"He doesn't like to talk about it much. But he was in a head-on collision right before he moved to New York. The whole trauma left him pretty shaky."

"When did this happen?"

"Mid-September, I think."

Bingo. Pay dirt.

Reed's knuckles were white as they gripped the cell phone. "Was he badly hurt?"

"The impact sent him right through the windshield. His face was completely torn up by the gla.s.s. Other than that, he was lucky. A few broken bones, lots of cuts and bruises, and some horrible memories."

That shot holes in Reed's theory. The injuries Alison was describing were inconsistent with those suffered in a boat explosion. Still, the timing was too similar to ignore.

"That sounds serious," he tried. "Wow, an accident of that magnitude and there were no extensive body injuries?"

"Thankfully, no. Not on either side. The woman who hit him suffered only from whiplash and a totaled car. Dennis's car was wrecked, too. But his face . . ." Her voice trembled a bit. "It breaks my heart what he went through."

"I can imagine. He must have some nasty scars."

"Fortunately not. He underwent extensive reconstructive surgery. The poor man's cheekbones had to be rebuilt, his nose reset. . . plus some skin grafting and a lot of other surgical procedures I try to block out, they sound so gruesome. I'm not the medical type. I'm just grateful that Dennis is alive and well."

"Of course."

Dennis is alive and well.

There it was. The reality. The reason why Gordon had no bodily injuries. He hadn't been on his yacht when it exploded. He'd gotten off beforehand. And there'd been no accident--not for him. The shrewd SOB had simply gotten a new face.

Enter Dennis Kincaid.

Reed had to hang up. He'd gotten as much as he could out of Alison Kincaid, at least for his purposes. The cops would have tons of questions for her later. But that was their thing. Right now, all that mattered to him was Taylor. Alison obviously had no clue where her husband was headed.

Time for the police to take over.

"Well, Mrs. Kincaid." He wrapped up the call in as few words as possible. "I won't keep you any longer. Congratulations again. I wish you the best."

He punched off the phone, staring at it for a moment before raising his head to gaze at Hadman.

"I have answers. Call your men and tell them to change the description of the man driving that minivan."

"It's not Gordon Mallory?"

"Oh, it's Mallory all right. He's just made some alterations."

CHAPTER 35.

6:47 P.M.

The bouncing motion of the car penetrated her consciousness.

With a Herculean effort, Taylor cracked open her eyes. Her head was throbbing. She felt achy and groggy. Like she had the flu. Like she should be in bed. Why was she in a car?

She was half slumped over on the seat. Her arms were cramped, twisted behind her. She tried to free them and push herself into a sitting position, but they wouldn't budge. It was like something was holding them down. Same with her feet, which were stuck together like glue, making any leg motion impossible.

What the h.e.l.l was going on?

She blinked, forced herself fully awake. Headlights reflected in the pa.s.senger's sideview mirror. It was evening.

"I see you're awake. Good. I could use the company."

Taylor's head snapped around, and she stared blankly at the man who was driving. Dennis. Why was she in a car with Dennis?

"You picked the worst time of day to visit your new place," he continued. "Rush hour sucked. We sat in the Midtown Tunnel for thirty minutes."

Her new place?

Memory flooded back in a rush.

She'd been leaving her new apartment. She'd walked smack into Dennis in the hall outside her door.

He'd pressed something over her nose and mouth. A handkerchief. It smelled like citrus-scented Formula 409 household cleaner. That's all she remembered.

Instinctively, she started to struggle, trying to free her hands and feet. Gazing down, she realized why she couldn't. Her ankles were bound together with thick cord. So were her wrists. Between that and her seat belt, she was effectively imprisoned in the car.

"Dennis?" It was him. Yet he seemed like a different person, someone she didn't recognize.

"Where are we?"

"The Long Island Expressway. We've got another hour to go, now that traffic's finally letting up."

"Where is it we're going?"

A tight smile. "To your ultimate destination. And your final resting place."

His message was clear as gla.s.s. Taylor shuddered, fear eclipsing the last vestiges of haze from her mind. Fear and, to a lesser extent, confusion. None of this made sense. Dennis? Why Dennis?

She continued staring at him, trying to resolve the inconsistency. She licked her lips, forcing out the one-word question. "Why?"

He gave a humorless laugh. "Where do I begin?" He glanced to the right, then flipped on his directional signal and eased over, first to the right lane, then off the highway and onto the shoulder. Breaking to a stop, he put the car in park and turned to face her.

"Why are we stopping?" Taylor asked, a shiver of apprehension shooting up her spine.

"Two reasons. One, you're dehydrated. Drink this." He uncapped a bottle of water and held it to her lips. "Trust me. You'll need your strength for later."

She hesitated, then realized how absurd she was being. His plan was to kill her. But poisoning her water wasn't what he had in mind.

She began gulping down the much-needed liquid.

"Take it slow or you won't hold it down," he warned. "You've been out longer than I planned. I had to reapply the chloroform a couple of times. I didn't count on all that traffic. And I couldn't risk your coming to when we were at a standstill and yelling for help. That's it. Nice and easy." He waited till she was finished, then recapped the bottle and put it in the holder.

"What's the second reason we're stopping?" she asked, leaning her head back against the seat and fighting the cobwebs of dizziness.

"So I can answer your question. I'll have to make it brief so we can get back on the road. I'll happily fill in all the blanks for you while we drive. But for the piece de resistance, the moment I've dreamed of, re-envisioned over and over--for that, I have to see your face. And, since we're about to lose the benefit of twilight, that moment is now."

Flipping on the dome light for emphasis, he leaned toward her, and Taylor scrutinized his face. He wore an expression she'd never seen on him before, or maybe she'd just never looked closely enough. It was an expression of cruel, detached resolve.

"You've been stalking me," she deduced quietly. "It's been you all along."

"Right from the beginning," he confirmed. "But that still doesn't answer your question, does it? I believe you asked why. Well, here's your answer."

He bowed his head, his chin close to his chest. Reaching up, he pulled down first one eyelid, then the other. Taylor realized he was popping out contact lenses. That done, he sat up, shoved the mop of hair off his forehead, and leaned all the way forward, until Taylor could feel his breath on her face. He opened his dark eyes wide, his hard, icy gaze boring into her.

"Because I gave you my word that I would," he said in a voice that no longer belonged to Dennis, but to a nightmare from her past. "I told you I'd be back. That we'd have all the time we needed to finish what we started. And, I told you I'd be watching you. Well, I was."

Taylor let out a soft cry. She wanted to scream, but it wouldn't come. Not that it mattered. No one would hear her if it did. Not over the roar of cars whizzing by on the LIE. "Oh, my G.o.d," she gasped, trembling violently as the inconsistencies gelled into truth. "It's you." She broke off, gagging as the water she'd drunk came back up, along with the rest of what she'd eaten that day.

Dennis obliged her by pressing the power b.u.t.ton and lowering her window. She leaned out, vomiting until there was nothing left inside her. Even then, she continued to retch helplessly for a moment or two, before sinking back weakly in her seat.

He watched her as he raised the window back up, a brittle smile curving his lips. "That reaction was worth all the waiting." Calmly, he popped his lenses back in, resettled himself in the driver's seat, and flipped on his left blinker.

He pulled out onto the highway.

"I don't understand," Taylor heard herself stammer.

"Of course you don't." He didn't bother reverting to Dennis's voice anymore. That facade was no longer necessary. The monster sitting beside her was unquestionably Gordon. "My plan was too intricate. It was also too brilliant to keep to myself. Unfortunately, after today, that's what I'm going to have to do. So I left ample time to tell you everything. Where would you like me to start?"

"Douglas and Adrienne Berkley. You killed them."

"Of course. Shall I tell you why?"

Taylor's mind was starting to work again, the initial paralysis that had gripped it ebbing. "I know why. Adrienne s.e.xually abused you for years. And Douglas did nothing to stop it."

A flicker of surprise crossed Gordon's face. "You did your homework. I'm impressed. It pays to sleep with the lawyer of the accused."

She ignored that barb. "Speaking of the accused, you did a superb job of framing Jonathan."

He acknowledged the compliment with a nod. "It wasn't hard. I hacked his computer pa.s.sword. It's 'Berkley,' of all things. The man has no imagination whatsoever. Anyway, I monitored all his e-mails to and from Douglas. I even tapped his phones, office and home. I knew where he was going, what he was thinking, the works. Everything I did was ch.o.r.eographed around his whereabouts. As for the windfall genetics handed me--the fact that identical twins have identical DNA--that I owe to nature.

I just took advantage of it."

Gordon's tone and demeanor took on an aura of violent hatred. "Leaving my reproductive calling card inside that b.i.t.c.h while I choked her to death was sheer pleasure. Watching her face, knowing she understood what was happening to her and why, prolonging the suffering-- nothing will ever match that feeling." A quick glance at Taylor. "Well, almost nothing."

Taylor was glad her stomach was empty. Otherwise, she might just vomit again. "And Douglas?"

"He went fast and with only the pain of knowing who was responsible and why." A pensive frown.

"I thought of keeping him alive long enough to make him watch me screw Adrienne, after which I'd kill them both. But I decided against it. Douglas was weak, useless--and blind to the truth about Adrienne.

I saw the expression on his face when I told him, the revulsion in his eyes when he looked at her. The stupid old man had no clue what a perverted wh.o.r.e he was married to. So I put him out of his misery and spent the rest of the time torturing her. The experience was revitalizing."

Okay, enough deranged, heinous details. Taylor couldn't take any more.

"How did you become Dennis Kincaid?" she asked. "More important, why did you become Dennis Kincaid? To escape when all this was over?"

He gave a disgusted snort. "That would be a lot of work for nothing. No, my dear Taylor, I became Dennis Kincaid for several reasons. One, to accomplish all I needed to while staying invisible. Two, to watch you as closely as I promised I would. And three, to get everything that's coming to me when Jonathan is convicted of double homicide."

He rubbed a hand over his face. "The 'how' should be obvious. At least from an aesthetic perspective. Cosmetic surgery is a remarkable thing. The surgeons in Thailand were astounding. They raised my eyebrows, added fat to my cheeks, removed a few bags under my eyes to erase several years, remade my nose and mouth, even darkened my skin a few shades to go with my new look. And all with only a few weeks' recovery. The hair took longer to grow into this unruly mop. Oh, and I put lifts in my shoes. They added two inches to my height; actually, two inches on the left side and two and a half on the right. That took care of changing my walk. Tinted contacts altered my eye color. So, you see, I'm a whole new person. Not as handsome, but with a far rosier future.

"As for the mundane part of 'how,' the real Dennis Kincaid was a n.o.body. He was born and died in a little town in Nebraska. I did a little digging, found what I needed. He had no family, no one to catch me at my little game of pretend. I created a whole new Dennis Kincaid, with a little help from my newfound friends who specialize in creative pa.s.sports and the like. Then again, that's how I got out of the country in the first place."

"To go to Thailand for your plastic surgery?"

"Uh-huh. I flew there right after the boat explosion. During my recovery, I honed my technical skills.

I've always had the apt.i.tude, so it wasn't much of a challenge. An Internet course or two, and I was all set. Then I spent another month on an advanced martial-arts cla.s.s, and I was on my way. I had my fake pa.s.sport doctored with my new photo and flew back to the U.S. I volunteered at a couple of small-town radio jobs to get references and experience. The rest was easy."

Taylor had to force out the next question. But it was one she had to ask. It had haunted her since she realized Gordon might be alive. "The boat explosion--you orchestrated the whole thing?"

"Of course. I orchestrated everything." He gave her a mocking smile. "For example, do you really think your friend Rick just tripped onto those railroad tracks that night?"

All the color drained from Taylor's face. "You ... you pushed him?"

"I needed to be on the other side of that gla.s.s when you did your nightly radio show. It was just a matter of finding the right time to get rid of Rick so I could fill his seat. He made it easy. Rick was so drunk, he never knew what hit him. Or who. Ever since then, I've been there. Night after night. For hours on end. Up close and personal. Watching you, just as I planned. And you didn't have a clue. Talk about the ultimate power trip. You were like a wriggling insect under a microscope. My microscope."

This horror show was getting more grotesque by the minute.

"Ah, you wanted to know about the boat explosion. Allow me to explain. I planned it down to the tiniest detail. On Friday, the day before the bash on my yacht, I drove out to Douglas's East Hampton estate.

He and Adrienne were vacationing in Greece, so I knew no one would see me. I swapped my magnificent Mercedes CLIO 20 for the beat-up old Chevy truck I used as a teenager. I took my boat trailer and Zodiac with me."

"Zodiac?" Taylor asked numbly.

"A lightweight, heavy-duty inflatable boat." Memory flashed in his eyes, and Taylor could see the madness there. "Mine's been in use for years. Adrienne christened it. It was her favorite playpen, and I was her favorite plaything. We'd go out on Douglas's yacht. From there, she'd order me to accompany her in the Zodiac and steer into any one of a dozen secluded coves. I satisfied her physical needs du jour, after which she'd supervise me scrubbing down the Zodiac and the yacht. She loved to watch me sweat my a.s.s off like a common laborer. It turned her on."

He shrugged. "On the other hand, the experience had its perks. I learned how to be a proficient and creative lover at a time when all my peers were still virgins. And I learned the best places to take women for a very private, very good time. Those coves came in handy over the years. I used them with lots of women, right up through your cousin Stephanie."

Just hearing him say Steph's name made Taylor's blood boil. At that moment, she didn't feel a shred of compa.s.sion for the abuse he'd endured. All she felt was rage. He'd cold-bloodedly murdered her cousin. And Rick. And a yachtful of people.

Her fingernails dug into her palms as she fought for control. She couldn't lose it. Not yet.

"What did you do with the Zodiac that Friday night?" she asked, wishing she could stop pursuing a subject that would only cause her pain. But she had to know everything she could about Steph's death. And this b.a.s.t.a.r.d was the only one who could provide her with answers.

"I collapsed it, drove out to the Montauk boatyard, and stashed it on my yacht with the outboard motor and gas tank. Then I drove the truck to Napeague Harbor and left it, and the trailer, in the parking lot near the boat ramp. I jogged the three miles back to Douglas's estate, picked up my Benz, and drove back to Manhattan by nightfall. According to my Rolex, I was forty minutes ahead of schedule. Pretty impressive, even for me."

Taylor wanted to scream: Shut up! I don't give a d.a.m.n about your de-praved plan or how brilliantly it was executed. 1 just want to know what you did to my cousin. Did she suffer? How long did it take her to die? Did she die in the explosion or on your filthy Zodiac?

Her nails dug deeper into her palms, the pain somehow grounding her in reality. "On Sat.u.r.day you and Steph flew out to Montauk," she prompted.

"After you and I were interrupted, you mean?" An icy smirk. "Yes. We left Montauk Harbor late afternoon with the party in full swing, and headed south for about an hour and a half. We pa.s.sed lots of vessels coming in for the day, so we were pretty much alone by the time we reached our destination.