"He the man. Talk to him."

[THREE].

Little Bight Bay Saint John, United States Virgin Islands Monday, November 17, 7:10 P.M.

After shutting down the Internet connection and finishing her traditional sunset glass of wine, Maggie had gone inside the cabin and thrown the lighting breakers on the electrical panel. Then, back on the well-lit deck, trying to figure out what she could possibly do next, she busied herself going around the boat methodically making sure everything was as it should be.

She neatly coiled all the lines on the deck-from the mainsail and jib halyards and sheets down to the last docking line-and then re-coiled ones that she thought didn't look exactly right. She went forward to where the anchor line was cleated, untied it, tugged hard on the line to ensure the hook was still secure in the bay bottom, then re-cleated the line, snugging each wrap before finally tightly cinching the line. Then she neatly coiled the remaining line.

And then she went around the boat a second time.

And then, frustrated, she leaned against the aluminum mast, sighing as she looked out.

Now what? I can't keep spinning my wheels.

Ricky said two hours. And that was at five-thirty.

So-after what, the next twenty minutes?-he carries out his threat?

Who gets to die now?

Under the thin crescent of moon she watched the navigation lights of sailboats slowly moving in the distance. A blanket of twinkling stars reflected everywhere. Waves crashed just outside the mouth of the bay.

I'm just so damn far away.

She went back inside the cabin and poured another glass of wine.

She saw the notebooks on the table, next to the casino bag with the poker chips and stack of cash she had photographed.

This is absolutely insane.

It's impossible to physically get those books back.

And even if by some miracle I did give them to those bastards, there is no question that they would kill me. Either right there on the spot, or eventually...

She rocked the wineglass stem, slowly spinning the merlot around the glass as she thought, then took a big swallow.

But...

- She quickly went to her computer and got back online.

Signing in to the text messaging website, she found the conversation with the one she considered the Eastern European.

She rapidly typed in the new bubble: MEET AT LUCKY STARS CASINO AT 10 TONIGHT.

She then quickly clicked SEND-and stared at the screen.

The clock in the upper corner showed: 7:14.

Come on, c'mon...

It took three minutes for him to reply: 267-555-9100.

CASINO IS NOT SATISFACTORY.

I wonder why? Too many people?

Too bad. Then all the more reason to do it there.

My rules...

She sent: I GET TO SELECT THE PLACE. AND THE CASINO IS QUITE SATISFACTORY.

BUT NOT INSIDE.

ON THE BOARDWALK ALONG THE RIVER IS A PIER. WHERE THE CASINO HAS A TOUR BOAT.

She waited, sipping her wine, her eyes darting to the clock as the minutes ticked off: 7:16... 7:17.

Why the hell no reply?

I don't have much time...

She then typed: OKAY. THE NOTEBOOKS WILL BE IN THE CASINO BAG THAT WAS IN THE PHOTO I SENT YOU EARLIER. I WILL TIE ON ITS HANDLE ONE OF THOSE SMALL PLASTIC BAGS FROM THE DOG PARK THAT'S THERE AT THE BOARDWALK.

YOU WILL GET AN EXACT SAME BAG FROM THE CASINO, PUT THE CASH IN IT, AND TIE ONE OF THOSE PET BAGS TO ITS HANDLE.

AT 10 P.M. YOU WILL WALK TO THE END OF THE CASINO'S PIER, DROP THE BAG IN THE TRASHCAN BESIDE THE LAST IRON BENCH THERE, THEN LIGHT A CIGARETTE. YOU WILL THEN LEAVE THE BOARDWALK AND CIRCLE THE PARKING LOT, FINISHING YOUR CIGARETTE.

EXACTLY 20 MINUTES LATER YOU WILL REALIZE YOU ACCIDENTALLY LEFT SOMETHING IN THE BAG AND RETURN TO RETRIEVE IT.

IF I FIND THAT ALL THE MONEY YOU PROMISED IS IN THE BAG THAT YOU LEAVE, YOU WILL FIND THE NOTEBOOKS IN THE BAG THAT I LEAVE.

I WILL BE WATCHING. WHAT WILL YOU BE WEARING?.

She read that over once-Not that I could possibly count two hundred thousand dollars in the freezing dark-then sent it.

Five minutes later she nervously upended her wineglass, then fired off: WELL?? THESE ARE MY RULES. DO YOU WANT THE BOOKS OR NOT?.

The clock now read: 7:23.

Then a bubble popped up: 267-555-9100.

I WEAR BLACK PANTS AND A BLACK LEATHER JACKET. ALSO WILL HAVE A GRAY WOOL FEDORA WITH SMALL FEATHER IN HATBAND.

BUT I WARN YOU - DO NOT WASTE MY TIME.

Maggie felt her heart trying to burst through her chest.

Okay, now, Ricky...

She went to that conversation thread, then looked at the clock. It turned to 7:25.

Her hands shaking, she quickly typed: BE AT LUCKY STARS CASINO BOARDWALK TONIGHT.

THE NOTEBOOKS WILL BE IN THE CASINO BAG THAT WAS IN THE PHOTO I SENT YOU EARLIER. YOU WILL GET FROM THE CASINO ONE OF THE EXACT SAME BAGS. THERE IS A DOG PARK BY THE BOARDWALK. TAKE ONE OF THE BLACK PLASTIC BAGGIES FROM IT AND TIE IT TO THE CASINO BAG HANDLE SO MY MAN WILL RECOGNIZE YOU.

THEN AT 10:15 BE WAITING ON THE BOARDWALK FOR THE EXCHANGE TO TAKE PLACE.

MY MAN WILL WEAR BLACK PANTS AND JACKET AND A GRAY FEDORA THAT HAS A FEATHER IN THE HATBAND.

She reread it and clicked SEND.

Five minutes later, a bubble popped up: 215-555-3452.

WHO IS THIS MAN? THIS IS BULLSHIT!.

I GAVE YOU TWO HOURS!.

She looked at that for a long moment, took a deep breath, and then sent: CALM DOWN, RICKY. JUST BE THERE. 10:15.

The next minute felt like it lasted forever. Then came the reply: 215-555-3452.

THIS IS THE LAST CHANCE!.

DO NOT SCREW UP. YOU OR YOUR MAN.

OR HER BLOOD IS ON YOUR HANDS.

Her?

Almost immediately another message bubble popped up.

Maggie gasped.

The message had no words, only an image.

It was a close-up photograph of the face of a very young brown-skinned girl, maybe ten or eleven, her head turned at a sharp angle. A strip of silver duct tape covered her mouth. Her big dark eyes were looking as far left as they could possibly turn-toward her temple, where the muzzle of a big black pistol was pressed.

Oh my God...

Maggie's mind flooded with thoughts.

The first, which caused Maggie to begin tearing up herself as she stared at the young girl's tearing eyes, was: That is the look of total terror.

The next was: I can't tell who that is. It could be Janine. But does it matter who it is?

Then: What have I done? This is crazy. Completely out of control.

And finally: I give up. Now there's only one option... .

[FOUR].

New Hope House Hazzard Street, Philadelphia Monday, November 17, 6:22 P.M.

After Payne and Byrth made their introductions, Byrth showed Eldridge his phone with the photograph from the Department of Transportation ID.

"Elizabeth Cusick," Byrth said, "age twenty, five-one, one-ten, blonde, blue eyes. The address on this ID is this address."

"Beth?" Eldridge said, nodding. "Sure. She was here maybe two months ago. And most girls use this address, especially when they apply for SNAP?"

Payne nodded and said, mostly for Byrth's benefit, "Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program. Food stamps."

"Right," Eldridge said. "She came with a friend, nice-looking girl afraid of her own shadow. Hardly ever talked, this girlfriend. Beth did most of the talking. But when she did, it was with an accent. I'm guessing Russian?"

Payne and Byrth exchanged glances.

Byrth then said, "How long were they at your flophouse-"

"'Transitional housing,'" he interrupted. "We prefer that. Lots of folks winding up here first got referred to other homes right out of jail. To get in those, though, they got to be clean. Which sometimes the jail time does for them. But when they sometimes slip-and most times they slip-they're thrown out. Tragic cycle, sad to say. That's how come we tell them to be clean, just don't demand it. We're hoping they can ease off the addiction."

"Does that work?" Byrth asked, his tone skeptical.

"Sometimes. It ain't easy. Ever. Believe me, I know. I've been fighting my own monkey on my back longer than I care to say."

"What about this Cusick girl?" Byrth said.

He shrugged. "A runaway at some point is what I'm thinking. She never said outright. But some signs were pretty clear. She was hiding from a pimp. Both girls were. Some figure it out faster than others."

"Figure out... ?" Payne said.

"That they ain't gonna last long. Pimp makes them charge fifty bucks for fifteen minutes of screwing, thirty bucks for a blow job. Twenty, thirty tricks a day. Day after day. And then maybe split that money with the pimp, or he takes it all? Bastard who beats them, maybe sells them to another pimp, and worse?" Eldridge looked between them, then added, "You're cops. You know they wind up dead all the time."