Jack kept running. He reached Eighth and stood panting, squinting into the red river of taillights streaming uptown. He spotted the truck two blocks ahead, moving away from him.

His mind raced. What now? He wasn’t even sure that had been Alicia. And even if it was… he should stay out of it. Chasing after them himself was dangerous. Cowboy stuff like that was a sure way to get collared, and a collar could wreck his life. He should call the cops—do the 911 thing and let them handle it.

But he hadn’t caught the license plate on the truck, and hadn’t seen any distinctive markings.

She’s in a dark panel truck somewhere on Eighth Avenue—maybe.

Yeah, right. That would—

A horn blared to his left. A taxi wanted to pull away from the curb, and Jack was blocking him. Jack held up his hand and approached the driver.

4.

4.

Alicia felt her taching heart pound against her ribs and heard the breath whistling in and out of her nostrils as she struggled against the tape that bound her to the seat.

They’re going to kill me! she thought. I’m going to end up just like the others.

It had happened so fast! The man had caught her in mid-stride, hurled her into the truck, and jumped in after her. Before she could react the door was closed and she was taped into this chair, with a short piece slapped across her mouth. She felt tears crowding into her eyes. What did they want with her?

And then she remembered: They can’t kill me. The house will go to Greenpeace if they do.

But what if this is something else? What if this has nothing to do with the house? You hear of people disappearing all the time. What if this is just some random abduction?

The inside of the truck was as dark as a tomb. She could make out the shape of the man who’d pushed her in, and sensed someone else sitting behind her. The first man had her shoulder bag and seemed to be pawing through it—she could hear the contents being pushed this way and that. What were they looking for? Who were they? What did they—?

And then the one behind her spoke. She recognized the nasal voice.

“Hello, sis.”

Thomas.

Anger sliced through her. She couldn’t see him, but she could imagine him—his lanky brown hair, his big-nosed, pockmarked face, his pear-shaped body. Had he gained weight since she’d last seen him a dozen years ago? Undoubtedly.

She wanted to scream at him, but knew nothing would pass her taped lips. So she stopped struggling against her bonds and forced herself to be calm. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her terror.