“I am,” Amy says.

“Very well. The time is now…five thirty p.m. Let’s make the exchange in exactly thirty minutes. Six p.m. on the dot. Is that satisfactory to you?”

“Why not now?”

“Because arrangements must be made,” the man says. “You’ve noticed there’s a gate nearby. The access code to the gate is one-two-three-two-one. Easy to recall, am I correct? Come into this little gated community and make a left. About a hundred meters down the drive is a store that sells women’s beachwear. It’s called Yucatan. Go into the store and there’s a package waiting for you.”

“What kind of package?”

“A bathing suit,” the man says, laughing. “A very, very skimpy bathing suit. Once you have that on, you will walk with your…guest, to a small park with four concrete benches. Stand by the closest bench. I will be there in exactly thirty minutes. If you’re not there…well, let’s not consider that, shall we?”

My breathing starts to quicken.

“All right,” I say. “Six p.m. I’ll be there. And you’ll be there with Tom and Denise. If I don’t see Tom and Denise, I will—”

“I know, I know, you will kill the man that you have,” he says. “Aren’t you ashamed of saying these threats out loud, so he can hear them?”

“No,” I say, and I disconnect the call.

CHAPTER 80

TOM’S EYES are swollen and filled with tears, and he wipes at them, not caring if his captor is seeing this embarrassing display. Pelayo is smiling widely.

“Everything is coming together,” he says. “See? Save for some disruption to your life, and an unfortunately burnt arm that is entirely your fault, in just a little while, your family will be reunited.” Pelayo reaches over, rubs Denise’s head, and Tom feels a sharp bile of anger rise up in him.

“Don’t touch my girl,” he says.

Pelayo lifts his hand. “I understand. Come, we need to get ready.”

Tom takes Denise’s hand and starts walking down the balcony, to the open sliding door leading back inside. Pelayo says, “Tom, are you all right? You seem to be limping some.”

“Leg cramp,” Tom says. “Lying down all day and night will do that to you.”

“Oh, I see,” Pelayo says, and they are ushered into a wide suite, Tom holding Denise’s hand, walking carefully with a limp so the cutting tool hidden in his right sock doesn’t fall out.

Rosaria Vasquez swears and bursts into tears. This is too much, just way too much. Her last phone call came from her boss ten minutes ago, sending her to a small town named Beachside, and then there was a thump, the right rear of her rental Buick shuddered to the side, and here she is now, with a flat tire and a damn jack that just won’t work.

Again she moves the thin handle, and again it slips out, skinning her knuckles. She throws the handle into the dirt, turns and slumps back against the car, draws up her knees, and runs her hands through her now very short hair. She’s parked just off US 98, and she hates this stretch of road, hates the state of Florida, and pretty much hates everything. The land is flat, bleached, with trees and brush that look fake.