I told myself this was good.

If they wanted to kill me they would not have brought me here, to a house, a cabin, a room, a shack. They would have just shot me and dumped me in the rain forest. Dumped me anywhere. Not here. Unless. Unless they were going to light the place on fire. Take the American to a cabin in the woods. Lock him in. Burn it to the ground. I wouldn’t even be able to find my way out.

“Hey,” I shouted. “Hey!”

Nobody cared.

6

.

ITOLD MYSELF A LOT OF THINGS. GRACE UNDER PRESSURE. KEEP my breathing in control. Don’t say anything more. Don’t beg. What would it accomplish? These men obviously were just doing a job. Doing a job for someone. For Jason. Leanne. Peter Martin. All the people who got me here.

I could hear cans being opened. I heard cracking and crunching sounds, the sounds of teeth biting into chips. A radio was turned on and I could hear music that was fast and jittery and was overlaid by a male’s voice singing happily, as though he and everyone who was listening were at a celebration.

No one made any effort to speak to me. Not in English, Spanish, or the language I had heard them using.

I wanted to tell them that I was not who they thought I was. That I was nobody. Nothing to anyone. Just a man trying to do another man a favor. A man who was not even my friend. I didn’t owe him anything. I just was trying to do … something. Something that meant something. But I didn’t have to do it. I could just go home. Say I couldn’t find anything. My boss would actually like that.

Except my boss didn’t even know I was here.

Nobody knew I was here.

Okay. That was okay. It meant I could go home without anybody asking any questions. Go right back to prosecuting OUIs. I’m good at that. In fact, I’ve never lost a case. Never lost a case and never been promoted. And I’m perfectly happy, how about that? Take off my hood and I’ll show you. I’ll smile.

But the hood stayed where it was, pressing into my nostrils every time I tried to inhale, sticking on my lips whenever I tried to breathe through my mouth. I thought if I could just get some water I would be all right. They wouldn’t even have to lift up my hood. They could just pour it over my head.

And then I freaked at the idea of what they might pour over me and I said nothing.

7

.

IT WAS HARD TO TELL HOW MUCH TIME PASSED. IT WAS POSSIBLE that I was becoming delirious. Or at least dehydrated. I heard a motor and was not sure it was a motor at all. But then I heard metal bouncing, heard the softer sounds of springs expanding and contracting, heard rubber tires slide to a halt.

This is it, I told myself. This is where someone is going to do terrible things to me. I will be brave as much as I can, as long as I can.

I heard footsteps. I heard the door open. I waited for the steps to quicken. I waited for a shot to my stomach, a blow to my head. I tensed my whole body, curved my shoulders, drew up my knees, did everything I could to make myself as small a target as possible.

I heard voices. I could not hear who was speaking or what was being said, so I stayed curved and prayed silently as though somehow I could be made so small I would be overlooked.

Something was scraped across the floor. A hand slid under my armpit and guided me to my feet. I was turned, repositioned, dropped onto a wooden stool.

A voice close to my ear said, “Boss want to know, who you are?”

Apparently Boss had not been listening when I was shouting in the house back in Tamarindo. Apparently my interrogator had not been, either.

“My name is George Becket and I’m an assistant district attorney in Barnstable, Massachusetts.” I was pleased that I got that out. Pleased that I sounded calmer than I was.

The person went behind me. I tried to keep him from doing that. I tried to turn. His arm went around my throat and I realized it was the big guy again. Every fiber of my body went rigid, but he merely held me while he ripped my wallet from my back pocket. Then he let go. Then he was gone, fat-padding his way back toward the door.

He had left my passport, the one I had gotten in San Francisco for $200 and a claim of emergency, left it in the front pocket of my cargo shorts. I was absurdly grateful. I would need that when I was found. When my body was found.

There was considerable whispering. Voices going back and forth.

“Boss want to know what you do here.”

I was not in a good position to lie. “I came to talk to Jason Stockover, to ask him questions about a party he attended many years ago.”

There was more whispered conversation, just close enough for me to realize it was going on, just far enough away for me not to be able to distinguish any of it.

My captor spoke up. “Why you ask Jason about this party?”

Now I had to clear my throat, which was not good. I wanted to appear strong. At ease with a hood over my head, talking into the dark. “A young girl who was at the party died that night. I’m supposed to ask questions of everybody who was there.” I paused, sucked in air as best I could, then used my trump card. “The government sent me.”

There were more whisperings.

“Why you don’t ask someone else?”

“I’m trying to ask everyone.”

“You think Jason know how the girl die?”

I had to choose my words carefully. Show I was just Good Old George, doing a job. Gets his information, moves on. “No. All I want him to do is tell me what other people were doing that night.”

Whisperings again.

Something may have gotten lost in the translation because the voice asked, “Why you don’t think Jason know?”

Why I don’t think Jason know—how the girl died? That was the question I answered. “Jason was with a girl of his own that night.”

It is possible the whispering was a little louder; more likely my hearing was better attuned. I still could not make out what was being said or who was saying it, but I was part of the rhythm now. The whispering would occur, the Tico would speak, I would answer, we would do it all over again.

“Who? Who this girl Jason with?”

“A beautiful girl named Leanne Sullivan.”

The rhythm picked up. The stream of words flowed faster.

“No Jason here.”

“No reason for me to stay, then.”

“Why you think he here?”

“He was seen at a sailing race in Ensenada, talking to Peter Gregory Martin, the man who was with the girl who died that night. He told Peter this was where he was.”

There was a long pause, then a long exchange.

“Wha’chu know about Leanne Soolivan?”

“Leanne Sullivan and a friend got invited to a party at the home of Senator Gregory. When they got to the Senator’s house, there wasn’t much going on, so Leanne and her friend went down the beach with two guys, one of whom was Jason. By the time they got back to the house there was nobody around, so Leanne and her friend left.”

“It’s all?”

“Leanne liked Jason. He liked her. They wanted to get together again after that, but the Gregorys didn’t want anybody talking about the girl who died. The Gregorys are very rich and very powerful people. To keep people from talking they found out what each of them wanted most in life and gave it to them. Leanne wanted to move to Hawaii. They made it possible for her to do that. Then, when she’d done what she had to do there, she came here to be with Jason.”

There was a quick movement, too quick to come from the fat guy. Somebody grabbed my hood and pushed it down hard on top of my head. There was a sudden swooshing noise next to my ear, and something gave way. I tried to jerk my head to one side, but the hand held me in place. And then the hood was ripped off and I was left staring face-to-face with Leanne from the restaurant, Leanne wearing shorts and flat shoes and a man’s dress shirt untucked and rolled up at the sleeves. Leanne with a vicious-looking knife in her hand.