We’re still not talking anything that complicated. He has the victim’s cell phone, he uses a voice distorter any idiot can buy from Radio Shack. Boom, done.
“Now, if he’s watched any movies at all, he knows the first thing that’s required in these cases is proof of life. Well, he’s making this all up on the fly, so again, how to communicate? Hey, I know, bury it in the middle of a cemetery. That’ll get the job done, plus he can have a good chuckle, picturing a fine, handsome state detective trying desperately not to dig up any bones. God knows I’m gonna have to laugh about it.
“Then the UNSUB introduces a few deadlines, ’cause this yokel can’t afford for things to get drawn out. He sends the note before five p.m. the day before to ensure we’re called first thing in the morning. Gives us a deadline to find proof of life, to make sure we’re moving. I bet you now, we get to the cemetery, and we’ll find the drop details for the money, along with another deadline, in probably one, two hours. Hell, it’ll probably include another map. Stick money beneath tombstone A, find a map to tree B, where we’ll find the girl.
“Quick, clean, and not a bad way to make ten grand.” Kincaid whipped the envelope off the glass, picked up the duplicates, and closed up the copy machine. “Now let me ask
you
something: Do you have ten grand?”
“Yes.”
“Would you pay it to ransom your estranged wife?”
Quincy didn’t bat an eye. “Yes.”
“There you go. It’s gonna be a good day. Let’s go hunt a fox.”
“I don’t think it’s about money,” Quincy insisted quietly.
“More rampant paranoia?”
“Maybe. But I know something you don’t know.”
“And what’s that, Mr. Profiler Man?”
“I know who the Fox is.”
9
Tuesday, 9:45 a.m. PST
D OUGIE WAS OUT IN THE WOODS. Dougie was always out in the woods. He didn’t mind the rain, the wind, the cold. Outside was good. Outside meant trees and pine needles and green moss that felt nice to the touch, but didn’t always taste so good. This morning, he’d tried three different shades of moss. One had tasted like dirt. One had tasted like tree bark. The third had made his mouth tingle curiously.
He hadn’t eaten any more of the third.
Now, Dougie was excavating the remains of a dead tree. The thick trunk had fallen probably ages ago, at least before Dougie had been born. Now it was a great, big rotted-out log, sprouting interesting fungus and housing loads of bugs. Dougie had a stick. He was digging, digging, digging. The more he dug, the more interesting bugs ran out.
Dougie was seven. At least that’s what people told him. He didn’t remember his birthday. Maybe sometime in February. His first “second family” had made up a date for him, his “homecoming day.” That had been in February, and they’d fed him cake and ice cream.
His first second family had been okay. At least he couldn’t remember anything bad. But one day the lady in the purple suit had arrived and told him to pack his bag. He was going to a new second family, but don’t worry, they would love him lots, too.
“Dougie,” the lady in the purple suit had told him quietly when they were out the front door, “you can’t play with matches like that; it makes people nervous. Promise me, no more matches.”
Dougie had shrugged. Dougie had promised. While behind them, the garage of his first second family’s home lay in smoldering ruins.
The second second family hadn’t celebrated birthdays or “homecoming days.” They hadn’t celebrated much of anything. His new mom had a thin, stern face. “Idle hands are the devil’s playmate,” she’d tell him, right before ordering him to scrub the floor or scour the dishes.
Dougie didn’t like doing chores. That meant being in a house and Dougie didn’t like being inside. He wanted to be outside. In the trees. Where he could smell the dirt and leaves. Where there was no one around to look at him funny or
“Now, if he’s watched any movies at all, he knows the first thing that’s required in these cases is proof of life. Well, he’s making this all up on the fly, so again, how to communicate? Hey, I know, bury it in the middle of a cemetery. That’ll get the job done, plus he can have a good chuckle, picturing a fine, handsome state detective trying desperately not to dig up any bones. God knows I’m gonna have to laugh about it.
“Then the UNSUB introduces a few deadlines, ’cause this yokel can’t afford for things to get drawn out. He sends the note before five p.m. the day before to ensure we’re called first thing in the morning. Gives us a deadline to find proof of life, to make sure we’re moving. I bet you now, we get to the cemetery, and we’ll find the drop details for the money, along with another deadline, in probably one, two hours. Hell, it’ll probably include another map. Stick money beneath tombstone A, find a map to tree B, where we’ll find the girl.
“Quick, clean, and not a bad way to make ten grand.” Kincaid whipped the envelope off the glass, picked up the duplicates, and closed up the copy machine. “Now let me ask
you
something: Do you have ten grand?”
“Yes.”
“Would you pay it to ransom your estranged wife?”
Quincy didn’t bat an eye. “Yes.”
“There you go. It’s gonna be a good day. Let’s go hunt a fox.”
“I don’t think it’s about money,” Quincy insisted quietly.
“More rampant paranoia?”
“Maybe. But I know something you don’t know.”
“And what’s that, Mr. Profiler Man?”
“I know who the Fox is.”
9
Tuesday, 9:45 a.m. PST
D OUGIE WAS OUT IN THE WOODS. Dougie was always out in the woods. He didn’t mind the rain, the wind, the cold. Outside was good. Outside meant trees and pine needles and green moss that felt nice to the touch, but didn’t always taste so good. This morning, he’d tried three different shades of moss. One had tasted like dirt. One had tasted like tree bark. The third had made his mouth tingle curiously.
He hadn’t eaten any more of the third.
Now, Dougie was excavating the remains of a dead tree. The thick trunk had fallen probably ages ago, at least before Dougie had been born. Now it was a great, big rotted-out log, sprouting interesting fungus and housing loads of bugs. Dougie had a stick. He was digging, digging, digging. The more he dug, the more interesting bugs ran out.
Dougie was seven. At least that’s what people told him. He didn’t remember his birthday. Maybe sometime in February. His first “second family” had made up a date for him, his “homecoming day.” That had been in February, and they’d fed him cake and ice cream.
His first second family had been okay. At least he couldn’t remember anything bad. But one day the lady in the purple suit had arrived and told him to pack his bag. He was going to a new second family, but don’t worry, they would love him lots, too.
“Dougie,” the lady in the purple suit had told him quietly when they were out the front door, “you can’t play with matches like that; it makes people nervous. Promise me, no more matches.”
Dougie had shrugged. Dougie had promised. While behind them, the garage of his first second family’s home lay in smoldering ruins.
The second second family hadn’t celebrated birthdays or “homecoming days.” They hadn’t celebrated much of anything. His new mom had a thin, stern face. “Idle hands are the devil’s playmate,” she’d tell him, right before ordering him to scrub the floor or scour the dishes.
Dougie didn’t like doing chores. That meant being in a house and Dougie didn’t like being inside. He wanted to be outside. In the trees. Where he could smell the dirt and leaves. Where there was no one around to look at him funny or
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