Barbara woke up in the dark, feeling sheer, naked terror.

Her arms were tied behind her back and they ached. Her legs were roped together at her knees and ankles. She was crammed into a fetal position against the corner of a shallow compartment that was moving!

Was she blind? Or was it just too dark to see? Dear God, what was happening? She screamed, “Levon!”

Behind her back, something stirred.

“Barb? Baby? Are you okay?”

“Oh, honey, thank God, thank God you're here. Are you all right?”

“I'm tied up. Shit. What is this?”

“I think we're in the trunk of a car.”

“Christ! A trunk! It's Hogan. Hogan did this.”

Muffled music came through the backseat to where the couple lay trussed like hens in a crate.

Barbara said, “I'm going crazy. I don't understand any of this. What does he want?”

Levon kicked at the trunk's lid. “Hey! Let us out. Hey!” His kick didn't budge the lid, didn't make a dent. But now Barbara's eyes were growing accustomed to the dark.

“Levon, look! See that? The trunk release.”

The two turned painfully by inches, scraping cheeks and elbows against the carpeting, Barb working off her shoes, pulling at the release lever with her toes. The lever moved, but there was no resistance, no release of the lock.

“Oh, God, please,” Barbara wailed, her asthma kicking in, her voice trailing into a wheeze, then a burst of coughs.

“The cables are cut,” said Levon. “The backseat. We can kick through the backseat.”

“And then what? We're tied up!” Barb gasped.

Still they tried, the two of them kicking without full use of their legs, getting nowhere.

“It's latched, goddammit,” said Levon.

Barb was fighting to take one breath and then another, trying to stop herself from going into a full-blown gag attack. Why had Hogan taken them? Why? What was he going to do with them? What was to be gained from kidnapping them?

Levon said, “I read somewhere, you kick out the taillights and you can stick a hand out, wave until someone notices. Even if we just bust the lights, maybe a cop will pull the car over. Do it, Barb. Try.”

Barb kicked, and plastic shattered. “Now you!” she shouted.

As Levon broke through the taillight on his side of the trunk, Barbara turned so that her face was near the shards and wires.

She actually could see blacktop streaming below the tires. If the car stopped, she'd scream. They weren't helpless, not anymore. They were still alive and dammit, they would fight!

“What's that sound? A cell phone?” Levon asked. “In the trunk with us?”

Barb saw the glowing faceplate of a phone by her feet. “We're getting out of here, honey. Hogan made a big mistake.”

She struggled to position her hands as the first ring became the second, thumbing the buttons blindly behind her back, hitting the Send key, turning on the phone.

Levon yelled, “Hello! Hello! Who's there?”

“Mr. McDaniels, it's me. Marco. From the Wailea Princess.”

“Marco! Thank God. You've got to find us. We've been kidnapped.”

“I'm sorry. I know you're uncomfortable back there. I'll explain everything momentarily.”

The phone went dead.

The car slowed to a stop.

Henri felt blood charging through his veins. He was tense in the best possible way, adrenalized, mentally rehearsed, ready for the next scene to play itself out.

He checked the area again, glancing up to the road, then taking in the 180 degrees of shoreline. Satisfied that the area was deserted, he hauled his duffel bag out of the backseat, tossed it under a tangle of brush before returning to the car.

Walking around the all-wheel-drive sedan, he stooped beside each tire, reducing the air pressure from eighty to twenty pounds, slapping the trunk when he passed it, then opening the front door on the passenger side. He reached into the glove box, tossed the rental agreement to the floor, and removed his ten-inch buck knife. It felt like it was part of his hand.

He grabbed the keys and opened the trunk. Pale moonlight shone on Barbara and Levon. Henri, as Andrew, said, “Is everyone all right back here in coach?”

Barbara launched a full-throated, wordless scream until Henri leaned in and held the knife up to her throat. “Barb, Barb. Stop yelling. No one can hear you but me and Levon, so call off the histrionics, okay? I don't like it.”

Barb's scream became a wheeze and a cry.

“What the hell are you doing, Hogan?” Levon demanded, wrenching his body so he could see his captor's face. “I'm a reasonable man. Explain yourself.”

Henri put two fingers under his nose to resemble a mustache. He lowered his voice and thickened it, said, “Sure, I will, Mr. McDaniels. You're my number one priority.”

“My dear Christ. You're Marco? You're him! I don't believe it. How could you scare us like this? What do you want?”

“I want you to behave, Levon. You, too, Barb. Act up, and I'll have to take strong measures. Be good and I'll move you up to first class. Deal?”

Henri sawed through the nylon ropes around Barbara's legs and helped her out of the car and into the backseat. Then he went back for Levon, cutting the restraints, walking the man to the back of the car, strapping them both in with the seat belts.

Then Henri got into the driver's seat. He locked the doors, turned on the dome light, reached up to the camera behind the rearview mirror, and switched it on.

“If you like, you can call me Henri,” he said to the McDanielses, who were staring at him with unblinking eyes. He reached into the pocket of his windbreaker, pulled out a dainty, bracelet-style wristwatch, and held it up in front of them.

“See? As I promised. Kim's watch. The Rolex. Recognize it?”

He stuffed it into Levon's jacket pocket.

“Now,” Henri said, “I'd like to tell you what's going on and why I have to kill you. Unless you have questions so far.”

When I woke up that morning and snapped on the local news, Julia Winkler was all over it. There, filling the TV screen, was her achingly beautiful face and a headline in bold italics running under her picture: Supermodel Found Murdered.

How could Julia Winkler be dead?

I bolted upright in bed, goosed up the sound, stared at the next shot, this one of Kim and Julia posing together for the Sporting Life photo-story, their lovely faces pressed together, laughing, both absolutely radiant with life.

The TV anchors were going back over the breaking news “for those who've just tuned in.”

I stared at the tube, gathering in the stunning details: Julia Winkler's body had been found in a room at the Island Breezes Hotel, a five-star resort on Lanai. A housekeeper had run through the hotel shouting that a woman had been strangled, that there were bruises around her neck, blood all over the linens.

Next up, a waitress was interviewed. Emma Laurent. She'd waited on tables in the Club Room last night and recognized Julia Winkler. She'd been having dinner with a good-looking man in his thirties, Laurent said. He was white, brown-haired with a good build. “He definitely works out.”

Winkler's date signed the check with a room number, 412, registered to Charles Rollins. Rollins left a good tip, and Julia had given the waitress her autograph. Personalized it. To Emma from Julia. Emma held up the signed napkin for the camera.

I got a POG out of the fridge, guzzled it, watched the camera cut now to live shots outside the Island Breezes Hotel. Cruisers were everywhere, the loud garble of police radios squawked in the background. The camera held on a reporter with the local NBC affiliate.

The reporter, Kevin de Martine, was well respected, had been embedded with a military unit in Iraq in '04. He was now standing with his back to a sawhorse barrier, rain falling softly on his bearded face, palm fronds waving dramatically behind him.