Vanish

paranoia.”

Moore ’s words had felt like blow after pummeling blow, pounding the breath from Gabriel’s lungs. “Jesus,” he murmured. “This changes everything.”

“What do you mean?” asked Maura.

He looked at her. “We can’t waste any more time. We’ve got to get her out now.”

“What about negotiations? What about going slow?”

“It doesn’t apply here. Not only is this man unstable, he’s already killed a cop.”

“He doesn’t know Jane’s a cop,” said Moore. “And we’re not going to let him find out. Look, the same principles apply here. The longer a hostage crisis goes on, the better it usually comes out. Negotiation works.”

Gabriel pointed to the laptop. “How the hell do you negotiate with someone who does that?”

“It can be done. It has to be done.”

“It’s not your wife in there!” He saw Maura’s startled gaze, and he turned away, struggling for composure.

It was Moore who spoke next, his voice quiet. Gentle. “What you’re feeling now-what you’re going through-I’ve been there, you know. I know exactly what you’re dealing with. Two years ago, my wife, Catherine, was abducted, by a man you may remember. Warren Hoyt.”

The Surgeon. Of course, Gabriel remembered him. The man who late at night would slip into homes where women slept, awakening to find a monster in their bedrooms. It was the aftermath of Hoyt’s crimes that had first brought Gabriel to Boston a year ago. The Surgeon, he suddenly realized, was the common thread that bound them all together. Moore and Gabriel, Jane and Maura. They had all, in one way or another, been touched by the same evil.

“I knew Hoyt was holding her,” said Moore. “And there was nothing I could do about it. No way I could think of to save her. If I could have exchanged my life for hers, I would have done it in a heartbeat. But all I could do was watch the hours go by. The worst part of it was, I knew what he was doing to her. I’d watched the autopsies on his other victims. I saw every cut he ever made with his scalpel. So yes, I know exactly what you’re feeling. And believe me, I’m going to do whatever it takes to get Jane out of there alive. Not just because she’s my colleague, or because you’re married to her. It’s because I owe her my happiness. She’s the one who found Catherine. Jane’s the one who saved her life.”

At last Gabriel looked at him. “How do we negotiate with these people?”

“We need to find out exactly what they want. They know they’re trapped. They have no choice but to talk to us, so we keep talking to them. You’ve dealt with other hostage situations, so you know the negotiator’s playbook. The rules haven’t changed, just because you’re on the other side of it now. You have to take your wife, your emotions, out of this equation.”

“Could you?”

Moore ’s silence answered the question. Of course he couldn’t.

And neither can I.

THIRTEEN

Mila

Tonight we are going to a party.

The Mother tells us that important people will be there, so we must look our prettiest, and she has given us new clothes for the occasion. I am wearing a black velvet dress with a skirt so tight that I can scarcely walk, and I must pull the hem all the way up to my hips just so I can climb into the van. The other girls slide in beside me in a rustle of silk and satin, and I smell their clashing bouquet of perfumes. We have spent hours with our makeup creams and lipsticks and mascara brushes, and now we sit like masked dolls about to perform in a Kabuki play. Nothing you see is real. Not the eyelashes or the red lips or the blushing cheeks. The van is cold, and we shiver against each other, waiting for Olena to join us.

The American driver yells out the window that we must leave now, or we’ll be late. At last the Mother comes out of the house, tugging Olena after her. Olena angrily shakes off the Mother’s hand and proceeds to walk the rest of the way on her own. She is wearing a long, green silk dress with a high Chinese collar and a side slit that reaches all the way to her thigh. Her black hair swings straight and sleek to her shoulders. I have never seen anyone so beautiful, and I stare at her as she crosses to the van. The drugs have calmed her down as usual, have turned her docile, but they have also made her unsteady, and she sways in her high heels.

“Get in, get in,” the driver orders.

The Mother has to help Olena into the van. Olena slides onto the seat in front of mine and promptly slumps against the window. The Mother slides the door shut and climbs in beside the driver.

“It’s about time,” he says, and we pull away from the house.

I know why we are going to this party; I know what is expected of us. Still, this feels like an escape because it is the first time in weeks that we have been allowed out of the house, and I eagerly press my face to the window as we turn onto a paved road. I see the sign: DEERFIELD ROAD.

For a long time, we drive.

I watch the road signs, reading the names of the towns we are passing through. RESTON and ARLINGTON and WOODBRIDGE. I look at people in other cars, and I wonder if any of them can see the silent plea in my face. If any of them cared. A woman driver in the next lane glances at me, and for an instant our eyes meet. Then she turns her attention back to the road. What did she see, really? Just a redheaded girl in a black dress, going out for a good time. People see what they expect to see. It never occurs to them that terrible things can look pretty.

I begin to catch glimpses of water, a wide ribbon of it, in the distance. When the van finally stops, we are parked at a dock, where a large motor yacht is moored. I did not expect tonight’s party to be on a boat. The other girls are craning their necks to see it, curious about what this enormous yacht looks like inside. And a little afraid, too.

The Mother slides open the van door. “These are important men. You will all smile and be happy. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mother,” we murmur.

“Get out.”

As we scramble from the van, I hear Olena say, in a slurred voice, “Fuck yourself, Mother,” but no one else hears her.

Tottering on high heels, shivering in our dresses, we walk single file up the ramp and onto the boat. On the deck, a man stands waiting for us. Just by the way the Mother hurries forward to greet him, I know this man is important. He gives us a cursory glance, and nods in approval. Says in English, to the Mother: “Take them inside and get a few drinks in them. I want them in the mood when our guests arrive.”

“Yes, Mr. Desmond.”

The man’s gaze pauses on Olena, who is swaying unsteadily near the railing. “Is that one going to cause us trouble again?”

“She took the pills. She’ll be quiet.”

“Well, she’d better be. I don’t want her acting up tonight.”

“Go,” the Mother directs us. “Inside.”

We step through the doorway into the cabin, and I am dazzled by my first glimpse. A crystal chandelier sparkles over our heads. I see dark wood paneling, couches of cream-colored suede. A bartender pops open a bottle, and a waiter in a white jacket brings us flutes of champagne.