Times like this, Cutter isn’t sure if he wants to hold her in his arms or slap her beautiful, haunted face. Knock some sense into her. Not that he’s ever raised a hand to her. She can’t help it, and he knows that. He’s known for years that Lyla has what they both carefully refer to as her “bad spells”—intervals where she drifts into her own reality—but the desperate situation with their son, Jesse, seems to have completely unhinged her. She hasn’t eaten in days, hasn’t slept. Prowls the house like a ghost, searching for the boy, as if her will to mother him will make him reappear. It’s all very sad and pathetic, but Cutter hasn’t got time for it now. Once he has handled the situation, then it will be Lyla’s turn. Get her some professional help, but not until the boy is back at home, safe and sound.

More than a few army and civilian shrinks have probed and medicated Lyla over the years, but it’s too dangerous to call one in now. No telling what she would say, where it would lead. The wrong word from her, taken seriously by a credulous shrink, and the whole situation could unravel. His boy might not survive, and that is the only thing that matters. Not his own well-being, and not Lyla’s sanity. Just the boy.

Cutter takes his wife by the arm and leads her into their bedroom. She follows willingly, muttering almost silently, her eyes focused on some imagined distance. He seats her at her sewing table, where she sometimes works on her delicate brocades—works of art, really, as beautiful and delicate as she is. He searches for her medication, the most recent prescription. There it is on the bookcase, at eye level, right in front of him. She’s always hiding her meds in obvious places, as if the mere act of touching the bottle will render it invisible. He fills a glass with water, persuades her to swallow a pill.

“I’m not crazy,” she says. “You know that.”

“I know, Lyla.”

“I’ve been crazy in the past, but not now. Jesse really is gone. I’ve looked everywhere.”

“I know you have. You must try and get some sleep. Just let me handle everything, okay?”

She’s not listening to him, though. He can tell, the way her eyes drift, the way she cocks her head at an angle that seems slightly unnatural. “Maybe he ran away,” she says, conversing with herself alone. “Boys run away sometimes. They always come back eventually. They come back when they get hungry, or when they want their mother.”

“He’ll be back soon, Lyla. Jesse will be back with us, I promise.”

She turns away from him, crosses her spindly arms, hugging herself. “My husband is a liar,” she says in a kind of chanting singsong. “He lies and he lies and he lies. And he thinks I don’t know. That’s what’s making me crazy. All the lies. I can’t concentrate because of all the lies inside my head.”

Cutter hopes the pill will make his wife sleep, and that when she awakens she’ll be better. Not cured, but a little better. That’s the most he’ll let himself hope for. And this time it looks like the medication is having some effect. Her motions, previously jangled and abrupt, have become languid, as if she’s adrift in her own private sea.

When her eyes begin to flutter—a good sign—he turns to leave, intent on his own very pressing business.

“I’m going to call the police,” she suddenly announces, forcing her eyes open. “I’m going to report him missing. I found his uniform, you know. It has blood on it. So I’ll call the police and tell them.”

“Not now,” he says. “When you wake up.”

“You promise?”

“I promise,” he lies.

The telephone line has been disconnected. And when he leaves, as soon he must, the doors will be locked from the outside. Not that Lyla will attempt to leave. Among other things, she’s become agoraphobic, prone to debilitating anxiety attacks at the mere thought of crossing the threshold.

“You dropped something,” she says sleepily, pointing vaguely.

Cutter reaches down, picks up the black ski mask and slips it into a pocket, buttoning the flap.

8 a small villa in the caymans

Waking up is like swimming through thick black ink. No, not swimming, exactly, more like drifting gradually upward. Expending no effort. Vague thoughts with no body attached, drifting, drifting. There comes a time when I’m aware of something cold on my face. Hmm, didn’t know I had a face. Right, of course, everybody has a face. And a body, and hands and arms and legs. I’d forgotten. Now vaguely aware of my limbs. And then I begin to feel something on my skin. Drip, drip, drip. Icy-cold. I don’t mind, what do I care? I’m asleep. Things happen when you’re asleep. Dream-things over which you have no control. Icy-cold things. Ignore them.

Tommy.

The thought hits me like an electric shock, and suddenly I’m wide-awake and aware of light penetrating the inky dark. My eyes snap open. My vision is blurred, but I can make out the shape of someone crouching very close to me. Looming.

“Kate? Hi there. Rise and shine—0700 hours. Seven o’clock for you civilians.”

I’m soaked. The man in the black ski mask has been dripping ice water on my neck and blouse. Using a spoon as a ladle, like basting a turkey. I’m the turkey. I’m shivering and I hate him. Hate waking up to fear. Hate the dread of worrying about my son. Hate the power this monster has over me.

Hate, hate, hate.

My arms swing of their own accord, connecting with his legs. He laughs and backs away. Do my legs work? Yes, as a matter of fact they do, and my feet start kicking, aiming between his legs. He dances easily away, avoiding any contact.

“You asked for it!” he announces gleefully.

A bucket of icy water smacks me full in the face, making me gasp, filling my nose and mouth. My limbs stop thrashing. Useless, anyhow. He anticipates my every move.

“You stink,” he says. “Take a shower, freshen up.”

I sit up, wiping my eyes. I’m already in the downstairs bath—he must have been dragged me in here when I was unconscious. What else did he do to me when I was out? It must have been, what, twelve hours? Twelve hours gone! My clothing seems to be in place, nothing hurts. Would I know?

“You’re still a virgin as far as I’m concerned,” he says, noting my self-assessment. “Now strip down, get in the shower. Use the soap, that’s a good little girl.”

“Fuck you.”

I’m checking him out, looking for the gun. He must have it nearby, can I reach it first? But the mouth in the mask grins, one hand snakes behind his back, and now he’s brandishing the pistol. “Don’t be shy,” he says. “Get in the shower. When you’re beautiful again, we’ll call your kid, say hi.”

He backs out of the door, into the hallway, giving me room. But the door remains open.

“Go on. Do it.”

I shake my head.

“I can knock you out and wash you myself. Is that what you want?”

The thought sickens me beyond anything else I might have to do while conscious. I turn my back, peel off my clothes. Every part of me is angry, but the thought of talking to Tommy, hearing his voice, it’s enough to keep me moving. Once in the stall, I yank the curtain closed and turn on the cold water. Trying to clear my still-foggy head, get my thoughts in order. Keep the anger at a manageable level, girl. Use it to make you strong. Nurture it until an opportunity arises.

To calm myself, I fill my head with thoughts of my son. Specifically, that very special day when Ted and I first met the unnamed baby who would fill our lives with joy, and changed us from two to three. The baby who became Tommy the Wonder Boy was six months old at the time. We’d been through the usual adoption wringer. Opened our home to social workers, filed financial statements, divulged our bank accounts and tax returns, been interviewed together and separately. We had been investigated, stamped and stapled. Put on waiting lists. Promised babies who were not delivered. Told to wait. We paid through the nose, lawyers and agency fees, and were told to wait some more. It got to the point I refused to even look at a picture of a prospective baby. It was too painful to moon over a photograph, only to have the mother change her mind, or give her child to someone else, someone more worthy.