“Okay, now we have to be formal. I know who you are, Kate. Of course I do. But it’s a requirement that we see two forms of ID.”

I’m prepared for this, and produce my driver’s license and a copy of my birth certificate.

“A credit card would have been fine,” she says, handing them back. “But the birth certificate works, too. Okay. We’re almost there. I need to print out a form, then you sign it and we’ll be done.”

Three minutes later I sign my name. Concentrating so that my hand doesn’t tremble.

“All there is to it,” Diane announces. “You understand that the IRS will be notified of the transfer? The new security regulations require they be notified for any sum transfer in excess of ten thousand dollars, or any overseas transfer, regardless of size. This qualifies on both counts.”

“That’s fine.”

“Excellent.”

“How does this work, exactly?” I’m departing from the script, but it seems like something that should be asked.

“We use Chase Manhattan. It’s all electronic, of course. They notify the recipient bank that funds are due, and that bank distributes the funds. Assuming the number you gave me is correct, the transaction should be completed before the end of business. Probably a lot sooner.”

“And that’s it?”

“That’s it,” she says brightly. “We’re done here.”

As I stand to leave, she shakes my hand. “Congratulations, Kate! If you ever need a house sitter, let me know.”

A minute or so later I’m back in the minivan. Barely have time to put the keys in the ignition when the cell phone in my purse starts ringing. It’s his cell, not mine, and it takes a moment for me to get it opened.

“Any problems?”

“No. They said by the end of business.”

“You did good, Kate. And now I want you to fasten your seat belt. It’s not like you to be so careless.”

I look wildly around. There are other vehicles in the parking lot, but I can’t see anyone watching me.

“Oh, they can see you,” he says in my ear, as intimate as a lover. “You just can’t see them. Come on home, Kate. Follow exactly the same route that got you there. I’ll be waiting.”

“My son!” But the cell phone is dead.

Driving home is like a dream. Some other version of me drives while I observe, wondering how she manages to do it. Steer the wheel, tap the brakes, come to a complete stop at the intersections? It all seems so complicated. And yet I’m functioning as if everything is normal. Just another day in the life of Katherine Ann Bickford.

Am I being followed? Again, there are other vehicles behind me, but nothing sticks out, nothing announces malevolent intent. And yet clearly he knows where I am and what I’m doing. Knows whether I’ve fastened my seat belt or not. Knows whether I’ve been naughty or nice.

Turning onto Linden Terrace, I hesitate. Dreading what happens next. I’ve been out of his direct control for almost forty minutes and the prospect of returning to him, submitting myself to that loathsome creature, is almost more than I can bear. Never hyperventilated before, but there’s always a first time, apparently, because I’m panting like I’ve just run a marathon. Points of light dance in my eyes. Dizzy.

I slowly brake to a stop, trying to get control over my breathing.

The cell phone chirps like an angry bird. I open it, drop the damn thing, finally fish it out from under the console.

“What are you doing!” he demands.

“Panic,” I manage to say. Telling him the absolute truth.

“Get your ass back home, lady. Now! Pull into the garage and put down the door.”

The other me takes over, the one who knows how to drive, the one with nerves of steel. And as the garage door clunks down behind me, the man in the ski mask yanks open my door. Reaches across my waist to unfasten the seat belt, the gun cold and hard, pressing into the soft part of my neck.

This is it, I’m thinking. Now he kills me.

Instead, I’m pulled out of the driver’s seat—he lifts me with one arm, that’s how strong he is—and placed on the concrete floor of the garage. He’s over me, a booted foot on each side, pinning me in place. Then he slowly crouches, knees pressing against my chest with his full weight. Making it impossible to draw a breath. My legs begin to kick, futilely. Much too feeble. He barely notices. The pressure does not relent. Can’t breathe.

“Here’s the thing, Kate. It will take four or five hours for the wire to go through. That’s on average. Might be sooner, might be later. Nothing we can do to hurry it up. And I have other things to do. Promises to keep. So you’re going back to sleep.”

He plunges a needle into my neck. Everything gets warm and dark. I have one last thought before fading away.

Tommy.

10 dead to the world

“So,” Cutter wants to know, “is the package ready?”

Hinks and Wald look up from the video game. Both appear to be perplexed, which Cutter has learned are their default expressions, regardless of circumstance. Both men are competent, in a limited, military-trained sort of way, but neither seems capable of thinking outside the box. That’s just fine with Cutter, who prefers to do all the heavy lifting, brainwise. Left to their own devices, the two men would be working mope jobs, maybe attempting small-time robberies, or deviant sexual diversions, on their days off.

In other words, without Captain Cutter to lead them, Hinks and Wald would be losers.

“Package is dead to the world,” says Hinks, fiddling with the PlayStation controls. A gift from Cutter, who understands the need to remain occupied while enduring downtime. “Shot him up like you said.”

“You checked his pulse?”

“Wald’s department. He’s playing doctor.”

“Wald?”

“Fifty-five and steady.” Wald doesn’t look away from the images on the screen. Some cartoon creature with massive limbs and enough weapons to blow its imaginary world to hell.

How Wald thinks of himself, Cutter muses. Tough, durable and deadly, but controlled from a distance, by someone with a smarter computer chip.

“You made sure his throat is clear?”

“Breathing like a baby, last time I checked.”

“And when was that?” Cutter asks.

Wald glances at his wristwatch, a strapped and gleaming device that notes the time in all twenty-four zones. “Thirty minutes, give or take.”

“Check again.”

“I’ll get right on it, sir,” says Wald, but makes no move to abandon his cartoon killer.

“Now, Wald.”

“Favor, sir? Make sure Hinks don’t mess with my buttons.”

Cutter rolls his eyes. Wald puts down his PlayStation controls and pads into the adjoining room. Hinks grinning and reaching for his partner’s controls. “Mind if I fuck him up?” he asks.

“Not in the least.”

“We got the money?”

“We got the money,” Cutter says. “Wire cleared at thirteen hundred hours.”

Hinks fiddles with Wald’s controls, very pleased with whatever mischief he’s committing. “Mind if I ask you a question, Captain?”

“Permission granted. You may speak freely,” says Cutter, using an irony that, he knows, will go through Hinks like invisible smoke.

“When do we get paid?”

“Three days. That’s how long it will take to get the money back into the country.”

Hinks nods, as if satisfied. Cutter gets the impression the man isn’t primarily in it for the money. He likes the excitement. Not that he’d give up his cut.

“’Nother question, sir.”

Cutter nods.

“Why not take out the female, sir? Why leave her alive, now that we’ve got the dough?”

“Are you questioning my methods?”