“How much?”

“Good question,” he says, smiling with approval. “Here’s my answer. All of it. Every penny. You okay with that, Kate? Is the kid worth wiping out your bank accounts?”

“Yes.”

“Good answer, and I like the way you didn’t hesitate. We’re going to get along just fine, you and me. For the period of our brief acquaintance. And if we don’t get along, if you don’t cooperate, you know what I’m going to do?”

He waits. My mouth is so dry it’s hard to form a word.

“What?” I finally ask.

“I’ll cut out Tommy’s heart,” he says. “I’ll cut out his heart and give it to you in a plastic bag.”

The man in the mask puts aside my son’s PlayStation controls and pulls a knife out of the sheath on his ankle. Gun in one hand, never wavering, and now, glittering, a knife in the other.

“This is what I’ll use,” he says very softly. “My trusty K-Bar. And it won’t be the first heart I’ve ever cut out.” He pauses, studying me. His lips twitching slightly. “Do you believe me, Kate?”

“Yes,” I manage to say.

And I do.

The mind, I discover, is a funny thing. Much more capable than I had imagined. For although part of me, a sizable, shivering part of me, remains terrified, a cold place in my brain seems to be processing information, making decisions. Guiding me, even as I quiver in fear. The fear not so much that I will die, but that my son will die if I don’t do the right thing. If I don’t think and behave rationally.

Don’t give him a reason, that part of my mind tells me. Meaning no sudden moves, no hysteria—that state of supposedly female panic that has always repulsed me in others—no fountains of tears. The man with the gun may be a psychotic killer—he wants you to believe he is—but he’s been in your life for less than five minutes and he’s already told you exactly what he wants. You might call that progress.

He wants money. And if money is what he wants, then money is what he’ll get. At the same time, access to the money is my only leverage. How best to use that leverage? Not to defy him—he’s not a man I’d care to defy, under any circumstances—but to make sure that Tommy is okay. To make sure that he’ll be returned to his home, and to his mother, in one piece. Undamaged.

“How do I know—” I begin. Then stop to work some moisture into my parched mouth. “How do I know my son is…okay?”

He puts the knife back in the sheath at his ankle. A move so delicate and smooth and practiced that it makes my breath catch in my throat. Something about the way he does it makes me believe he could slip the knife into flesh just as adroitly. And with as much physical pleasure.

He smiles and clicks his white, white teeth together. “Bad Kate,” he says. “She didn’t ask permission to ask a question.”

“Please tell me my son is okay.”

“No begging, Kate. Here’s the deal. You want to ask me a question? Pose it this way—‘Permission to ask a question, sir.’ Got it?”

For him this is a kind of game, obviously. And humiliating me, or toying with me, is part of that game. I have no choice but to play along.

“Permission to ask a question, sir.”

The mouth in the mask grins. “Permission denied. For the time being. Sometime in the next few hours you will be allowed to speak to Tommy on the cell. He’ll be a little woozy because he’s been drugged—”

“You drugged my son!”

He moves so fast I don’t even have time to react. One moment he’s seated in the chair—my chair—and the next the gun is pressing against my forehead like a cold steel finger, pushing me back into the cushions.

Can’t help it, tears spill from my eyes and run down my cheeks. He’s inches from me, his breath coming in snorts. I can hear his teeth grinding. I can smell him, the sharp scent of his maleness, his anger. It’s all I can do to keep from peeing my pants, that’s how much he frightens me. The last time I was this scared was as a five-year-old, imagining a monster under my bed, waiting to reach up through the mattress and grab me. I’d been too terrified to scream then. This fear is even more visceral.

“Never, never,” he says, whispering his hot breath into the side of my face. “Never, ever defy me. Never raise your voice. Is that understood? Nod if you can’t speak.”

I nod, feeling the barrel of the pistol pressing hard into my forehead. Terrified that a bullet will explode me into the darkness, leaving Tommy without a mother.

Slowly, he stops panting and his breathing becomes regular. I haven’t been this close to a man since Ted died, and it gives me a sick feeling. Makes my skin crawl with revulsion.

At last he backs up a step, and the pressure on my forehead lessens. His hand cups my chin, holding my face. He squeezes until I whimper in pain.

“Kate, Kate. What are we going to do about you, huh? I thought you wanted to cooperate. Play the game. Get your kid back.”

“You’re hurting me.”

He responds by squeezing harder, then suddenly his hand is gone and my face is burning with shame.

“Where were we?” he says, his voice weirdly amiable again. “Oh right. You want me to prove your son is still alive. Understandable. Of course we drugged him, Kate. Had to. Did you want me to coldcock him with this gun? No? Drugging the target is the safe way, Kate. You’ll just have to trust me on this. We have a method. The method works.”

We, of course. There has to be more than one person involved. Are they all monsters like the man in the mask? Or is he the designated heavy, selected because he knows how to instill fear?

Oddly enough, the idea of Tommy’s abduction being part of an organized activity is something of a relief. Maybe there are saner minds at work. People who understand there is nothing to be gained by killing my son.

My eyes are still blurred with tears, but I can tell that he’s back in the chair. A wave of dread sweeps through me, as if soaking into my bones, producing a new flood of tears. I hate this, crying, hate how it makes me look weak. But I can’t stop it from happening. There are times for me when crying is as involuntary as breathing. Times when it is better not to fight it, just to get it over with, to get beyond the tears. As, eventually, I did when we lost Ted.

Suddenly, something hits me in the face. Something soft and light. It falls to my lap. My hands find a little wad of thin cloth.

A handkerchief.

“Wipe your face. You have snot running down your lips.”

I do as he says, thinking, what sort of man carries a hankie these days? And then it comes to me. A man who makes women cry. A man who has done this before, and is ready for every eventuality.

“The method, Kate. The method is your friend. Let me explain how it works.”

He’s interrupted by the chirping of a phone. Sudden and shrill, it sends a jet of cold blood through my heart. With the gun still aimed at my head, he reaches into one of his pockets and extracts a cell phone. Angrily snaps it open and checks the display.

“I told you, never call this number!” he snarls into the phone. “Never, never, never! No, it’s not possible! Okay, okay. Stop crying and listen to me carefully. Are you listening? Good. I promise you, he’s alive. Your son is alive. That’s all you need to know at this time. And if you do exactly as I say, if you follow my instructions, you’ll see him soon. Very soon.”

He snaps the cell phone closed, slips it into his pocket, and calmly stares at me with his dark, glittering eyes. As if daring me to say something.

I remain silent. But I’ve discovered something important. Mine is not the only child who has been kidnapped.