But not when your child is missing. Not when you know that outside your safe little study, inches beyond the glow of the green lamp and the drying ink on the half-filled page, the worst thing in the world might be happening while you are powerless to do anything about it. There was no way on earth I could either write my way through this nightmare or ignore the growing stillness around my heart.

On that first day, I tried to cling to the writing. As long as words came out sounding right, as long as something familiar stayed logical and fixed, I was still in control; life still made some sense. But Pauline's story only made matters worse. Not very surprising.

I desperately needed something concrete to do while waiting for the telephone to ring. I decided to clean the house. I think I vacuumed the large living room rug in forty-five seconds. But I mean thoroughly, not just a couple of quick shoves into the curled corners. I was the Road Runner moving through the house at such speed that if it had been a cartoon, smoke clouds would have been wafting up behind me. I sprinted from room to room wiping, mopping, polishing, scrubbing. I stepped on the fleeing dog twice in my crazed assault on the house. For once, his bad temper didn't put me off or shame me. His resentment was nothing compared to my frenzy, the maniacal need to keep moving, working, busy hands, not thinking. Trying so hard not to think. I was crazed, scared and enraged in equal measure, but helpless above all. Jesus God, I felt helpless.

The first time I finished cleaning, the house shone. The second time I finished, it was in shock. I had taken a toothbrush to the cracks in the wooden floors, a steel brush to the stones in the fireplace. The blades on the exhaust fan above the stove shone, the dog's food bowls had been exorcised with liquid bleach. I realized things were on the verge of going too far when I decided to wash all my hats.

I took a shower and two hours later a long bath, the telephone always within arm's reach. I watched television until there was nothing left but midnight-hour evangelists. I wept at what they said. I prayed whenever they told me to. Please God, let Cass come home. That first night I fell asleep on the floor, the TV remote still in my hand.

The next day I would have taken the dog for a walk around the United States but was petrified to leave the house in case the call came. One moment the silent telephone was the monster ready to strike; the next, the only angel that could bring deliverance.

For all her seriousness and good habits, Cass's secret vice was playing video games. Nintendo, Play Station, Sega . . . the brand name didn't matter. She loved them all – chest-pounding monkeys jumping over barrels, Ninja fighters throwing death punches, or knights weaving their way through mazes. I couldn't stand them. To make things worse, the noises they made were as annoying as anything ever heard on planet earth. I had bought Cass these games, but begged her to wear earphones whenever she played because half an hour of listening to the saccharine music from, say, Final Fantasy 3 drove me close to the border of dangerously unhinged.

The second day, I had been playing Final Fantasy 3 since five in the morning when the telephone rang. I was so upset both by the ring and what the call might mean that suddenly I couldn't put down the controls for the game. For some seconds while the phone rang, I kept pressing the buttons to keep Super Mario alive. I was terrified, frozen in place.

"Sam? It's Edward Durant. Veronica Lake has your daughter. That's for certain."

"Veronica? What is she doing with Cass? Is she all right?"

As always, Durant's voice was composed and even. "We don't know yet. She picked her up outside your ex-wife's apartment in New York. Two witnesses saw it happen. Veronica got out of a yellow cab just as Cassandra was about to enter the building. I assume she had a convincing story to lure her into the car. Didn't you say they don't like each other?"

I was about to say no, but then remembered with ice-cold clarity Veronica mentioning how they'd spent an afternoon together and that Cass wanted her to meet Ivan. I told him that.

"Yes, well, then she convinced Cass to go with her. That's all I know now, Sam. But it's a beginning and it's concrete. The police know who to look for now. They've already checked Veronica's apartment but didn't find anything that could help. One last thing, and it's a difficult but necessary question: Do you think Veronica would hurt her?"

"Normally I'd say no, Edward. This doesn't have anything to do with Cass. But now? I don't know. It's another way for Veronica to get to me."

"Then we must assume she will be in touch with you about it. All right, let me get off now. I'll call as soon as anything new comes up. And you do the same."

I called McCabe and told him. He sounded both surprised and irritated. "How the fuck did he find out? I pulled every string I know, but nobody came up with dick."

"Frannie, Durant was a federal prosecutor for thirty years. He must know hundreds of people who could help. And you said yourself, cops always wait a day before they go into action. Durant started as soon as I talked to him."

"So did I. I'm just being a cop, Sam. Anything that makes me wonder, I ask about. Try to understand that, and if I come across as a jerk it's only 'cause I care. That's all, nothin' more."

My brain and soul were spinning in a centrifuge, getting the full flap and flop. The worst part was I didn't know if it would ever end.

The doorbell rang. I hoped when I opened it there would be Cass, smiling, already assuring me all was okay. She was back, the nightmare was over. Instead, a boy in a Mohawk haircut wearing a brilliant lilac parka stood on the porch holding a flashy bouquet of flowers. "Mr. Bayer?"

"Yes."

"Flowers for you."

"Who are they from?"

"Dunno."

Back inside, I unwrapped the flowers and searched inside the arrangement until I found the card.

"Hi, Sam! Don't worry about Cassandra. I know where they are and will take care of everything. Just keep working on my book."

First I called the store and asked where the flowers had come from. I was given the number of a New York florist. After much hemming and hawing, New York admitted the sender – a young, nice-looking Indian man – had paid in cash, given his name as David Cadmus, and used Veronica's address.

When I called and told McCabe, he gave a long whistle. "I would not want to be Veronica Lake today. The killer's probably been watching her a long time. And now she pissed him off. Taking Cass keeps you from concentrating on his book. Notice how he called it 'my'? We gotta find them fast."

Durant went ballistic. I'd never heard him so angry. "She should have known he'd have her watched! Didn't she understand that after being beaten up?"

"How does it change things, Edward?"

"I don't know. Maybe it's good. But I don't like unpredictables and now we've got two of them to deal with."

Because there was nothing else to do while waiting, I paced the house. I wanted to leave so badly. Get up and walk out into the world where I might be able to do something. Not stay stuck and helpless in a stale house that exuded only tension and fear. But the damned phone was there and I didn't dare stray from it.

I ended up back in the study, staring at the manuscript. I didn't touch it; I didn't want to touch it.

If I had never begun the book, David Cadmus would still be alive. Cassandra would not be in danger now. The trouble between Veronica and me began when she decided we should collaborate on the story. From that point, everything went bad.

While I was zoned out thinking about all this, the phone rang again. I picked it up but wasn't really clearheaded when I said hello.