“I need your help,” Kelly replied, and she shivered. The apartment windows were wide open and it was a chilly Midwestern day. Outside the nearby stream gurgled. She remembered how she had initially been taken by the serenity of the view. Green meadows gliding into silent woods. As before, the apartment was neat and tasteful. The only major addition was a large white hospital bed tucked in the corner of the living room. So Banks no longer slept in the place where he had poured the acid onto her abdomen. Did the room give him nightmares? She wanted to ask but would not.

Banks had shrunk. Propped straight in his motorized wheelchair, he looked like a mannequin in need of a new suit. Gone was his long hair and closely cropped beard. He was shaved clean—perhaps to facilitate his care. He had lost weight; his spotted skin hung on his face like dried bark on a dead tree. A spork was attached to his right hand with Velcro. His left arm looked worse than useless. Ironically, he smelled nice—he wore the same cologne Tony favored, Bvlgari pour Homme. Coincidence—or had Banks done research? It begged another question.

Had he known she would appear at his doorstep?

The biggest change was in his eyes. Whereas before they had sparkled—even if with insanity—now they were soaked marbles. He was pleased to see her but seemed unable to summon the energy to focus his penetrating mind on her. She wondered if the decline in his physical appearance was deceptive. He was never who he appeared to be. Even the pajamas he wore—elves playing in the snow with reindeer—mocked his murderous nature. When she had first met him, she had thought of him as a department store Santa Claus. Now she knew the type of toys he carried in his bag.

There was a dark stain on the tan carpet near the phone. Standing in that exact spot, her intestines in hand, she had dialed 911, and then fainted into a nightmare. Banks might have read her mind; the dullness in his blue eyes momentarily lifted. He nodded as if to say they shared the same dreams. Still, they were not the same. He had not replaced the carpet because he wanted to remember her. And more than anything else in the world she wanted to forget him.

Yet, here she was, asking his help.

“I’m honored,” he replied. “A case?”

“Yes. A kidnapping.” Kelly reached for the briefcase at her feet. She had a gun in it, another in her coat—the one she had paralyzed him with. Both semiautomatics had a bullet cocked into their respective chambers. “I brought the FBI file. I’m willing to leave it with you if you promise to keep it confidential.”

He was not interested in her papers. “Why don’t you tell me about it.”