Something big was definitely happening. The excitement fluttered in her stomach. Her heart pounded rapidly. Even her palms were sweaty. This was better than sex, or what she could remember of sex.

The police dispatch gave little information. “Officer requests immediate assistance and backup.”

It could mean anything. As she skidded into the pasture road, her excitement only grew. Rescue vehicles, two TV vans, five sheriff cruisers and a slew of other unmarked vehicles were scattered at haphazard angles in the mud. Three sheriff deputies guarded the scene, which was cordoned off with yellow crime-scene tape. Crime-scene tape-this was serious. Definitely not some drunk teenagers.

Then she remembered the kidnapping-the paperboy whose face had been plastered over every newscast and newspaper since the beginning of the week. Had a ransom drop been made? There were rescue units. Perhaps a rescue was in progress.

She jumped from the car, noticed it still sliding in the mud and hopped back in behind the wheel.

“Don’t be stupid, Christine,” she whispered and slammed the car into Park, shoving the emergency brake into place. “Be calm. Be cool,” she lectured herself, grabbing her notepad.

Immediately the mud swallowed her leather pumps, refusing to surrender them. She kicked out of her shoes, threw them into the back of the car and padded her way in stockinged feet to the crowd of news media.

The deputies stood straight and unflinching despite the questions being hurled at them. Beyond the trees, searchlights illuminated an area close to the river. Tall grass and a mass of uniformed bodies blocked any view of what was going on.

Channel Five had sent one of their evening anchors. Darcy McManus looked impeccable and ready for the camera, her red suit well pressed, her silky black hair and makeup all in place. Yes, she even had on her shoes. It was, however, too late at night for a live report, and the camera remained off.