Bring it on, you sick son of a bitch. Bring it on.

He finished with his phone call. He moved back toward her. She was still on her stomach. He straddled her again. Grace closed her eyes. Tears squeezed out of them. She waited.

The man took hold of both of her hands and pulled them behind her back. He wrapped duct tape around them and stood. He pulled her so that she was on her knees, her hands bound behind her back. The ribs ached but the pain was manageable for now.

She looked up at him.

He said, “Don’t move.”

He turned away and left her alone then. She listened. She heard a door open and then the sound of footsteps.

He was heading down into the basement.

She was alone.

Grace struggled to free her arms, but they were wrapped tightly. No way to reach the gun. She debated trying to stand and run, but that would be futile at best. The position of her arms, the searing pain in her ribs, and of course, the fact that she was a major gimp under the best of circumstances-add it up and it didn’t look like a sound alternative.

But could she slip her hands under herself?

If she could do that, if she could get her hands, even bound, to the front of her body, she could go for the gun.

It was a plan.

Grace had no idea how long he’d be gone-not long, she figured-but she had to chance it.

Her shoulders rolled back in their sockets. Her arms straightened. Every movement-every breath-set the ribs afire. She fought through it. She stood and bent at the waist. She forced her hands down.

Progress.

Still standing, she bent the knees and squirmed. She was getting close. Footsteps again.

Damn, he was heading back up the stairs.

She was caught in the middle, her bound hands under her buttocks.

Hurry, dammit. One way or the other. Put the hands back behind her or keep going.

She chose to keep going. Keep going forward.

This was going to end here and now.

The footsteps were slow. Heavier. It sounded like he was dragging something with him.

Grace pushed harder. Her hands were stuck. She bent more at the waist and knees. The pain made her head swim. She closed her eyes and swayed. She pulled up, willing to dislocate her shoulders if it would help her get through.

The footsteps stopped. A door closed. He was here.

She forced her arms through. It worked. They came out in front of her.

But it was too late. The man was back. He stood in the room, not five feet from her. He saw what she had done. But Grace did not notice that. She was, in fact, not looking at the man’s face at all. She stared openmouthed at the man’s right hand.

The man let go. And there, falling to the floor by his side, was Jack.

chapter 46

Grace dove toward him. “Jack? Jack?”

His eyes were closed. His hair was matted to his forehead. Her hands were still bound, but she was able to hold his face. Jack’s skin was clammy. His lips were dry and caked over. There was duct tape around his legs. A handcuff hung around his right wrist. She could see scabs on his left wrist. It had been cuffed too, for a long time judging by the marks.

She called his name again. Nothing. She lowered her ear to his mouth. He was breathing. She could see that. Shallow, but he was breathing. She shifted around and put his head in her lap. Her rib pain screamed but that was irrelevant now. He lay flat on his back, her lap his pillow. Her mind fell back to the grape groves in that vineyard in Saint-Emilion. They’d been together about three months by then, totally infatuated, jammed neatly in that sprint-across-the-park, thumping-of-the-heart-whenever-you-see-the-person stage. She packed some pâté, some cheese, wine of course. The day had been sun-kissed, the sky the kind of blue that made you believe in the angels. They’d lain down on a red tartan blanket, his head in her lap like this, she stroking his hair. She’d spent more time staring at him than the natural wonders that surrounded them. She’d traced his face with her fingers.

Grace made her voice soft, tried to ease up on the panic.

“Jack?”

His eyes fluttered open. His pupils were too large. It took him a moment to focus, and then he saw her. For a moment his caked lips cracked into a smile. Grace wondered if he too was flashing back to that same picnic. Her heart burst, but she managed to smile back. There was a serene moment, no more, and then reality flooded in. Jack’s eyes widened in panic. The smile vanished. His face crumbled into anguish.

“Oh God.”

“It’s okay,” she said, even though that was about as dumb a statement as one could make under the circumstances.

He was trying not to cry. “I’m so sorry, Grace.”

“Shhh, it’s okay.”

Jack’s eyes searched like beacons, finding their captor. “She doesn’t know anything,” he said to the man. “Let her go.”

The man took a step closer. He bent down on his haunches. “If you speak again,” he said to Jack, “I will hurt her. Not you. Her. I will hurt her very badly. Do you understand?”

Jack closed his eyes and nodded.

He stood back up. He kicked Jack off her lap, grabbed Grace by the hair, and pulled her to a standing position. With his other hand he clutched Jack by the neck.

“We need to take a ride,” he said.

chapter 47

Perlmutter and Duncan had just gotten off the Garden State Parkway at Interstate 287, no more than five miles from the house in Armonk, when the call was radioed in:

“They were here-Lawson’s Saab is still in the driveway-but they’re gone now.”

“How about Beatrice Smith?”

“Nowhere in sight. We just got here. We’re still checking the residence.”

Perlmutter thought about it. “Wu would figure that Charlaine Swain would report seeing him. He’d know he had to get rid of the Saab. Do you know if Beatrice Smith had a car?”

“Not yet, no.”

“Is there any other car in the driveway or garage?”

“Hold on.” Perlmutter waited. Duncan looked at him. Ten seconds later: “No other car.”

“Then they took hers. Find out the make and license plate. Get an APB out right away.”

“Okay, got it. Wait, hold on a second, Captain.” He was gone again.

Scott Duncan said, “Your computer expert. She thought that Wu was maybe a serial killer.”

“She thought it was a possibility.”

“You don’t believe it though.”

Perlmutter shook his head. “He’s a pro. He doesn’t pick victims for jollies. Sykes lived alone. Beatrice Smith is a widow. Wu needs a place to stay and operate. This is how he finds those places.”

“So he’s a gun for hire.”

“Something like that.”

“Any thoughts on who he’s working for?”

Perlmutter held the wheel. He took the Armonk exit. They were only about a mile away now. “I was hoping you or your client might have an idea.”

The radio crackled. “Captain? You still there?”

“I am.”

“One car registered to Mrs. Beatrice Smith. A tan Land Rover. License plate 472-JXY.”

“Get an APB out on it. They can’t be far.”