Lucy was shivering; she clung to him more tightly. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed St. Vincent start toward them. His allotted time with Lucy was up, but he wasn’t having any. He shot St. Vincent such a poisonous look that the man stopped in his tracks, retreated to his former post, but not before tapping his watch face.

Lucy was still whispering in his ear. “He had a stack of magazines he got through the mail. Japanese periodicals on Shibari, ritual rope bondage. Much later, I learned it’s an art form in Japan, but my father had other uses for it in mind. He’d spend hours binding me, then he’d hang me from the ceiling, sometimes upside down, other times in a lotus position, still others with my arms and legs spread-eagled. By then, he was ready to burst.” Her voice broke apart like a sheet of glass shattering. “He … was … like … a … demon—the devil himself.” Each word was driven out of her as if it was her last breath.

She hung in his arms, limp and shivering. “But that wasn’t the end of it. Then he started in on the photos—hundreds of them. He posted them on a Web site, where people paid to see me … like that. They even sent in suggestions they’d pay a premium price for. Naturally, my father liked that best.”

Now St. Vincent was coming across the room, and by his grim expression and the firmness of his stride Flix knew there was nothing more he could do to hold him off.

“Time,” St. Vincent said.

Lucy either didn’t hear him or did not wish to hear him; she did not want to let go of her uncle.

“Listen, guapa, listen to me. You rest here for a while—a short while—and then I’ll be back, okay?”

She wiped her eyes and nodded against his shoulder. She gathered up the necklace, gave it back to him, but she kept the box, carefully folding the wrapping. She placed it in the box, held it between her hands like a temple offering.

“I’ll keep this,” she said. “Okay?”

“Better than okay.” He kissed her on both cheeks, then rose to his feet. A swell of great affection overcame him. He felt as if he had made a long, arduous climb with her.

She looked up at him with a tentative smile. “Come back for me, Tío.”

“You have my word.” He grinned. “¡Hasta próxima, mi guapa!”

*   *   *

“Look at him,” Charlie exclaimed, paging through the surveillance photos on Whitman’s mobile. “He’s got the neck of a chicken!”

“Meet Ibrahim Mansour,” Whitman said. “Our new target.”

They were seated in Whitman’s favorite diner, having breakfast. The place had the appearance of being from the 1930s, which was why Whitman liked it.