Ridgeway slowly withdrew the stack of bills from his pocket and looked at it There were at least fifty bills. He looked at Rebecca and tucked the money back into his robe pocket Along with the other stack, the woman had walked onto his boat with at least a hundred grand in cash.

“Miss Weinstock,” Ridgeway began slowly, “just what is it that you want from me?”

“Please don’t play tiring games with me,” Rebecca said. “I know she must have gotten it from him.”

“She?”

“Your wife.”

“My wife? What about her? What are you talking about?” Ridgeway’s voice rose. “What the hell about my wife? Where is she?” He grabbed her and lifted her off her feet “Where is she? Tell me or I’ll take you apart piece by fucking piece—”

“Stop, please,” she yelled in pain as Ridgeway shook her. “Stop, I… we—we tried to stop them. Please, Mr. Ridgeway, stop…”

Seth put her down on the settee. God, what was happening to him? His head hurt. He put his face in his hands and rubbed away at the pain. The insanity of all this was causing him to lose his bearings. He looked down at the woman he had begun to abuse. He had to get control of his life again.

Rebecca looked up warily at Ridgeway and ran her fingers through her hair.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Ridgeway said. “I’m sorry, but I thought—”

“There’s no need to apologize. This thing has made people insane for centuries.” Rebecca said this in an oddly calm way. “The important thing for you to remember, Mr. Ridgeway, is that we are prepared to pay you a lot of money for the painting.”

“I don’t know about any painting,” Ridgeway said, “and I don’t care that much about money. I’d rather have Zoe back.”

“Of course you would, and if you cooperate with us I believe we may be able to locate her.”

“She’s still alive?”

“I didn’t say that. I said we’d help you try to locate her. We don’t know what those madmen might have done to her. But I do suspect she’s still alive, since she knows what was on the back of the picture, and they don’t…”

“Picture?” Ridgeway took his coffee and sat down at the table across from Rebecca. “I don’t understand. What’s a picture got to do with all this? And who the hell are you?”

“I told you. Rebecca Weinstock. I—”

“No, I mean who are you with? Who sent you? How do you know about Zoe?” Ridgeway’s hand trembled as he lifted his mug to his lips. Coffee sloshed on the table. He took a sip and set the mug down in the spill. “Why would—”

“Why is always the hardest to understand,” she said. “We can understand the hows and the wheres and the whos, but the whys provide jobs for philosophers and priests.”

Ridgeway just looked at her, waited.

The woman seemed to consider a moment, then slipped one thin hand inside her coat, drew out a small black-and-white snapshot, and passed it across the table, careful to avoid the spilled coffee. Reluctantly Ridgeway picked up the photo and looked at it.