“Didn’t say that, sir. Just wondering if it’s worth the risk.”

“Risk assessment is my responsibility, remember?”

“Sure, of course. I was just, you know, wondering and all.”

Cutter stares at him, expression neutral. “Don’t wonder, Hinks. Leave the wondering to me. But just so you’re not tempted to exercise your brain, the lady has been left alive because she’s part of the diversion. What form that diversion will take, you’ll just have to wait and see. You’ll just have to trust me. Do you trust me, Hinks?”

“Yes, sir. Absolutely.”

Wald appears in the doorway. “I said no fucking around! I better be at third level, you cheating, thieving bastard!”

“The package?” asks Cutter, willing himself to have patience.

“Fine, sir. Except he pissed the bed.”

“In that case you better change the sheets.”

“Fuck.”

“Do it, Wald.”

Wald sighs, vanishes back into the bedroom. Bitching all the way.

“Two hours,” Cutter tells Hinks. “Then we make our next move.”

Hinks looks up from the game. “Permission to ask another question, sir?”

Cutter nods. “Go ahead.”

“Did you do her, Captain?”

“Define ‘do.’”

“Fuck her, mess with her naked body, whatever.”

Cutter smirks. “Is this in regards to your ten-dollar side bet with Wald?”

Hinks’s jaw drops.

“I know everything,” says Cutter. “You should know that by now.”

“I’ll be damned. You wired the van!” Hinks looks amazed.

“I wired your brain, Hinks. I know how you think.”

Hinks shakes his head in admiration. “So did you do her, or what?”

“Let me put it this way,” says Cutter, allowing himself to preen, for Hinks’s benefit if not his own. “The lady is totally fucked.”

11 in the basement

Groundhog Day all over again. What was his name, the guy who played the wacky weatherman in the movie? Waking up each morning to find he was trapped in the same day. Only, the movie was funny and this, whatever it is, is decidedly not funny, not with my cheek pressed to the bathroom floor. I’m staring at the white porcelain of a toilet, able to see, more or less, but not yet able to move. More a lack of will than any sort of paralysis, because I can feel all of my limbs, prickly with pins and needles, as if I’ve been lying in the same position for hours and hours, or possibly days.

Bill Murray. The guy in the movie. Brain sluggish. Feels like my thoughts are filtering through heavy oil. Why am I still in the bathroom? Isn’t it time to go to the bank, wire the money? No, wait, I already did that. I recall going into the bank, speaking with a nice lady. Something about the parking lot, a feeling that unseen people were watching me. Then—wham! It all comes pounding back, a rush of images. My panic attack, the cell phone screaming at me, the darkened garage, the man in the mask with his knees crushing my chest. Saying he’ll put me to sleep again, which obviously he did.

What time is it? How long have I been out?

Must get up, must find Tommy. I struggle up to my hands and knees, head whirling, panting with the effort. There, progress. Now I’m perched on the toilet seat, willing the vertigo to pass. Expecting the man in the mask to barge in any second. What did he say before he knocked me out—he had “other things to do”? What other things? Did other things include returning my son?

“Tommy!” I call out weakly.

Without warning my stomach decides to empty itself. Taken by surprise, I aim for the bathtub, am only partially successful, spattering my feet with flecks of watery vomit. God, how I hate to throw up. Always fought it, even as a kid. Taste in my mouth is, well, awful, but it gives me the impetus to lurch from the toilet to the sink. Leaning heavily while I fumble with the faucet. Using both hands to splash cold water on my face, into my mouth. Better, head clearing, less dizzy.

Outside, the hallway is a hidden roller coaster, the carpet undulating under my feet, but I hang on to the banister and call out my son’s name.

“Tommy! Tomas, are you there? Can you hear me? It’s Mom!”

Nothing. The kind of overwhelming silence that means the place is empty. My instincts have already told me that I’m alone, but my instincts have been so wrong lately, they can’t be trusted. I desperately want to climb the stairs and check in Tommy’s room, just to make sure—he could be napping, exhausted from his ordeal!—but that will have to wait until the roller coaster stops and equilibrium returns. Confined to the ground floor, I stagger into the kitchen. Nobody home. Slide along the wall—very clever and solid, these walls—and check out the TV room. Half expecting to find the man in the mask reclining in my brown leather chair. Messing with Tommy’s video games. Wrong. Using a hand against the wall to make certain of my balance, I check my downstairs office. Looks like somebody has made a mess of my desk, scattering papers and catering contracts, but the culprit has vanished. What were they looking for? Was it a “they,” or just the man in the mask? Does it matter? Not right now it doesn’t. This can wait.

I take my hand away from the wall. Amazing, girl, you’re walking on two legs. Look, Ma, no hands! Reminds me of Tommy toddling across the carpet, going boom-zi-day as he reaches for Ted, falling flat on his tiny face and laughing. Not crying, laughing. Like falling down was fun, a show he was putting on for his dad. Ted laughing, too, with tears in his eyes, shooting me a look that said, We’ll never forget this, will we?

No, Ted, we won’t.

“Tommy! Tomas, are you there?” Hopeless. My son isn’t in the house, I know it in my gut, in my heart, in my head, in every weary bone in my body. He’s somewhere else. He’s been taken.

The phone rings. Not a cell phone, my home landline. I’m at the desk in a heartbeat, snatching up the receiver. “Tommy?”

“He prefers ‘Tomas.’ You really ought to make an effort. Names are important.”

The man in the mask. I recognize his sneering voice.

“Where’s my son?”

“He’s not your son, Mrs. Bickford. He belongs to someone else. Always did, always will.”

“Let me speak to him, please? I’m begging you! You promised!”

“You’re a nice woman, Mrs. Bickford. So I’ll give you some parting advice. Whatever you do, don’t go into the basement.”

The phone goes dead.

Don’t go into the basement. The words drive me to my knees, reverberating inside my head, a kind of high, terrible keening basementbasementbasement. What has he done? What has that monster done to my son?

Bing, bong.

Front-door chimes. Who can it be? A wild rush of hope floods into me and I react by running full tilt through the hallway, banging my shoulder on the doorjamb as I head for the foyer.

Bing, bong.

Let it be Tomas. Let it be my son. Not dead in the basement, but alive on the front steps, ringing the chimes because he no longer has his key. I can see his big loopy grin, I can smell his hair, I can feel the bony softness of him pressed to my breast, struggling to get out of one of Mom’s dreaded super-hugs.

Hands shaking, I fumble with the lock and the chain—open, open!—and then the door swings wide and sunlight spills into the foyer.

Cops. Uniformed deputies. Lots of them.

“Tommy! Did you find him? Have you got my son?”

“Mrs. Bickford, may we enter your domicile?”

I gesture them inside, momentarily speechless. Dread descending because there’s no sign of my son out there, and the cops do not look happy. As if they resent being the bearers of bad news. It’s enough to make me flop onto the nearest sofa, burying my face in my hands as the uniforms flood into the foyer, into the living room, into my house.