Croft was openly sweating, his face pale. Lt. Baker of Security was conducting the interrogation, with Carter sitting at the table beside him. There were two people standing in the background, one in each corner, both with arms folded and grim expressions: Teal'c—and General Hammond.

"You had it in for Dr. Jackson," Baker said coldly. "Major Carter broke it up between you and he last night. Don't even try to deny it."

"I'm not denying it," Croft snarled, trying to keep the fear from leaking out and puddling on the floor. It wasn't easy. "Jackson screwed up the mission and maybe cost our colonel his life! Geek deserves whatever he gets, but I didn't take him out!" He looked up defiantly. "And if I had, you would have found the body. I don't mess around!"

"Where were you last night?" Baker pushed. "Got any witnesses?"

"Yeah. Banner. He was with me. All night long. We put away a few six-packs."

"Got any proof?"

"Banner's my proof."

"Banner's another suspect. Try again, sergeant. And this time, try to act like part of this man's army instead of an immature brat with an attitude." Baker leaned over Croft, and Carter couldn't help but think how much more effective it would have been if it had been Teal'c doing the leaning instead of the relatively slight Lt. Baker. "You've had your fun, now it's time to tell us where Dr. Jackson is. Or maybe you think you're okay with spending the next several years as a guest of the penitentiary? Think again, sergeant. With your background, there won't be any parole, or time off for good behavior. No one will trust you not to take your knowledge of the StarGate to the highest bidder. They'll just lock you up and throw away the key."

For the first time, Croft allowed a look of fear to cross his face. "But I didn't do it, sir. And neither did Banner. Yeah, we were gonna rough him up out there in the parking lot, but that's all, I swear!" He gestured to Carter. "You were there, major. You broke it up. You saw us drive off!"

"But I didn't see where you went," Carter returned coolly. "For all I know, you followed Dr. Jackson home and assaulted him." She leaned forward, trying for the menace that the Jaffa behind her radiated so effortlessly. "That's my team mate who's missing, gentlemen. And he means as much to me as your colonel does to you."

"Dr. Jackson is the man responsible for opening the StarGate," General Hammond reminded them from where he stood. "This matter is not about to simply go away. I advise you to tell us everything you know."

"But I don't know anything!" Croft yelled, starting to crumble. Torture from natives of another world he could withstand, but this interrogation meant more to him.

An airman slipped in and whispered something into Baker's ear. Baker frowned, and gestured for the airman to repeat the message to the general. Then Baker turned back to Croft. "You're dismissed, sergeant, but you're confined to the base. We may need to talk to you further."

Croft froze. "That's…that's all? I can go?"

"Dismissed, sergeant," Baker repeated firmly.

That was all that it took. Croft all but bolted from the room, hastily throwing a salute in the general direction of the several senior officers.

Carter raised her eyebrows, looking back from the door to the officer in charge of the investigation. "Lieutenant?"

"Not him, major," Baker returned ruefully, "nor Banner either. Wish it were; it would make my job a lot easier. But my men reported back from both Dr. Jackson's apartment and from Croft's place. There were a few dozen beer cans in Croft's trash, which bears out his story of getting drunk last night with Banner. We checked with the neighbors, one of whom was ready to call the police last night to keep the noise down. The neighbors said that it was just about seven in the evening, which is when we've fixed the time for the break in at Dr. Jackson's."

"What about Major Vincent?"

Baker sighed. "I can't rule him out, but frankly, my gut tells me that it wasn't him either. Vincent has a background in intelligence, did some MP work early in his career. If he were going to kidnap Dr. Jackson or worse, he wouldn't have been so careless. He would have done the deed in the apartment parking lot when Dr. Jackson got home, or somewhere other than the apartment. This whole set up moves us forward too quickly onto the trail. I'll keep some people on him to do a rule out, but I'm putting my money on our clues from the apartment. It's not SG-12."

"What about DanielJackson's abode?" Teal'c put in. "What clues have you determined?"

"Colonel O'Neill was right; there was a fingerprint on the broken door and another one from the same person on the coffee machine. Amateurs," he snorted, and added, "and not Banner or Croft. We've involved the FBI to see if we can come up with a match. The answer should be back within a few hours."

"Colonel?" General Hammond looked up to see Jack O'Neill enter his office.

The colonel wouldn't have looked bad, not to a casual acquaintance, but General Hammond was not a casual acquaintance. The lines around the man's eyes were more pronounced, the brows more furrowed, and there was an angry droop to the shoulders that spoke of despair at this blow to his adopted family. The general sympathized, for he felt the same way; he had just gotten off the phone with a superior in Washington who had apparently consulted the dictionary in an attempt to tell Hammond just how unhappy he was at this loss of a national treasure and how could Hammond have been so careless as to mislay the man?

"General," O'Neill greeted him, dropping into a chair.

"Any word?" Hammond asked, knowing that there wasn't.

O'Neill shook his head, not meeting the other's gaze. "No. Sir, I think I need to take my team and look for Daniel in Arizona."

"Arizona, colonel?"

"Yes, sir. That's the spot that Daniel pinpointed for us, to go hunting with his treasure map." O'Neill warmed to his subject. "Our leads are all falling flat on this end, general. I've called my sources and none of them report any suspicious movements among the major players in the game. Banner and Croft are not the culprits; Baker was able to rule them out definitively. Vincent doesn't look good as a suspect; he may not have an alibi but I've worked with the man and my gut says no. The fingerprint that Forensics found in Daniel's apartment belongs to a twenty year old runaway, missing for three years. Name of Virginia Jones, AKA Ginny. Ginny Jones." He snorted. "She is now no longer missing. Or rather, she is, but she's missing along with Daniel. I can't think of any other reason why a twenty year old runaway's fingerprints would be on Daniel's smashed in doorknob. Or why she'd be in the vicinity of Daniel at all."

"And you think they're in Arizona."

"It's our best bet, general." O'Neill leaned back in his chair. "The Goa'uld shopping list that Daniel was working on is also missing, and there are very few people who know about it, let alone those anxious enough to do something about it. I've confirmed that he took a copy of the document home with him last night to work on. That copy is missing from his apartment."

"Teknet." Hammond grew grim. "Do you think this runaway is the Goa'uld's new host?"

"Possibly. We never found the snake after the last time, and he could have dumped his then host, knowing that his portrait would be among the nation's ten most wanted fugitives. He—now maybe she—wants his toys, general, and the only way to find them is to get Daniel to lead he/she/it to the treasure trove."

"Which Dr. Jackson will never do."

"Not willingly. And I'd rather get Daniel back before any of us find out what 'not willingly' involves."

Hungry.

Thirsty.

Headache.

Well, that about summed up his existence right about now. Oh, yes, mustn't forget the part about being tied spread-eagled between two posts with the rope all but cutting off circulation to both wrists and ankles. Nor the blindfold that took away his sense of time as well as sight.

He didn't have much left to explore his new surroundings. He had smell: there was a dusty, indoors scent that suggested concrete. And hearing told him that there were several people around him, mostly young and female, chittering in the background but rarely approaching him. Touch was giving him the most information: cold and drafty, since they had removed all his clothing except for his skivvies. Then they'd left him strictly alone to wallow in the misery of hunger, thirst, and a killer headache that was the direct descendant of the scuffle at his apartment.

He'd been unconscious for several hours, of that he was certain. There was the stale taste in his mouth, the stubble he could feel on his skin. He could also feel the air around him: it lacked humidity. Which meant that he wasn't in Colorado anymore, Dorothy, but rather someplace with significantly less moisture in it. Some desert type place, like Egypt. The Mojave Desert. The Sahara. The Kalahari. Death Valley.

Crap, as Jack liked to say. Was he reduced to chanting the major deserts of the world? Daniel wished that he hadn't ended up with Death Valley. It might give someone—anyone—ideas.

The whole scene played itself against his blindfolded eyes: he had walked into his apartment, set down the load of papers and books in his arms, plopped the Chinese on the kitchen counter and put on a pot of coffee as per his usual routine. It had been a long day; his head was still aching from yesterday's concussion, and the incident with Banner and Croft had shaken him more than he'd realized at the time. The next thing he knew, the door had been kicked in and a horde had jumped on him, knocking him to the floor. Things got very black very quickly after that.

Wait—had there been a pair of glowing eyes among that horde?

Double crap.

"This is the town?" Carter's voice held real doubt. "This is where Daniel said to come?"

"Peyote." O'Neill pointed out the sign. "Population: three. Not including the cattle."

Teal'c squinted at the sign. "O'Neill, am I misreading the sign? I believe the number is 300. There are substantially more people attached to this community than three."

"Okay, I take it back. Including the cattle." O'Neill looked around. "There any place to camp out?"

"I do not see any," Teal'c informed him. "I have not observed any signage for campgrounds in the last several miles of our approach, nor did we bring supplies for setting up a canvas shelter, O'Neill. There is, however, an establishment that purports to cater to temporary travelers on that corner."

"Thanks, T." O'Neill headed the SUV in the direction of the motel that Teal'c had pointed out, wondering if the big alien was once again attempting to try on Earth-style humor. It wasn't always easy to tell. Naw; the big guy just didn't understand O'Neill's brand of sarcasm. That was the answer. Right.

Hollywood could have hired the town of Peyote as a backdrop for a ghost town. Just move a few people off to the side, and the place would be safe for the passage of tumbleweeds down the main strip. Wait: there went one now. O'Neill smiled grimly. Not too many amenities, but likewise not too many people to get in his way. And, like as not, these were the type of people who would look at Teal'c sideways and then move on about their business. Nosing into someone else's wasn't their style.

He steered the SUV around a massive pothole in the road large enough to qualify as a ditch. The pothole was located just in front of the community center/town hall/police station/all around general government place. O'Neill wondered if it was a not so subtle dig at authority and decided that he definitely approved of Peyote, Arizona.

Then he spotted the one and only bar in town, and pointed it out to the others. "Tonight," he told them. "The locals will mosey on in, and I'll try to pump them about any other strangers in town. They won't tell on one of their own, but that girl that left the fingerprints isn't one of their own. She grew up and left Hoboken behind. I'll see what I can get."

Someone approached, and Daniel didn't know whether to regret it or be grateful for the break in the routine of hunger, thirst, headache, and boredom. He cast around sightlessly, trying to peer past the blindfold without success.

The footsteps paused; surveying him, Daniel was sure. They moved again, around in a semi-circle, looking at him from all sides. Daniel kept still, using sound to locate his captor, wondering what was going on. They hadn't asked him for anything, hadn't told him to talk on the phone to Jack or General Hammond to plead for his life. He would have welcomed that; Jack and Carter would have found some way to trace the call and come after him. For he was certain that he'd been missed by now. Jack O'Neill was not a patient man, and after discovering Daniel's apartment in its current condition he would have set out the alarms. There were advantages to having friends in low places. Places like Level 18 of Cheyenne Mountain.

The footsteps moved behind him, and stood there, waiting. Daniel could stand it no longer. He coughed, trying to work up some moisture in his throat. "What do you want?" he croaked.

Then he remembered the glowing eyes that had come at him in his apartment, just before a very large object connected with his head.

"You," a familiar voice rumbled. It was trying for deep and forbidding but what emerged was a wimpy falsetto whine, despite the cavernous Goa'uld echo. "You will tell me where my possessions are located. And you will tell me now."