Two months ago, Finley had called to say he was in Portland for business, and Sarah invited him to stay at her condo. Everything had gone swimmingly until Sarah began to wonder about Finley’s business. He’d told her it was import-export, but he was evasive every time she tried to get him to be specific. During a weak moment, Finley had mentioned the name of his company. Sarah had investigated and found that it existed only in a post office box in the Cayman Islands.

Cops cannot afford to associate with people who operate on the wrong side of the law, so she’d confronted Finley and saw a side of his personality she’d never seen before. There had been yelling and an attempt to hit Sarah. The brief scuffle ended when the combatants realized that they could both end up seriously injured. Sarah had held her gun on her guest while he packed his gear and then stormed out.

Fifteen minutes after Finley left, matters got worse. Two patrolmen showed up in response to a neighbor’s complaint. The cops left quickly when they recognized Sarah and learned that no one had been harmed, but the confrontation had been embarrassing.

Now Finley had broken into her condo and had been attacked. What was going on?

A police car was parked at the curb when Sarah pulled her pickup into her driveway twenty-five minutes later. She got out of the cab, and a chiseled young officer with a buzz cut walked out of the house, aiming a gun at her.

“Don’t move,” he yelled. “Drop the weapon.”

Sarah’s gun was hanging limply from her hand. She was so tired and woozy from the blow to her head that she hadn’t realized she was holding it until the officer shouted.

“I’m a Portland cop,” Sarah said. “I’m putting the gun down.”

Sarah bent her knees and placed the gun on the driveway.

“Move away from the truck and show your hands.”

“A man was kidnapped from my house. I’ve been out looking for him,” Sarah said as she backed away from the gun.

“What’s your name?”

“Sarah Woodruff. I work out of Central Precinct. Bob Mcintyre is my sergeant.”

A hefty African-American officer who looked to be in his forties walked out of the house just as the younger cop scooped up Sarah’s gun. Sarah reached into her jacket pocket slowly and pulled out her badge. The black officer examined Sarah’s ID while the younger officer examined her gun.

“I’m John Dickinson, Sarah,” the older man said. “Why don’t we go inside, but be careful. There’s blood on the carpet and the techs haven’t arrived yet.”

“Are you hurt?” he asked as Sarah passed by and he saw the blood that matted her long black hair.

“I got hit.” Sarah was exhausted. She closed her eyes. “Can I sit down? I don’t feel so well.”

“Yeah, go ahead.”

Sarah collapsed on the couch. She was nauseous and would have given anything to be able to go to sleep. The younger cop whispered something in his partner’s ear. The older man nodded.

“Call for an ambulance,” Dickinson said. “Officer Woodruff might have a concussion. And get a forensic team over here.”

“Tell me what happened,” Dickinson said as soon as his partner was out of the room.

Sarah touched the back of her head gingerly and grimaced.

“Do you want some water?”

“There’s no time for that. John Finley’s been kidnapped.”

“Who is Mr. Finley?”

“A… an acquaintance. I was sleeping. I heard noise downstairs. I saw John fighting with another man. When I ran downstairs, someone knocked me out. When I came to, they were gone. I’ve been driving around trying to find them.”

“Did you call for backup?”

“I should have. My head. I’m not thinking too straight.”

“Did you recognize the man fighting with Mr. Finley?”

“I never saw him before.”

“Can you describe him?”

“Not really. Everything happened so fast, and it was dark. I think he was wearing gloves and a leather jacket but I never saw his face.”

“Did you fire your weapon?”

Sarah tried to remember what had happened after she was hit. She had no recollection of firing her weapon, so she told Dickinson that she had not.

“Were you surprised to find Mr. Finley in your apartment?”

“I was. He owns an import-export business, and he travels frequently. I thought he was on a business trip. He hadn’t called me, and he’d been gone a while.”

“How did he get in?”

Sarah hesitated. “He has a key. He was living with me before he went on his trip.”

“I don’t want to embarrass you, but…”

“Yes, we were sleeping together.”

Sarah leaned back and closed her eyes.

“Don’t do that,” Dickinson said. “It’s not smart to sleep if you have a concussion. I hear the ambulance. Let the EMTs examine you, and they’ll tell you what to do.”

Sarah nodded and grimaced immediately. The wail of the siren grew louder, and within minutes two EMTs were in the living room. A few minutes later, Sarah was strapped on a gurney and they were wheeling her out of the house.

“What did she say about the gun?” the younger cop asked Dickinson.

“Said she didn’t fire it.”

“Someone did,” the young cop said.

Chapter Twenty-four

The first thing John Finley noticed when he came to was the pain. His side was on fire where he’d been shot, and he felt like someone had slammed a hatchet into the back of his head. He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his teeth. When the pain was bearable, he tried to figure out where he was.

That proved to be easy. He’d been placed in a confined space that admitted almost no light. Suddenly his body was lifted up and his head struck a hard surface. The pain was excruciating. After one more jolt, Finley figured out that he was in the trunk of a car that was driving on an unpaved road. He set himself to resist the next bump, but his hands were cuffed behind him and his ankles were bound together. His head smashed into the top of the trunk again. Then, mercifully, the car stopped.

Finley tried to remember what had led to his imprisonment. There was the ship. He’d killed Talbot on it, and he’d been shot. He remembered driving to Sarah’s condo. His wound had been bleeding badly when he arrived. The duffel bag! He’d hidden it, and he was heading for the stairs that led up to Sarah’s bedroom when two men burst in through the front door.

Finley remembered putting all of his strength behind a punch that caught the first man flush in the face, sending him stumbling across the foyer. Then he was grappling with the second man on the floor, weak from blood loss and barely able to put up a fight. A forearm had been jammed across his windpipe. He’d been struggling for breath when Sarah called his name. The last thing he remembered was a gunshot.

Car doors opened and slammed shut. Moments later the lid of the trunk popped up. Finley could see the silhouette of two men from their knees to their shoulders. One man bent down and reached in to drag him from the car. Finley resisted and was hit in the face.

“Don’t make this hard on yourself. You’re going to die no matter what you do,” said the man who had hit him.

Finley wanted to fight but he didn’t have the strength. The two men manhandled him out of the trunk and threw him on the ground. Pain lanced through his head and side, and he had to fight to keep from throwing up. The men watched him roll back and forth. When Finley stopped, he saw stars and the outline of tree limbs and leaves high above. The cold, unpolluted air and the absence of ambient light told him that he was somewhere in the countryside, probably in the mountains.

“On your knees, fucker,” one of the men commanded. Finley squinted at the speaker. He was thick with curly black hair, but the darkness obscured most of his features. When Finley didn’t move fast enough, his reward was a vicious kick to his ribs near his gunshot wound. The pain almost made him black out. Rough hands grabbed his hair and yanked him upright, and a gun barrel was jammed against the back of his head. The man who was standing in front of Finley smiled sadistically.