"For what it's worth," Spears went on, "there seems to be only one set of prints on the hardware upstairs. We're running them through IAFIS now."

"I DON'T UNDERSTAND any of this, Tony. Why can't you at least tell me where we're going? Is that too much to ask?"

The truth – and Nicholson had only come to realize it that afternoon – was that he didn't have the stomach for cold-blooded murder. Not by his own hand, anyway. He'd always believed that if he had to, he could easily put a pillow over Charlotte 's face or slip something lethal into her morning coffee, but that wasn't going to happen, was it? And now it was too late to have her hit by someone else, which would have been a snap.

He threw a few last things into his duffel, while Charlotte harped at him from the far side of the bed. The Louis Vuitton bag he'd set out for her was still empty, and his patience was running out. He badly wanted to punch her in the face. But what good would that do?

"Darling." The word nearly caught in his throat. "Just trust me here. We have a plane to catch. I'll explain everything once we're away. Now, pick out a few things and let's go. Let's go, sweetheart." Before I get really angry and murder you with my bare hands.

"It's about those men from the other night, isn't it? I knew something wasn't right with them. Do you owe somebody money – is that it?"

"Goddamnit, Charlotte, are you listening at all? It's not safe here, dimmy. For either of us. The best we could hope for would be jail at this point. That's the best, do you understand? It only gets worse from there."

"Depending on who gets to us first was the rest of his thought.

"We? What do you mean, we? I haven't done anything to anyone."

Nicholson rushed around the bed and threw an armful of clothes from her closet into the bag, hangers and all.

Then the red leather jewelry box he'd bought her in Florence, forever ago – a lifetime ago, when he'd been young, in love, and most definitely dumb as a bag of bricks with a hard-on.

"We're leaving. Now."

She trailed after him, more afraid of being alone than anything else, which he was counting on. That got them as far as the front hall before Charlotte melted down completely. He heard something between a moan and a scream, and turned to see her half-crouched on the polished slate floor. Black lines of makeup ran down her cheeks with the tears; she always wore too much of the stuff, like some kind of tart, and he should know.

"I'm so scared, Tony. I'm shaking all over. Can't you see that? Can't you see anything besides your own needs? Why are you being like this?"

Nicholson opened his mouth to say something bland and conciliatory, but what came out instead was "You really are too stupid for words, do you know that?"

He dropped her bag and took her up roughly by the arm, didn't care if he yanked it from its socket. Charlotte pulled back, kicking and screaming, literally, as he started to drag her across the floor. All he had to do was get her to the car, and then she could pop an aneurism for all he fucking cared about the dumb, stubborn cow his wife had become.

But then the first slam came at the front door.

Something – not someone – had just smashed into it from the outside, hard enough to leave a long, forked crack down the middle. Nicholson looked out a window just quickly enough to realize what it was – a battering ram. And he knew then that it was probably too late to save even himself.

The second vicious and powerful swing came right away. It popped the lock set and dead bolt like children's toys, and the door exploded open.

"RUN."

That was the only advice that Tony Nicholson had for his wife before he dropped her arm and sprinted toward the back door himself. All priorities were now relative. Survival was not, and it definitely could go to the fittest.

He got as far as the kitchen, where he came face-to-face with a short, solid-looking Hispanic man coming the other way. Now, who the hell was this?

There was a blur of motion, then an excruciating crack at the side of his knee. Nicholson vaguely registered the pipe wrench in the man's hand as he went down hard and stayed down.

At first there was only pain, a big red ball of it exploding up and down his leg.

Then came the handcuffs. They bit into his wrists before he knew they were there.

Handcuffs?

Next, the Hispanic intruder dragged him by the collar all the way back into the living room, where he dropped him midpoint on the rug.

Charlotte was sitting in one of the Barcelona chairs with a strip of silver tape plastered over her mouth.

A second man – were there really only two of them? – stood over her, watching Nicholson with faint interest, almost boredom, like he did this kind of thing every day.

They weren't FBI or police; that much seemed clear. And they were nothing like the two goons from last week. Their clothes were dark, and they wore black balaclavas pulled up off their faces and latex gloves on their hands.

Not exactly cops, but close. Former cops? Special Forces?

The one who had attacked him was smash nosed, with dark eyes that seemed to be looking down at an unworthy specimen more than anything.

"The disk?" was all that he said.

"Disk?" Nicholson gutted out the word between clenched teeth. "What the hell are you talking about? Who are you two?"

"Two – I like that number."

The man looked at his stainless-steel watch. "You have about two minutes."

"Two minutes or what?" Nicholson asked, but then he saw the answer to his question.

The taller one took out a clear plastic bag and pulled it down over Charlotte 's head. She struggled, but he had no trouble wrapping bands of the silver tape around her neck, sealing her head inside the plastic.

Nicholson could see Charlotte 's expression change as she realized exactly what was happening. He even felt a pinch of pity, maybe even lost love, something emotional and, well, human. For the first time in years, he felt a connection to Charlotte.

"You're insane! You can't do this!" he yelled at the man holding down his wife.

"You're the one doing this, Mr. Nicholson. You're in complete control of the situation, not us. This is all on you. For God's sake, make us stop."

"But I don't even understand what you want. Tell me what it is!"

He lunged for Charlotte, but the injured knee took him right back down, wedged embarrassingly between the couch and the coffee table.

"Please, tell me what you want! I don't understand!" Nicholson begged at the top of his lungs as convincingly as possible. It was the performance of a lifetime, and it had to be.

By the time he got himself onto the couch, Charlotte had gone still.

Her familiar blue eyes were wide open. Her head lolled against her shoulder like some marionette waiting to be picked up. It was grotesque, with the plastic bag still on, and easy to respond to.

"You bastards! You fucking bastards, you killed her! Now do you believe me? Is that what it takes?"

The two men were as cool as ever. They exchanged a glance. A couple of shrugs.

"We should go," the white guy said. The other nodded, and for a second Nicholson thought he'd pulled it off, that maybe "we" meant only the two of them. It didn't. One of them picked up Charlotte and the other dragged Nicholson.

As he was forced to hobble on his good leg toward the door – and God knew where after that – Nicholson had the strangest thought he'd had all day. He wished he had been nicer to Charlotte.