But she didn't say it, because she knew it would only make him laugh.

She did exactly what he said, trying nothing heroic, because any heroic gesture was sure to get her killed. She kept expecting him to explain, or at least to talk, to say something, but he seemed to have other things on his mind.

Even when the car pulled away from the curb and roared north to Wilshire, he remained silent, lodged behind the wheel, staring straight ahead, his gaze fixed in what soldiers called a thousand-mile stare. He might have been a dead man, or a man in a cataleptic trance. The only thing that proved he was alive and alert was the dull pressure of the gun against her ribs.

It was a handgun. She didn't know what kindshe didn't know anything about guns, had never wanted to know about them. She assumed it was loaded, and she assumed that if she tried to open the car door and throw herself out, it would blast a hole in her heart.

There was no realistic chance of leaping from the car anyway. He had made her fasten her seat belt before starting out. At the time, she had found it almost funny that he would care about her safety. Now she understood that safety had nothing to do with it. He wanted her strapped in so she couldn't escape without unbuckling herself. Jumping out of the car was a nonstarter.

The same held true of all the other maneuvers that ran through her head as the car shot onto the eastbound Santa Monica Freeway, rushing toward the downtown skyline. She imagined herself waiting until the car took an offramp and was idling at a stoplight, then rolling down her window and screaming for help. She imagined waiting until he forced her to get out somewhere, then wrestling the gun away. Or locking him out of the car and driving off, the keys conveniently still in the ignition.

Hopeless plans.

She couldn't outthink him, couldn't outrun him. couldn't do anything except let him take her wherever it was they were going.

She wished she could think of something to say, if only to show him she wasn't afraid, but her mind seemed to have frozen up.

"Guess I was too hard on you back there," Gabe said suddenly, breaking the long silence.

She didn't answer.

"Calling you a kidthat was out of line. I mean, sure, you're young, but that's some quality pussy you've got to offer."

She averted her face, afraid to let him see her sprinkle of tears.

"I've had other young ones like you. I gotta get 'em young and ripe. It's the only way to ensure the ultimate in, you know, fuckability. You're one of the best I've had. You go all-out, every time. You're so goddamned eager to please."

"Shut up," she whispered.

He took the exit for Vermont Avenue, slowing to thirty miles an hour. "I don't know what it is about high school girls these days," he said. "When I was growing up, they weren't like they are now. Girls of your generationyou're fucking Lolitas, all of you. Sex ed might have something to do with it; I don't know. Maybe there's something in the water. Whatever it is, I'm not complaining."

"I hate you." She spoke the words so softly, she didn't think he'd even heard.

"The only downside is that the law makes me a criminal just for doing what comes naturally. Fucking legal code is a hundred years out-of-date. This isn't the Victorian era, for Christ's sake. Girls today, they hit fourteen, fifteen, they aren't virgins. Well, of course, you were. I popped your cherry pretty damn good, didn't I, short stuff?"

She ground her jaws together.

"My point is, you were ready. Your motor was revving; you were primed. Hell, it would' ve been cruel not to do you. And if somebody was going to tax your ass, who should it be? Some dumb high school jock, or a man, an experienced man, who could guide you through it, teach you, ease you along?"

He turned to her, and she saw him smile.

"When you get down to it, I was doing you a favor. Helping you get a good start in life."

"Yeah," she whispered, "you're a saint."

He surprised her by laughing aloud. "Point taken. So I'm not exactly a candidate for humanitarian of the year. But I didn't do you any harm, either."

"Until you kidnapped me."

"That's different. That's business."

"Business? How?"

"Never mind how."

She looked away from him, out the window. She didn't know this part of town. It was south of where her mom worked, not far from USC, but in an even worse neighborhood. She thought it must be South-Central. The streets were treeless and unpopulated, zoned for industrial use. Warehouses and salvage yards and big rambling buildings that might have been factories passed on both sides of the street. Nearly every building was encircled by a high chain-link fence topped with concertina wire. Graffiti bloomed on fire hydrants, alley walls, even parked cars. In the distance sirens sang out. Hearing them, Meg felt a rush of hope, which quickly faded as the sirens trailed off in another direction.

"They'll catch you," she said softly. "They'll know you did it."

"I don't think so. Nobody can connect me with you. I took all the necessary precautions. Never even told you my real name. No way I'm giving my name to a girl who could get me busted for statutory rape."

"I wouldn't have told anyone."

"I couldn't be sure of that, could I? You might blab to one of your pajama-party girlfriends. I couldn't risk it. Couldn't tell the truth about myself to some airhead cheerleader I was banging."

Airhead cheerleader. The words burned like acid. He chuckled as if he knew it.

"And here we are," he added.

They had arrived at a massive brick-and-stone building that seemed ancient, like some fortress from medieval times. It was vast, taking up most of a city block, its parking lot empty and forlorn. There was no sign over the entrance, and the few small windows had been boarded up. Another one of the ubiquitous security fences surrounded the building and its grounds.

"We can't get in there," Meg said. "It's closed off."

"O ye of little faith."

Gabeor whatever his real name wasguided the car around to an alley at the side of the building, where a rear gate was secured by a rusty padlock. Gabe pressed the nose of the car against the gate, pushing it inward, straining against the chain that held it closed, until finally the chain snapped and the gate swung wide.

"Crappy security they got here," he said with a laugh.

He drove through and parked by the building.

"I'm getting out now," Gabe said. "I'm taking the keys. You could try locking yourself in the car, but I'll just unlock the door, and then I'll be mad. You could also try screaming for help. Does this look like a neighborhood where screaming for help would prove effective?"

"No," she said.

"You're very observant."

He left the car, walked around to the passenger side, and hustled her out, the gun held loosely in his hand.

"Now what?" she asked.

"We go in. This way."

The gun pointed toward a door in the building's brick wall, a few yards away. She approached it, her shoes crunching on broken glass and dead leaves.

"It's open. Just push."

She did. The doora heavy door of solid metaleased open with a groan. Beyond the threshold, there was dim, wavering light and a smell of age and rot. She stood motionless, afraid to go farther.

"Inside."

Her face felt hot, her head all stuffy, as if she'd just come down with the flu. She wasn't sure she could force her legs to move. They felt stiff and numb.

"Go," he ordered, shoving her from behind.

She stepped forward, into air heavy with dust motes. She heard rustlings from distant corners.

A whimper escaped her, and Gabe laughed.

"You said you wanted excitement in your life," he said. "Looks like you got your wish."