CHAPTER FIVE
As Riley drove through the Virginia countryside, rolling hills and dense forests gradually gave way to scattered farms and the occasional gas station—signposts of civilization to indicate they might be getting closer to Talomaska Crossing.
Even so, her mind remained tangled in the odd messages left behind by their unsub, a maddening puzzle piece that refused to fit into any recognizable pattern.
“Could you read me those codes again?” she asked Ann Marie, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between them for the past twenty minutes.
“That's the fourth time since we left Quantico,” she replied, but her tone wasn't accusatory—merely observant. “You think you'll hear something different this time?”
Riley shrugged. “Sometimes things click when you least expect them to.” She slowed as they approached a tractor pulling out from a side road, then accelerated past it. “Humor me.”
“Okay,” Ann Marie said, checking the notes on her tablet. “For Cable Morris, the message read: CG, KA-PF-KA-KD, GI, UA-UA-PF-KG.” She pronounced each letter pair carefully. “And for Amanda Lindeen: CG, AF-AI-BI-AH-5, GI, EA-AB-AA-AE.”
Riley listened, letting the bizarre combinations register in her mind again. The codes were purposeful—too structured to be random. This wasn't just some deranged scrawling. It was a message meant to be understood by someone. Was it intended to be a challenge?
“I’ve been texting with the cryptology guys in Quantico,” Ann Marie added.
“They’ve got nothing yet. The letters don't form anagrams in English, Spanish, or French.
They don't correspond to periodic table elements.
They're not ASCII values that convert to text.” She paused.
“Unless you count gibberish as a breakthrough.”
Riley frowned. In her two decades with the Bureau, she'd encountered all manner of coded communications—from simple substitution ciphers to elaborate systems requiring specialized knowledge.
This one was different. The pattern of it—the repetition of CG and GI at the beginning of distinct sections—suggested something systematic but still unfamiliar.
“The BAU cryptographers will crack it,” Ann Marie offered, as if reading Riley's thoughts. “They’ve got more resources than we do.”
“I know,” Riley said, easing off the accelerator as they approached a reduced speed zone. A weathered sign welcomed them to Talomaska Crossing, population 3,847. “But I don't like waiting for anybody else when people's lives are at stake.”
“You think Amanda Lindeen and Cable Morris are still alive?”
Riley didn't answer immediately. The truth was, she didn't know. But her gut—that indefinable instinct that had served her well over the years—told her they were running out of time, if they hadn't already.
“I wish I could talk to Timothy Lancaster,” she replied instead, changing the subject. “He had a similar methodology. The math problems he left, the coordinates... there might be parallels.”
She felt Ann Marie's eyes on her. Just last summer, the young agent had also worked on that case of Timothy Lancaster and his mother's mathematical revenge killings. And Ann Marie knew as well as anyone how personal the case had been for Riley, since one of the victims had been Riley’s high school math teacher.
“But Meredith doesn't want you to meet with him, right?” Ann Marie said quietly.
Riley glanced over, surprised. She hadn't mentioned her private conversation with Meredith. After the briefing, he'd asked Ann Marie to step out, then firmly instructed Riley to stay away from Lancaster.
“How did you know that?” Riley asked.
Ann Marie shrugged. “It's what I would do if I were him. You have history with Lancaster. He might try to manipulate you, turn this into a game. Plus, you tend to get... invested.”
Riley raised an eyebrow. “Invested?”
“Intensely focused,” Ann Marie clarified. “Like you are now, with these codes. It's what makes you good at what you do, but I'm guessing Chief Meredith worries about you going down—”
“Rabbit holes,” Riley finished for her. “His exact words.”
She slowed the car as they approached a traffic light, the first they'd encountered in miles.
The small downtown area of Talomaska Crossing spread before them—a hardware store, a diner, a post office, all wearing that slightly faded look of small-town America holding on against the tide of time and economic pressures.
“He's right, I suppose,” Riley admitted. “Lancaster would probably love nothing more than to have me chasing his breadcrumbs again. And I don’t guess it’s likely that he has anything to do with this case.
But something about these codes...” She shook her head.
“They’re deliberate. Like they're not just meant to taunt us—they're meant to tell us something specific.”
“Maybe,” Ann Marie said, “but let's see what we find at the crime scene first. No sense jumping to conclusions before we have all the facts.”
Riley agreed, but frustration still gnawed at her. Every minute mattered in abduction cases. Every passing hour decreased the likelihood of finding victims alive. And somewhere in those meaningless strings of letters and numbers might be the key to saving them—if they weren't already beyond saving.
As they turned onto Main Street, Riley pushed the thought away. Focus on what you can control, she reminded herself. One step at a time.
The Talomaska Crossing police station was a squat, red-brick building that looked more like an old schoolhouse than a law enforcement headquarters.
Riley parked in a spot marked for visitors, her eyes automatically scanning the small lot for details—the cruisers with their layer of dust suggesting recent rural patrols, the bulletin board by the entrance, the security camera angled just so above the main doors.
“Small town, small department,” Ann Marie observed as they stepped out into the humid afternoon air. “Four patrol cars, looks like.”
“Which means they'll be stretched thin with a case like this.”
Inside, the station's front desk was manned by a middle-aged officer whose nameplate read “Phillips.” He directed them down a short hallway to where Virginia State Police Captain Travis Hodge and Talomaska Crossing’s Police Chief Linda Rawley were waiting.
The corridor walls were lined with faded photos of past police chiefs and community events—the visual history of law enforcement in Talomaska Crossing.
Captain Hodge rose to greet them when they entered the conference room. He was tall and solidly built, with the look of someone who spent considerable time outdoors. His handshake was firm but not overbearing, and Riley instantly registered the calm competence in his eyes.
“Agent Paige, Agent Esmer,” he said. “Thanks for making the drive out. This is Chief Rawley.”
Linda Rawley was smaller than Riley had expected, with short gray hair and sharp eyes that missed nothing. She wore her uniform with the ease of someone who'd spent decades in it.
“Appreciate the FBI's interest,” Rawley said, gesturing for them to take seats at a table that was spread with maps and photos. “We don't get many abductions out this way. Thefts, domestics, occasional drug issues, sure. But nothing like this.”
“And now you have two apparent abductions with strong similarities,” Riley observed as the two agents settled into standard-issue metal chairs.
“That's right,” Hodge replied as he and the police chief also took seats at the table.
“Two delivery drivers, two abandoned vehicles. First victim went missing the night before last, name of Cable Morris. Worked for FleetRush Logistics out of Bundydale. I got involved when the State Police got word of the second abduction right here in Talomaska Crossing.”
Rawley picked up the narrative. “That’s Amanda Lindeen, National Parcel Express. She vanished yesterday evening.”
“In both cases, the vans were found empty,” Hodge added. “Both times, the only thing left behind was that letter code inside an envelope.”
“Any witnesses to Amanda’s abduction?” Riley asked.
Rawley shook her head. “Nobody's come forward. Last confirmed sighting was a customer who received delivery of a package from Amanda around 6:30 yesterday evening. It was her last scheduled stop. I’ve interviewed that customer and nothing seemed odd to her.”
“Exactly where was that van found?” Ann Marie asked.
Rawley pointed to a topographical map. “Amanda Lindeen's delivery van was found here, about six miles outside town on Creekside Road.
It's a rural delivery route—houses spaced quarter to half-mile apart, lots of tree cover.” She traced a winding road.
“The vehicle was spotted at approximately 2:15 this morning by a local heading home from a late shift at the hospital in Ashford.”
“We'd like to see that scene first,” Riley told her.
“Of course,” Rawley replied. “It's still secured. We can head there now if you're ready.”
Ten minutes later, they were back in their vehicles, following Hodge and Rawley in an unmarked police SUV.
The road wound through increasingly rural territory, farmland giving way to thicker stands of trees.
Riley kept her attention divided between the road and her thoughts, trying to visualize what might have happened to Amanda Lindeen.
“What do you think the odds are that she's still alive?” Ann Marie asked quietly.
“Let's see the scene first.”
Riley's instincts were already sending up warning flares. Two delivery drivers abducted in as many days, both with cryptic codes left behind? This wasn't about ransom. This was about something else entirely—something methodical and planned but still inexplicable.
They turned onto Creekside Road, a narrow asphalt strip with no shoulder to speak of, dense woods pressing in from both sides. After about two miles, Riley spotted yellow crime scene tape stretched along the edge of the road. A National Parcel Express delivery van was parked there at an odd angle.
Riley pulled in behind Hodge and Rawley's vehicle.
As she stepped out, the scent of pine and damp earth filled her nostrils.
Birds called from the canopy above, seemingly unconcerned with the human activity below.
Crime scenes in places like this always struck Riley as particularly jarring—human violence intruding on nature's domain.
“Her van was found just like this,” Hodge said as they approached. “Driver's door open, keys in the ignition. Her phone was right there on the passenger seat.”
Riley circled the vehicle slowly, taking in every detail. The position suggested Amanda had stopped suddenly—obviously not for a delivery.
“And that,” Hodge said, pointing to a substantial tree branch lying on the side of the road, “is what must have made her stop.”
Riley examined it without touching, noting the clean cut at one end.
“This wasn't blown down in a storm,” she observed. “Someone cut it.”
“And it has been moved,” Ann Marie observed as she studied the marks in the dirt.
“Right,” Hodge agreed. “We figure it was out in the road and she stopped to move it to the side. But she didn’t make it back into her van.”
“Perfect trap for a delivery driver,” Rawley said. “Road's too narrow to go around a branch like that, so she'd have to get out and move it.”
“And when she did...” Ann Marie began.
“Ambush,” Riley finished. She straightened up, scanning the tree line. “The unsub would have waited near his own vehicle, hidden in the trees. Amanda stops, gets out, moves toward the branch. As she's bending to pick it up or while she's trying to drag it away, he strikes.”
Hodge agreed. “That fits with what we determined.”
“Over here,” Rawley called, pointing to the ground near the driver’s side of the van.
“We found scuff marks consistent with a struggle. Looks like she was dragged from here”—she pointed—”to there, where trees and bushes masked the unsub’s vehicle.
There are tire tracks where it had been pulled over. ”
Riley crouched down to examine the disturbed earth and gravel. The marks told a story that she could see clearly—the desperate struggle of a woman fighting for her life, heels digging in, being overpowered and pulled toward another vehicle.
As she continued to survey the scene, Ann Marie engaged Rawley and Hodge with questions about search patterns, canvassing efforts, and Amanda's personal life. Riley recognized the tactic—Ann Marie was creating space for her to think, to absorb, to get into the unsub's head.
Riley stood up and stepped back from the immediate scene, letting her eyes unfocused slightly. The setting was isolated but not remote. The trap was simple but effective. The execution was clean. This wasn't opportunistic. This was planned, targeted.
“Has there been any ransom demand?” Ann Marie was asking.
“Nothing,” Rawley replied. “No contact whatsoever.”
Riley bit back what she wanted to say: There won't be any ransom demands. Amanda Lindeen is already dead. The certainty of it had settled over her now. This wasn't about money or personal grudges. It was about something else entirely.
But she kept her conclusion to herself for now. She needed more evidence before sharing such a grim assessment with the local authorities. Besides, even the faintest hope was sometimes necessary to keep an investigation moving forward with the urgency it deserved.
Meanwhile, Riley was sure of one thing. Until they cracked those codes, discovered their meaning, there were going to be more victims.