Funny. That was exactly the scenario she had in store for her, once she collected this letter, if she accepted Duncan’s help. Huddled in a hole. Cloistered in a hotel suite with the blinds drawn. She supposed she should be tough and brave and loftily refuse to do it, but that would mean fleeing New York, starting over. Abandoning everything she’d worked so hard for in the last decade.

But once she got her degree, what could she do with it, if the Fiend was abroad? Even if she changed her name and ran, she would still be barred from teaching literature. Colleges and universities would be the first place any fool would look for her. The Fiend was no fool.

No, it would be waitressing for her, with her new Social Security number, or being a cashier or an office temp. She’d survive, of course. She had so far. But oh, God. All those years of study. All that work.

Nell snorkled back her tears. She had to be practical. Break this problem into pieces, and tackle the pieces one at a time. She could not control the future, but she could do something useful right now.

Finishing her thesis, now. That was within her power. Maybe this awful mess could be an inspiration. After all, the poets she studied were all heart hungry, lovelorn. Bleak despair was the very stuff of creativity. Look at Emily Dickinson, the Brontës. There was a long, noble literary tradition of hunger for love and sex being sublimated into deathless art.

Perhaps, like them, she could salvage something from the wreckage. Transmute pain into useful activity. She was unemployed, homeless, rudderless. Too scared to walk out on the street by herself. Her days would be long, silent, boring. What excuse did she have now not to hunker down and write a kick-ass thesis?

She grabbed her big black shoulder bag and unzipped the central pocket where she kept her laptop. It was not there. She’d forgotten it.

Shit, shit, shit. She blew out a shuddering breath through trembling lips at the idea of having to face Duncan’s rigid face and blazing eyes and cutting remarks again in order to retrieve it.

Maybe she could have it sent over by courier. Uh-huh. With what cash? The cost of that courier would go right onto Duncan’s personal account. Ka-ching, ka-ching. And her debt to him was already crushing her.

Her laptop was gone, but the cell phone he’d given her was there. She picked it up, turned it off. He wasn’t going to call her on it. She slid it into the side pocket of her pants.

Onward. She dragged out the folder where she kept her tattered notes, outlines, and ideas. She pulled a fresh sheet out of her notebook and dug out a pen. She could just scribble. The old-fashioned way.

By the time they pulled up in front of Elsie’s house, she’d roughed out a pretty acceptable main thesis paragraph for “Sex, Desperation, Despair, and Death in Nineteenth-Century Women Poets.” She was even feeling a little bit better, after some useful activity. Hey. If she had to have a broken heart, at least let it be broken to good purpose.

Wesley got out and opened the door for her, peering around the deserted block. Nothing moved on the narrow lane. They climbed up Elsie’s stoop, which was identical in every particular to Lucia’s. She rang the bell, and waited. And waited. She rang again, and then knocked. “Elsie?” she called. “Are you in there? It’s me! Nell!”

Still no answer. Wesley muscled her behind himself, holding up a very large and businesslike-looking pistol.

“Nell?” It was Elsie, all right, though her voice was muffled behind the door. It sounded higher and thinner than usual.

“Elsie?” Nell knocked again. “Is everything okay?”

“Ah…yes, honey, everything’s fine,” Elsie quavered. “Come on…come on in. The door’s unlocked.”

Nell reached for the door handle, but Wesley gently pushed her hand away and pushed the door open himself. She stood on her tiptoes and looked over his bulky shoulder as he peered into the dim interior, through the foyer.

Elsie stood across the room, in the entryway to the kitchen. Wesley started inside just as Nell registered the look on the old lady’s face. The pallor. The stiff, frozen expression. The staring eyes.

She knew that look. She knew that vibe. Oh, God. Oh, no.

“Wait!” She lunged after Wesley’s coat, trying to yank him back—

Thhhpt, the thud of a silenced gun, and Wesley grunted, spun, and crashed heavily to the ground.

The room boiled with black-clad masked men, leaping for her. A burlap bag whipped down over her head. She struggled and screamed in airless darkness that stank of mold and rot, arms and legs flailing—

A sting like an insect bite in her arm, a sickening weakness sweeping through her with horrible quickness—

And it all went away.

Chapter

11

Duncan kept the car between 95 and 105, depending on the sharpness of the curves. He was glad that the road leading away from the city was clear. It was the opposite direction that was clogged with rush-hour traffic. The laptop was open on the passenger seat, GPS program running. The signal was stationary, fixed at Elsie’s address in Hempton. He wanted desperately to call, but the fact that Wesley no longer answered was reason enough to be terrified. Maybe they’d already discovered the phone and left it behind, since GPS traces in phones were so common. But maybe they hadn’t. If not, he didn’t want it to ring and give her away. That trace was his only hope.

Then the signal began to move.

The wave of fear made him want to retch. The signal moved along the main drag in Hempton and took a highway heading north and east. He had to change routes if he wanted to intercept them.

It was like walking a tightrope, driving at that speed while monitoring the computer and calculating possible shortcuts. A minute later, his cell rang, to add another ball and hoop to his balancing act.

Fortunately, he had his earpiece. “Yeah,” he barked.

“The cops are there,” Braxton said. “It’s bad. The old lady was tied up on the ground. Wesley’s shot. No sign of your lady friend.”

His gut cramped. “Her signal’s heading northeast,” he said. “Keep me informed. Later.”

“Wait. Dunc. I’m sorry about this, man. I let you down.”

“Not your fault,” he said curtly. “I miscalculated. She should have had a team. She shouldn’t have been let out at all. Gotta go. Later.”

“Gotcha.” Braxton hung up.

He pressed the accelerator harder, glancing over at the map on the screen. He had to close that gap. More speed. He let the powerful motor open up and breathe, humming at 115 mph.

Play it cool. Like a glacier. After all. As long as she was moving, they probably weren’t hurting her.

But when that signal stopped once again, man, he could fucking forget about playing it cool. He was going to be twisting in the flames of hell.

Stabbing pains in Nell’s head woke her. She was confused, terrified. It was horrifically dark. She couldn’t get any air. She was buried alive, dirt and rot in her nose. Air. God, she needed air.

She started struggling. Her arms were wrenched back, wrists bound. She was curled in the fetal position. She couldn’t move. Her own weight made her hyperextended shoulders burn and throb. The vibration confused her. A bump slammed her head against the floor.

Ah. Yes. She was folded up in the trunk of a car.

Panic would not help. She tried to relax, took the slowest, shallowest breaths she could. Lack of oxygen explained the headache. Or carbon monoxide, maybe. Or both.