“Two—I like that number.”

The man looked at his stainless-steel watch. “You have about two minutes.”

“Two minutes or what?” Nicholson asked, but then he saw the answer to his question.

The taller one took out a clear plastic bag and pulled it down over Charlotte’s head. She struggled, but he had no trouble wrapping bands of the silver tape around her neck, sealing her head inside the plastic.

Nicholson could see Charlotte’s expression change as she realized exactly what was happening. He even felt a pinch of pity, maybe even lost love, something emotional and, well, human. For the first time in years, he felt a connection to Charlotte.

“You’re insane! You can’t do this!” he yelled at the man holding down his wife.

“You’re the one doing this, Mr. Nicholson. You’re in complete control of the situation, not us. This is all on you. For God’s sake, make us stop.”

“But I don’t even understand what you want. Tell me what it is!”

He lunged for Charlotte, but the injured knee took him right back down, wedged embarrassingly between the couch and the coffee table.

“Please, tell me what you want! I don’t understand!” Nicholson begged at the top of his lungs as convincingly as possible. It was the performance of a lifetime, and it had to be.

By the time he got himself onto the couch, Charlotte had gone still.

Her familiar blue eyes were wide open. Her head lolled against her shoulder like some marionette waiting to be picked up. It was grotesque, with the plastic bag still on, and easy to respond to.

“You bastards! You fucking bastards, you killed her! Now do you believe me? Is that what it takes?”

The two men were as cool as ever. They exchanged a glance. A couple of shrugs.

“We should go,” the white guy said. The other nodded, and for a second Nicholson thought he’d pulled it off, that maybe “we” meant only the two of them. It didn’t. One of them picked up Charlotte and the other dragged Nicholson.

As he was forced to hobble on his good leg toward the door—and God knew where after that—Nicholson had the strangest thought. He wished he had been nicer to Charlotte.

Chapter 53

NED MAHONEY AND I were in my car, headed east on I-66 toward Alexandria, when the call came in that we were too late. Virginia State Police were reporting that they’d found Nicholson’s house empty. There were signs of a break-in and a struggle, two packed suitcases left behind, both of the Nicholsons’ cars still in the garage.

An APB was in effect, but without a specific vehicle to look for, it didn’t carry much hope of an apprehension.

The plan was still to convene at the Nicholson house. ADIC Hamel was calling in another Evidence Response Team right away. And Mahoney phoned someone at the Hoover Building to do some fast digging on Nicholson.

He also had one of the Bureau-issue Toughbooks in the car, which let him double up on research. He started feeding me information rapid-fire, the way Ned always does when he’s keyed up.