No, no, Dance thought. Let him control you! With Daniel Pell you can’t be defiant.

Pell stepped up to him and, almost leisurely, touched his gun to the man’s throat. “What did I tell you?”

The young man’s flippancy was gone. “Not to say a word.”

“But you did say something. Why would you do that? What a stupid, stupid thing to do.”

He’s going to kill him, Dance thought. Please, no. “Pell, listen to me—”

“You’re talking too,” the killer said, and swung the gun toward her.

“I’m sorry,” TJ whispered.

“That’s more words.”

Pell turned to Dance. “I’ve got a few questions for you and your little friend here. But in a minute. You sit tight, enjoy the scene of domestic bliss.” Then he said to Nagle, “Keep going.”

Nagle returned to what was apparently the task Dance and TJ had interrupted: It seemed he was burning all of his notes and research material.

Pell watched the bonfire and added absently, “And if you miss something and I find it, I will cut your wife’s fingers off. Then start on your kids’. And quit crying. It’s not dignified. Have some control.”

Ten agonizing minutes of silence passed as Nagle found his notes and tossed them into the fire.

Dance knew that as soon as he finished, and Pell learned from her and TJ what he needed to know, they’d be dead.

Nagle’s wife was sobbing. She said, “Leave us alone, please, please, anything…I’ll do anything. Please…”

Dance glanced into the bedroom, where she lay beside Sonja and Eric. The little girl was crying pathetically.

“Quiet there, Mrs. Writer.”

Dance glanced at her watch, partly obscured by the cuffs. She imagined what her own children were doing now. The thought was too painful, though, and she forced herself to concentrate on what was happening in the room.

Was there anything she could do?

Bargain with him? But to bargain you need something of value the other person wants.

Resist? But to resist you need weapons.

“Why are you doing this?” Nagle moaned, as the last of the notes went up in flames.

“Hush there.”