He said, “Ben, just leave your briefcase in the car.”

“But the contract -”

“I'll get your briefcase. But right now, get out of your car and please leave your cell phone on the driver's seat. Thanks.”

One part of me was screaming, Get out of here. Jam on the gas and go. But an opposing inner voice was insisting that if I quit now, nothing would have been gained. Henri would still be out there. He could still kill me and Amanda at any time, for no reason other than that I'd disobeyed him.

I took my hand off my briefcase, left it in my car along with my cell phone. Henri jogged down the stairs, told me to put my hands on the hood. Then he expertly frisked me.

“Put your hands behind your back, Ben,” he said. Very casual and friendly.

Except that a gun muzzle was pressed against my spine.

The last time I turned my back to Henri, he'd coldcocked me with a gun butt to the back of my head. I didn't even think it through, just used instinct and training. I sidestepped, was about to whip around and disarm him, but what happened next was a blur of pain.

Henri's arms went around me like a vise, and I went airborne, crashing hard on my shoulders and the back of my head.

It was a hard fall, painfully hard, but I didn't have time to check myself out.

Henri was on top of me, his chest to my back, his legs interwoven with mine. His feet were hooked into me so that our bodies were fused, and his full weight crushed me against the pavement.

I felt the gun muzzle screw into my ear.

Henri said, “Got any more ideas? Come on, Ben. Give me your best shot.”

I was so immobilized by the takedown, it was as if my spinal cord had just been cut. No weekend black belt could have thrown me like that.

Henri said, “I could easily snap your neck. Understand?”

I wheezed “yes,” and he stood, grasped my forearm, and hauled me to my feet.

“Try to get it right this time. Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

Henri cuffed me, then yanked upward on the cuffs, nearly popping my shoulders out of their joints.

Then he shoved me against the car and set my briefcase on the roof. He unlatched the case, found my gun, tossed it into the footwell. Then he locked the car, grabbed my case, and marched me toward the trailer.

“What the hell is this?” I asked. “Where are we going?”

“You'll know when you know,” said the monster.

He opened the trailer door, and I stumbled inside.

The trailer was old and well used. To my left was the galley: a table attached to the wall, two chairs bolted to the floor. To my right was a sofa that looked like it doubled as a foldaway bed. There was a closet that housed a toilet and a cot.

Henri maneuvered me so one of the chairs clipped me at the back of my knees and I sat down. A black cloth bag was dropped over my head and a band was cinched around my legs. I heard a chain rattle and the snap of a lock.

I was shackled to a hook in the floor.

Henri patted my shoulder, said, “Relax, okay? I don't want to hurt you. I want you to write this book more than I want to kill you. We're partners now, Ben. Try to trust me.”

I was chained down and essentially blind. I didn't know where Henri was taking me. And I definitely didn't trust him.

I heard the door close and lock. Then Henri started up the truck. The air conditioner pumped cold air into the trailer through a vent overhead.

We rolled along smoothly for about a half hour, then took a right turn onto a bumpy road. Other turns followed. I tried to hang onto the slick plastic seat with my thighs, but got slammed repeatedly against the wall and into the table.

After a while, I lost track of the turns and the time. I was mortified by how thoroughly Henri had disabled me. There was no way around the bald and simple truth.

Henri was in charge. This was his game. I was only along for the ride.

Maybe an hour, hour and a half, had gone by when the trailer stopped and the door slid open. Henri ripped off my hood, and said, “Last stop, buddy. We're home.”

I saw flat, uninviting desert through the open door: sand dunes out to the horizon, mop-headed Joshua trees, and buzzards circling on the updraft.

My mind also circled around one thought: If Henri kills me here, my body will never even be found. Despite the refrigerated air, sweat rolled down my neck as Henri leaned back against the narrow Formica counter a few feet away.

“I've done some research on collaborations,” Henri said. “People say it takes about forty hours of interviews to get enough material for a book. Sound right?”

“Take off the cuffs, Henri. I'm not a flight risk.”

He opened the small fridge beside him, and I saw that it was stocked with water, Gatorade, some packaged food. He took out two bottles of water, put one on the table in front of me.

“Say we work about eight hours a day, we'll be here for about five days -”

“Where's here?”

“Joshua Tree. This campsite is closed for road repairs, but the electric hookup works,” Henri told me.

Joshua Tree National Park is eight hundred thousand acres of desert wilderness, miles of nothing but yucca and brush and rock formations in all directions. The high views are said to be spectacular, but normal folk don't camp here in the white heat of high summer. I didn't understand people who came here at all.

“In case you think you can get out of here,” Henri said, “let me save you the trouble. This is Alcatraz, desert-style. This trailer is sitting on a sea of sand. Daytime temperatures can climb to a hundred and twenty. Even if you got out at night, the sun would fry you before you reached a road. So, please, and I mean this sincerely, stay put.”

“Five days, huh?”

“You'll be back in L.A. for the weekend. Scout's honor.”

“Okay. So how about it?”

I held out my hands, and Henri took off the cuffs. Then he removed the cinch around my legs and unshackled me.

I rubbed my wrists, stood up, drank down a bottle of cold water in one continuous swallow, those small pleasures giving me a boost of unexpected optimism. I thought about Leonard Zagami's enthusiasm. I imagined dusty old writing dreams coming true for me.

“Okay, let's do this,” I said.

Henri and I set up the awning against the side of the trailer, put out a couple of folding chairs and a card table in the thin strip of shade. With the trailer door open, cool air tickling our necks, we got down to business.

I showed Henri the contract, explained that Raven-Wofford would only make payments to the writer. I would pay Henri.

“Payments are made in installments,” I told him. “The first third is due on signing. The second payment comes on acceptance of the manuscript, and the final payment is due on publication.”

“Not a bad life insurance policy for you,” Henri said. He smiled brightly.

“Standard terms,” I said to Henri, “to protect the publisher from writers crashing in the middle of the project.”

We discussed our split, a laughably one-sided negotiation.

“It's my book, right?” Henri said, “and your name's going on it. That's worth more than money, Ben.”

“So why don't I just work for free?” I said.

Henri smiled, said, “Got a pen?”

I handed one over, and Henri signed his nom de jour on the dotted lines, gave me the number of his bank account in Zurich.

I put the contract away, and Henri ran an electric cord out from the trailer. I booted up my laptop, turned on my tape recorder, gave it a sound test.

I said, “Ready to start?”

Henri said, “I'm going to tell you everything you need to know to write this book, but I'm not going to leave a trail of breadcrumbs, understand?”