His eyes narrowed. “You don’t really think we should work with him, do you?”

“What? No, no. That’s not it. Just trying to see the future.”

“Good luck to you.”

“He called at ten,” Quincy said abruptly. “The UNSUB fulfilled his promise from yesterday’s letter, and seemed to be setting up for the ransom drop by ordering three female officers to three separate pay phones. But at the same time he was doing this, he was also leaving a note on Mr. Danicic’s front door, claiming that he couldn’t work with the assembled task force. Why?”

Kincaid shrugged. “Confuse matters. Rattle our chains. Once more have a good laugh at our expense.”

“True. But it’s certainly no way to get rich. He hasn’t even made contact by pay phone.”

“You said it yourself: His primary motivation isn’t money.”

“He’s playing a game.”

“Son of a bitch,” Kincaid agreed.

“But all games have an end.”

“Theoretically speaking.”

“Then where is this game headed, Sergeant? What don’t we see?”

Kincaid didn’t have an answer. He shrugged, just as Candi appeared in the doorway.

“We have activity,” she reported.

“The UNSUB’s made contact?” Kincaid was already running for the conference room.

“No, but Trooper Blaney just radioed in. He’s at the Wal-Mart. He can’t find any trace of Detective Grove.”