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could see. He focused on the car parked in the driveway, a newer model Saturn. More magnification distorted the vehicle, but allowed him to zoom in on the rear of the sedan and its license plate. The design was blurry, but he had seen it enough times to know which state had issued it. Two numbers to the left, what looked like a one above a zero, the trademark cowboy on the back of a bucking bronco beside it, and a combination of four numbers and letters to the right, none of which were legible thanks to the unfortunate alignment with the hedge.
    A partial plate on a common model of car wouldn't get him far. However, Wyoming wasn't so overpopulated that license plates were assigned at random. The numbers on the left side indicated the county in which the vehicle was registered. A quick search confirmed that the number ten corresponded with Fremont County. Granted, there was no guarantee that the car wasn't parked in front of a house in a different county or state entirely, but it was all he had to go on, and if he left right this very moment, he could be there before sunrise.
    Preston folded the laptop closed, tucked it under his arm, and sprinted toward his bedroom. He grabbed his keys and his sidearm from the nightstand and hurried to the garage. The Cherokee's tires screamed on the concrete as the car rocketed backward into the street. He slammed the brakes, punched it into gear, and raced toward the highway.
    He was never going to make it in time. The abductor had a lead of several hours and knew exactly where he was going. All Preston had was a sparsely populated county filled with dozens of towns divided by mountainous topography. The largest city and county seat, Lander, seemed like the safest place to start, but what did he propose, cruising the streets one at a time until he found the house he had seen only in reflection? It didn't matter now. The first order of business was to alert the local authorities and see if he could call in a personal favor from someone in his unit at the FBI. He still had a long drive ahead of him, and mobilizing the locals to increase their patrols in any number of towns in a county spread out over nine thousand square miles based on a partial plate lifted from the image of a sleeping child when no crime had yet been committed was going to be a hard sell.
    He snapped open his cell phone and began making the calls.
    They were never going to find this little girl in time.
    Unfortunately, he feared, that was the whole point.

    III
    22 Miles West of Lander, Wyoming

    Sheriff Dandridge realized he was holding his breath and had to force himself to breathe. The video began with a clattering sound and perfect blackness marred by soft whimpering. He heard the scrape of footsteps before a single overhead bulb hanging from a cord bloomed with a snap, casting a weak bronze glare over a small room with cinder block walls. Cobwebs swayed in the upper left corner where they connected the rotting wooden joists above. With a rustling noise, the camera lowered and centered upon a workbench made of particleboard, the surface scarred with cuts and gouges, and coated with a black crust. The floor beneath it was bare, packed earth or stone.
    "Do any of you recognize this place?" Dandridge asked.
    The others answered with shakes of their heads as though they had all lost their voices at once.
    Dandridge returned his attention to the monitor. The whimpering grew louder and metamorphosed into shrill, panicked shrieks. A scuffing sound off screen, and a dark form eclipsed the view. The screams grew louder until they became a squeal of feedback. A man's back resolved in the center, the glare turning him into a silhouette of darkness, shoulders slumped, arms straining against the flailing body he held down on the workbench. After several unendurable minutes, the shadowed man stepped away and the camera focused on a young girl. She was bound to the table by thick, frayed ropes that stretched her arms and legs toward