And like that, he had her by the neck.

She knew immediately that she was in the hands of an expert, but it wasn’t a comforting thought. He knew exactly where to squeeze, and how hard. The room darkened, and Andria was aware that her hands had become fluttering, useless objects, as she clawed feebly at his iron fingers. She began to weaken, began losing consciousness. She knew she might never return to this world. This was it. The end of her life.

Her left hand closed on the gun and fumbled at it, played feebly with the immovable trigger to no avail. She had no mastery over her fingers. There would be a safety somewhere, but even if she found it she wouldn’t recognize what it was, wouldn’t be able to move it.

The darkness deepened.

Andria was aware that her assailant was still smiling at her, as if they were friends and this was pleasant discourse. He leaned in even closer to her and she smelled his fetid breath as he whispered, “Good-bye for a while . . .” He almost sang the words. She inanely thought the tune was the theme song of an old TV show.

His grip on her neck tightened painfully, and she became incredibly light-headed, as if she might rise like a balloon into a dark sky.

So this is how it is . . .

She became aware of movement, and as she lost consciousness saw that Grace had come in from the suite’s bedroom where the girls, her students, were watching TV before preparing to sleep on two double beds and a rollaway. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt that left her midriff bare.

Grace . . . Grace . . . Grace . . .

Grace was standing frozen, her slender figure caught in an awkward pose, her wide blue gaze fixed in horror. Her right fist was raised to her mouth so that she was gnawing on a knuckle.

Andria had never seen anyone look so terrified.

As the darkness engulfed her, she felt that somehow she would remember Grace that way forever.

The killer unfastened his AK-47 from its belt clasp and kept it aimed at the thin blond girl from the museum. With careful conversational prodding, she’d told him all he needed to know—who the group was, why they were in the city, where they were staying.

The teacher leading the group was interesting, but not as much as the blond girl, Grace, who stood now in the doorway staring at him as if he were the tarantula at the party.

“Stay calm, Grace,” he said. “Remember me? We talked at the museum.”

“I remember,” she said in a barely audible tight voice. The throat tended to clench at times like this.

Grace had seen his face, so he had no choice other than to make her cease to exist. The killer really didn’t mind that there was no choice.

“Let’s go back into the bedroom,” he said. He tickled her navel with the tip of the gun barrel and made her gasp and bend at the waist.

“We’ll make it a kind of party.”

With the scary AK-47, the girls were easy to manage. Two of them lost control and dampness appeared in the crotches of their jeans. Those two should be the least likely to present problems. Fortunately, they all wore jogging shoes—recommended for walking around the concrete city—with long sturdy laces.

At his direction, Grace tied the wrists and ankles of her four friends tightly with their shoelaces, left lace for wrists, right for ankles. Then he tied Grace, and used the girls’ panties, which he stretched and sliced away from them, as gags that he stuffed tightly into their mouths. They could work such gags loose with their tongues after a few hours, but they didn’t have a few hours.

Well, maybe. He should make the most of this rare gift from fate.

After making sure the girls were all firmly bound, he began to remove his clothes.

Andria could see the clock by the bed, but it was blurry.

Not just the green numerals were blurry, but the entire clock.

How in God’s name . . .

Then the realization of where she was, how she’d gotten there, what had happened, fell on her like an avalanche. It was like waking up the morning after someone you knew and loved had unexpectedly died. At first the recollection wasn’t real—then it was way too real.

My girls! My God, what’s happened to my girls?

Andria was on her back and still couldn’t move. Her throat was burning as if she’d swallowed acid, and her breath was ragged and loud.

She fixed her gaze again on the clock, and the phone next to it.

She had to get to that phone.

The clock’s liquid-diode figures did come into focus. Forty-eight minutes had passed since the killer had entered the suite.

He’s probably gone. Thought I was dead and left. Please make him be gone!

Andria rolled onto her left side, marveling at how every inch of her body ached. It took her almost ten minutes, but she managed to maneuver herself onto her hands and knees.

Where should she go now?

The door? The bedroom? The phone?

“There you are,” he said pleasantly. As if he’d momentarily misplaced her.

At the sound of his voice she dropped to her side again, drew her body into the fetal position, and squeezed her eyes shut.

“I’m particularly interested in chatting with you.”

She heard soft footsteps on the carpet.

Opened her eyes.

There he was, nude except for white rubber gloves, smiling, holding a large knife in his right hand. There was blood on the knife. There was blood on him.

“I was sure you could be brought around again by now,” he said, “but you made it back so fast on your own. That shows real determination. You should be proud.”

He came closer, and she saw that he had something in his left hand. It looked like a wad of shoelaces.

“C’mon over here,” he said, and bent and lifted her as if she were weightless. He was careful not to penetrate her with the knife.

She tried to scream but could only croak.

“Careful,” he said. “We wouldn’t want you to lose your voice completely.”

He laid her on her back on the hard walnut coffee table, then used the shoelaces to bind her arms and legs to the four table legs. Her head was off the table, lolling backward. She couldn’t control it. Her neck muscles were putty.

Like the rest of her. Painful putty.

He sat on the sofa by the table, leaned forward, and showed her the large, bloody knife. She saw that it had a yellowed bone handle.

“We need to talk,” he said. With surprising ease, he used the bloody knife to cut button after button from her blouse. “The only way you can get out of this mess is to talk your way out of it.” There went the front of her slacks. Then her panties. The sharp knife blade so close to her flesh. “You’ll need to tell me the truth. That won’t be as difficult as you might imagine. What they say about the truth setting you free . . . well, it’s true. At least in this case.”

She knew he was lying, but she wanted so much to believe him. His words were her only hope, and she couldn’t help but cling to them. That was the way it worked. He knew that.

The bastard knows that!

He also knows he doesn’t have the vital truth.

He’d heard part of what he wanted to know from Grace, at MoMA. Grace could tell him part because that was all she knew, all that Andria had told her. But Grace had revealed where the rest of the story might be found—with Andria.

Andria and the killer both understood that, at this point, understanding how fear and hope would work against her didn’t make much difference. He was sure she had a truth to trade, and they both knew that in exchange for even the slightest chance to live, she would trade it.

And he would renege.