A man stood at the edge of a lava-rock seawall staring out at the dark water and at the clouds turning pink as dawn stormed Maui 's eastern shore.

His name was Henri Benoit, not his real name, but the name he was using now. He was in his thirties with medium-length blondish hair and light gray eyes, and he stood at about six feet tall in his bare feet. He was shoeless now, his toes half-buried in the sand.

His white linen shirt hung loosely over his gray cotton pants, and he watched the seabirds calling out as they skimmed the waves.

Henri thought those birdcalls could have been the opening notes of another flawless day in paradise. But before the day had even begun, it was down the crapper.

Henri turned away from the ocean and jammed his PDA into a trouser pocket. Then, as the wind at his back blew his shirt into a kind of spinnaker, he strode up the sloping lawn to his private bungalow.

He swung open the screened door, crossed the lanai and the pale hardwood floors to the kitchen, poured himself a cup of Kona java. Then out again to the lanai, where he sank down into the chaise beside the hot tub and settled in to think.

This place, the Hana Beach Hotel, was at the top of his A-list: exclusive, comfortable, no TV or even a telephone. Surrounded by a few thousand acres of rain forest, perched on the coast of the island, the unobtrusive cluster of buildings made a perfect haven for the very rich.

Being here gave a man a chance to relax fully, to be whoever he truly was, to realize his essence as a human.

The cell phone call from Europe had shot his relaxation all to hell. The conversation had been brief and essentially one-way. Horst had delivered both the good and bad news in a tone of voice that attacked Henri's sense of free agency with the finesse of a shiv through a vital organ.

Horst had told Henri that the job he had done had been well received, but there were issues.

Had he chosen the right victim? Why was Kim McDaniels's death the sound of one hand clapping? Where was the press? Had they really gotten all they'd paid for?

“I delivered a brilliant piece of work,” Henri had snapped. “How can you deny it?”

“Watch the attitude, Henri. We're all friends, yes?”

Yes. Friends in a strictly commercial enterprise in which one set of amigos controlled the money. And now Horst was telling him that his buddies weren't quite happy enough. They wanted more. More twists. More action. More clapping at the end of the movie.

“Use your imagination, Henri. Surprise us.”

They would pay more, of course, for additional contracted services, and after a while the prospect of more money softened the edges of Henri's bad mood without touching the core of his contempt for the Peepers.

They wanted more?

So be it.

By the time his second cup of coffee was finished, he had mapped out a new plan. He dug a wireless phone out of his pocket and began making calls.

That night snow fell lightly on Levon and Barbara McDaniels's house in Cascade Township, a wooded suburb of Grand Rapids, Michigan. Inside their efficient but cozy three-bedroom brick home, the two boys slept deeply under their quilts.

Down the hall, Levon and Barbara lay back-to-back, soles touching across the invisible divide of their Sleep Number bed, their twenty-five-year connection seemingly unbroken even in sleep.

Barbara's night table was stacked with magazines and half-read paperbacks, folders of tests and memos, a crowd of vitamin supplements around her bottle of green tea. Don't worry about it, Levon, and please don't touch anything. I know where everything is.

Levon's nightstand favored his left brain to Barb's right: his neat stack of annual reports, annotated copy of Against All Reason, pen and notepad, and a platoon of electronics – phones, laptop, weather clock – all lined up four inches from the table's edge, plugged into a power strip behind the lamp.

The snowfall had wrapped the house in a white silence – and then a ringing phone jarred Levon awake. His heartbeat boomed, and his mind reeled in instant panic. What was happening?

Again the phone rang, and this time Levon made a grab for the landline.

He glanced at the clock, which read 3:14 a.m., and wondered who the hell would be calling at this hour. And then he knew. It was Kim. She was five hours behind them. He figured she'd gotten that mixed up somehow.

“Kim? Honey?” Levon said into the mouthpiece.

“Kim is gone,” said the male voice in Levon's ear.

Levon's chest tightened, and he couldn't catch his breath. Was he having a heart attack? “Sorry? What did you say?”

Barb sat up in bed, turned on the light.

“Levon?” she said. “What is it?”

Levon held up a hand. Give me a second. “Who is this?” he asked, rubbing his chest to ease the pain.

“I only have a minute, so listen carefully. I'm calling from Hawaii. Kim's disappeared.” ”.”

Levon's fear filled him from scalp to toes with a cold terror. He clung to the phone, hearing the echo of the man's voice: “”.”

It made no sense.

“I don't get you. Is she hurt?”

No answer.

“Hello?”

“Are you listening to what I'm saying, Mr. McDaniels?”

“Yes. Who is this speaking, please?”

“I can only tell you once.”

Levon pulled at the neck of his T-shirt, trying to decide what to think. Was the man a liar, or telling the truth? He knew his name, phone number, that Kim was in Hawaii. How did he know all that?

Barb was asking him, “What's happening? Levon, is this about Kim?”

“Kim didn't show up at the shoot yesterday morning,” said the caller. “The magazine is keeping it quiet. Crossing their fingers. Hoping she'll come back.”

“Have the police been called? Has someone called the police?”

“I'm hanging up now,” said the caller. “But if I were you, I'd get on the next plane to Maui. You and Barbara.”

“Wait! Please, wait. How do you know she's missing?”

“Because I did it, sir. I saw her. I liked her. I took her. Have a nice day.”

What do you want? Tell me what you want!”

There was a click in Levon's ear followed by a dial tone. He toggled the directory button, read “Unknown” where there should have been a caller ID.

Barb was pulling at his arm. “Levon! Tell me! What's happened?”

Barb liked to say that she was the flamethrower in the family and that he was the fireman – and those roles had become fixed over time. So Levon began to tell Barb what the caller had said, strained the fear out of his voice, kept to the facts.

Barb's face reflected the terror leaping inside his own mind like a bonfire. Her voice came through to him as if from a far distance. “Did you believe him? Did he say where she was? Did he say what happened? My God, what are we talking about?”

“All he said is she's gone?”

“She never goes anywhere without her cell,” Barb said, starting now to gasp for breath, her asthma kicking in.

Levon bolted out of bed, knocked things off Barb's night table, spilling pills and papers all over the carpet. He picked the inhaler out of the jumble, handed it to Barb, watched her take in a long pull.

Tears ran down her face.

He reached out his arms for her, and she went to him, cried into his chest, “Please? just call her.”

Levon snatched the phone off the blanket, punched in Kim's number, counted out the interminable rings, two, then three, looking at the clock, doing the math. It was just after ten at night in Hawaii.

Then Kim's voice was in his ear.

“Kim!” he shouted.