“If you’re finished with your breakfast—what’s the matter, no appetite?—we’ll proceed to step two. The kid call.”

He produces a cell phone from a vest pocket, hits one key, is connected almost instantly.

“Put him on,” he says, then nods to himself.

He slides the cell phone over the counter and indicates that I pick it up.

“Tommy!”

“Mom? Is that you?”

Tommy’s voice. He’s alive. Suddenly I’m weeping, blubbering, and my son is telling me not to cry. “I’m okay, Mom. I was at the game and then I don’t remember. They said they gave me stuff to make me sleep. It made me forget. Then they—”

Before my son can finish telling me what else they did, the phone goes dead. Not even a dial tone, just silence, horrible silence. I want to scream. The man in the black ski mask is studying me, and he seems very pleased with himself. I throw the cell phone at him. It bounces off his shoulder and lands on the floor, skittering.

“That was interesting,” he says after a moment. “I almost pulled the trigger.”

“Fuck you! I want my baby back!”

His teeth click together, chop chop. “End of the day, Kate. Provided you follow the method. Now put on some makeup. You want to look good for the bankers, don’t you? It isn’t every day you buy a new house.”

“What?”

The man in the mask sighs. “I told you yesterday. Why is it women never listen? You’re buying a house, Kate. A small villa in the Caymans. Isn’t that nice?”

9 fasten your seat belt

The marble floors of the Fairfax National Bank feel spongy somehow. I’m wearing my sensible flats, not the heels the man in the ski mask picked out. My knees are watery and light—I’d be wobbling on those heels. Not a good sign when you’re about to make a major transaction.

I catch sight of my image in the plate-glass mirrors near the vestibule, and am amazed at how normal I look. A not-quite-young career woman in her elegant, perfectly understated DKNY outfit. Still slim, almost willowy. Small breasts, nice trim butt molded by the line of the perfectly draped trousers. Frankly, I look like a million bucks. Or a half million anyhow. Never know from looking at me that my heart is racing and my bones are infused with equal parts dread and wild anticipation.

Hoping this will all be over soon. It must, one way or another. Couldn’t stand another day of this. Follow the method and you’ll have your kid back by three, the latest. That’s the deal, supposedly. So I’m being my best obedient self. What other choice to I have?

None.

Around my left ankle, concealed by the slightly belled trousers, is a plastic bracelet with a small electronic tracking device. Snapped on just before I left the house. Out of his immediate control, but not, apparently, out of view. I’ll know exactly where you are at all times. Take the wrong street, I’ll know. Try to leave the bank by a back door, I’ll know—and your kid will pay the price. I tell him the ankle bracelet is unnecessary, that I’ll do exactly what he has requested, but he smirks and tells me to shut up like a good girl.

The GPS tracker is backup. My team will have you in visual contact at all times. You won’t see them, but they’ll be there. Count on it.

In my sweaty hands is the manila folder he handed me in the garage, just before I slipped behind the wheel of my minivan. The folder contains the necessary financial information, as well as a brochure for Island Dream Villas.

“If you’re thinking about making a run for it, now’s your chance,” he tells me as I hit the ignition key. “Just remember, there are consequences. We will not hesitate. Your son will die. Follow the method, do not deviate from the plan, and he will live. It’s that simple.”

“What if I have an accident?” I ask him.

“Make sure you don’t.”

A moment later I’m backing out of the garage. At first it feels like I’m driving drunk—I’m dizzy with anxiety—but by the time I make the first turn I’m more or less in control, and follow the agreed-upon route without incident.

Made it. Ready for the next step. To my left is the teller area, three windows open. One of the people waiting to conduct business is the beautifully coiffed owner of a downtown jewelry store, clutching his blue, zippered bag with yesterday’s receipts. Can’t think of his name, but we know each other by sight. What would he do if he knew? Nothing to stop me from telling him, nothing to stop me from announcing that my son has been abducted and the man behind it waits inside my house. Nothing but the fear that I’ll never see Tommy again.

I march into the back area, where the loan officers work in small carrels. Find the desk marked Assistant Vice Treasurer. The woman at the desk, another familiar face, looks up and smiles. “Good morning, Mrs. Bickford.”

“Morning, um, Diane,” I say, reading the nameplate.

“Have a seat, please. Now, what can I do for you?”

I lay the folder in my lap. “I was told you handle wire transfers.”

“One of my many jobs. You need to wire funds?”

I nod. Mouth so dry I’m having trouble forming words. “I’m, ah, buying a vacation home.”

Diane brightens. She’s about my age and similarly dressed. There doesn’t seem to be a hint of suspicion in her open, pleasant face. But then she knows me, apparently.

“You catered my niece’s wedding. Alana Pillsbury?”

“Of course,” I said. “You’re Margaret’s sister?”

“Sister-in-law. It was lovely really. Those people you have, they’re so nice. And the food—to die for! Bill and I were expecting rubber chicken, you know? Because I happened to know what the per-plate price was—Margaret can’t keep a secret, not about money! So we were simply amazed when we saw the spread.”

“We try,” I say.

“This must be your busy season.”

“Yes, we’re pretty well booked until October.”

“Fabulous. Now, what’s this about a vacation home?”

With slightly trembling hands, I push the brochure across her desk. “They call them villas. But it’s really like a condo sort of thing. Separate buildings, but the association takes care of everything,” I say, repeating the lines supplied by the man in the mask. Who has assured me there will be no problems. All this about villas is just window dressing, a diversion. People in my “bracket” transfer funds all over the world, supposedly. Never thought of myself as being in a particularly elevated “bracket,” but obviously he thinks so.

There is no indication that Diane disagrees, or doubts my intentions.

“Oh, my God, I’m so jealous. A villa in the Caribbean!”

“It’s an investment, really. We won’t be able to use it for more than a few weeks a year.”

“It’s fabulous, Mrs. Bickford.”

“Kate, please. Here’s the information.” I hand her the instructions. Copied in my own hand.

Diane studies the page, looking quite serious. Now it will all blow up in my face. Surely she’ll figure it out, press a button under her desk, and in a moment the bank will be flooded with uniformed police officers. Instead, she smiles and nods and says, “Sea Breeze Limited is handling the sale on that end? And this is the number for their bank?”

I nod. “They’re, um, my appointed agents. That’s the number they faxed me.”

“And this is the account you wish to transfer from?”

I nod again, fearful that my voice will give me away.

Diane goes to her computer screen and checks the balance. “Excellent,” she says. “Funds are sufficient. Almost to the penny. Do you want the wire fee to come out of your regular checking account?”

I nod again.