“Look on the bright side.”

  “I can’t wait to hear this.”

  “I could have taken you anywhere, yet you’re a prisoner in your own home. That should give you some comfort.”

  “And just what do you want me to do with that information?”

  “Take comfort.”

  “Oh yeah. Right. I feel so much better. This just keeps getting creepier and freaking me out more by the second.” The knowledge that he was holding her in her own cabin explained a lot. He could work and sleep in the annexed building that served as an art studio and security monitoring station. From there, her captor could cook and prepare meals that he or she, but probably he, then served to her via the lazy Susan, which had been installed by the former owner to pass food back and forth between the indoor and outdoor kitchens.

  Six hours later, at 2:00 a.m. on Day 8, she did in fact have a seizure. Her body locked up, and she began choking on her tongue. Thirty seconds later, she began foaming at the mouth. The foam spilled out between her locked lips and trickled down both cheeks. This continued for two minutes and included eye flutter, banging her head on the mattress, and a violent leg kick accompanied by a low gurgle that suggested her airway had been shut off. At the three-minute mark, her body fell limp, her head rolled to one side, and her lips appeared blue.

  No rescue came and no one barged in the door.

  At the ten-minute mark, she raised her head and threw up her arms. “Have you no heart? What is this sick place? You’re really not going to help me, are you?”

  “No, but you should get an award for that. I was almost convinced.”

  “So you just sat there and watched the whole thing like some voyeur?”

  He said nothing.

  “Well?”

  “Yes.”

  She had grown testy. “Why? What pleasure do you derive from watching me suffer?”

  “You weren’t suffering.”

  “But you didn’t know that.”

  “Yes. I did.”

  “I cannot believe you sat there and didn’t offer to help me.”

  He paused. “I’ve seen seizures. That wasn’t one.”

  She wiped the Alka-Seltzer foam off her cheeks. “How’d you know?”

  “I’ve seen your movies.”

  During one role, she’d played a strung-out prostitute who suffered a seizure at the movie’s climax. To produce foam, the director had used part of an Alka-Seltzer. “Oh. Do you have a favorite?”

  “Yes. Now please go to sleep. I’d like to do the same.”

  This was his second admission. Which did not slip by her. “You sleep only when I do?”

  “Yes.”

  “So if I stay awake forty-eight hours, you will too?”

  “No.”

  “But you just said—”

  “I’ll shoot you in the neck with a dart gun long before that.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Good night.”

  She climbed back into bed. “Still don’t like you, Houdini.”

  “Probably a good idea.”

  She straightened. Tried to sound tough. “People are looking for me.”

  “No.” He paused. “The whole world is looking for you.”

  This comforted her but not as much as knowing he knew this. “That doesn’t bother you?”

  “Not really.”

  “So you’ve done this before? You’re a pro?”

  “We’ve already covered that.”

  “How many times?”

  He ignored her. “Good night.”

  She pointed at the camera. “I’m not saying good night to some sick miscreant Houdini holding me against my will.”

  He laughed. “I don’t blame you.”

  Minutes passed while she sat in darkness and silence. The heat in her room was intolerable. It had to be close to ninety degrees. “It’s hot as hell in here.”

  He made no response.

  She lay on the bed, sticking to the sheets. “Could I please have some air-conditioning?”

  Still no response.

  “How about a fan?”

  Crickets.

  Her head was splitting. Body aching. And while she’d made it eight days, the cravings and her need for narcotics were not lessening. She felt as though someone had plugged her into an electrical outlet. Having had enough, she stood, turned on a light, and pointed at the camera. “We’ll see how tough you are.”

  With that, she stripped to her birthday suit. Totally naked. Spinning in a circle, she put herself on display for the cameras. What the world had been clamoring for, begging for, offering her large sums of money for, she gave him—out of spite. For several minutes, she stared into the four cameras staring down at her. Finally, she lay down on the bed, put a T-shirt over her eyes to block out the light, and attempted to sleep. Having covered nothing.

  A minute later, cold air blew into the room, washed over her body, dried the sweat on her skin, and raised goose bumps. She spoke without lifting her head. “Thank you.”

  Still no response. And still she did not cover herself.

  She chuckled, sat up, and looked into the cameras. “Oh come on, you know you’re enjoying this.” She threw a flip-flop at the camera. Followed by tears. Proving how unstable she had become. “It’s why guys like you do things like this. Your own private peep show. Admit it! It’s what you’ve been wanting the entire time. Meantime, really bad people walk free and get away with stealing someone’s child.”

  A pause. “You would do well to eat a cheeseburger.”

  “Now just what do you mean by that?”

  “You’re skinny.”

  She waved him off. “Occupational hazard. Cameras add weight. Make you look bigger on-screen than you are in life.”

  The voice did not sound convinced. “Mm-hmm.”

  “Okay, maybe I am, but if you must know, I’ve been a bit stressed lately, and every time I eat something, my stomach rejects it.”

  “That’s TMI.”

  “You asked.”

  “No. I didn’t.”

  “Well, you intimated.”

  “Nope. Didn’t do that either. I just offered you an opinion.”

  “Only after staring at me.”

  A pause. “True.”

  “So you did stare?” His nonresponse suggested that, possibly for the first time, she had him on the ropes in their mental jousting. “Just admit it.”

  Seconds later, the light clicked off while cold air continued to fill the room.

  Chapter 13

  Before

  Work had brought her to New York City. A break in filming offered a few hours off. Hence, the drive. Pockets parked the car and waited for further instruction. Joe tapped him on the arm. She was giddy. “Come on. You might need to do this one day.”

  The jewelry district in New York City is home to some of the finest diamond cutters in the world. Not to mention some of the rarest and most beautiful jewelry ever crafted. They rode the elevator down, and when they reached the metal detectors and the security desk, Pockets presented his State of New York and New York City carry permits—both of which were rare. Fort Knox wasn’t this well guarded.

  The guard looked at him and shook his head. “Those don’t work in here.”

  Pockets knew better than to argue. Doing so would get him nowhere. Plus, the kind of people who posed a threat to Joe weren’t making it through this checkpoint and all three of the locked doors coming up. He deposited his Glock in a safe and kept the key, at which point the guard entered a few keystrokes and the first magnetic door opened. Only after he and Joe had walked through and the door had closed and locked behind them did the guard enter more keystrokes, unlocking the second door that emptied onto the first of the jewelers’ floors. The building was ten or twelve stories of nothing but jewelers. Most owned mines in Africa, or partnered with them, which removed all middlemen and provided vertical integration from source to finger. Or chest. Or ear. Or . . . you get the point.

  Joe wound through the building but her internal GPS wasn’t very good. In fact, her sense of direction was terrible. Finally, she turned to Pockets and held up the business card. “I’m trying to get us here.”

  Pockets pointed up.

  She looked at the elevators, then back at the card. “Oh.”

  When they exited the elevator, a smallish woman in her midsixties met them. Pockets didn’t know much about jewelry, but he had a feeling that whatever she was wearing was worth more than he made in a year. Maybe five years. She extended her hand to Joe. “So glad to see you again.” She gestured to another glass door behind her. “Please.”

  When they approached, someone unseen pressed a button that unlocked a third magnetic lock, opening to a small glass room. When that door locked behind them, the last door was manually unlocked and opened by a man wearing white gloves, speaking in a sophisticated foreign accent, and welcoming Joe into a showroom where everything sparkled.

  Accompanied by the lady, Joe wandered the room, trying on piece after piece. Bracelet, earrings, necklace—it was Cinderella’s dream. Finally, she zeroed in on a simple necklace. Five diamonds. A carat each. Stacked vertically on top of each other. She clasped it about her neck and admired it in the mirror. Turning this way, then that. The lady approved.

  Joe turned to Pockets. “You like?”

  “Yes mum.”

  She smiled. “But would you buy it?”

  “That depends.”

  “On?”

  “Two things. First, the cost.”

  She laughed. Then she told him.

  “Mum, I can’t afford the sales tax on that.”

  “And the second thing?”

  “The reason.”

  She touched each stone with her fingertips. And when she spoke, tears appeared. “One for each.”

  That’s when he understood. “Then yes mum. I would. And I’d mortgage the house if need be.”

  She turned to the lady. “Can I wear it out?”

  Chapter 14

  Before

  She was filming a cop drama in and around Austin. Pockets had worked out and eaten breakfast but the sun wouldn’t rise for another hour when his phone rang. He could tell she was on speakerphone. “You busy?”

  “No mum.”

  “Top floor.” A chuckle. “You’re needed.”

  The elevator doors opened into her suite, which consumed the entire floor. He navigated the foyer, stepping around people scurrying to and fro, carrying clothing, props, bagels, espresso, and a tarp, which spiked his curiosity. Based on their facial expressions and the speed with which they moved, everybody was behind schedule. Given the hour and the fact that the sun had yet to rise, he wondered why these people weren’t asleep. While he’d been around the filming of movies for several years now, he still didn’t understand the rationale.

  He turned a corner and found her sitting in what looked like a barber chair. Leaned back. Facing the ceiling. Mirror on the wall in front of her. Foam separators sticking up through the space between her toes caused them to look like the fingers on an inflated doctor’s glove. Evidently, the pedicurist who had just finished her toes was now working on her hands.

  Joe saw him out of the corner of her eye. “Oh, thank goodness. Can you grab that little bottle right there?”

  The countertop was littered with five hundred little bottles. He pointed.

  “No. Three left.” He lifted it, and she said, “Yep. Now put that on my eyelashes.”

  He looked around, his head on a swivel. “Mum?”

  A nod, then a glance at the clock. “I have to be downstairs in . . . twenty-seven minutes looking like a cross between Margaret Thatcher and Cruella de Vil.”

  He lifted the bottle. “I don’t know anything about . . .”

  “Then consider this on-the-job training.” When he didn’t move, she said, “Pockets, our makeup artist failed to show. I’ve been filming all night. I’m crazy tired, and you are my last hope.” A fake smile. “Step closer. I’ll walk you through it.”

  He looked to the lady painting her nails. “What about her?”

  “She’s busy.”

  He stood over her, holding the mascara bottle, unscrewed the top, and stood holding the small black brush.

  “Great.” She closed one eye. “Now just feather that on— Wait. See that little box next to those other bottles?”

  He lifted a clear, thin container that looked like it could hold fishing lures.

  “That’s it. Okay, open it.”

  He did.

  “See those lashes in number seven?”

  The small case held fake eyelashes. Labeled one through eight. He nodded, trying to figure out where this ended up.

  “Add a thin layer of glue and stick it on my eyelid.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Nope. And . . .” She eyed the wall. “Clock’s ticking.”

  “You’re serious.”

  “As a heart attack.” She waited.

  He lifted the lash with the tweezers, applied the thinnest line of glue he could, and then stood over her, trying to size up how they would best adhere to her eyelid.

  She closed an eye and then spoke without moving her facial muscles. “Apply it straight across. Can’t be crooked.”

  He studied the people moving in circles around him. “You sure you wouldn’t rather—”

  She opened both eyes. “Pockets. Shh. Just set it on my eyelid.”

  He did.

  She blinked. Then again. “Now the other.”

  He repeated the process. She blinked, then lifted her head and studied herself in the mirror. “Perfect. Okay, while that’s drying I need you to take that black liner and run a line across the top lid.”

  He grabbed the liner, pulled up a chair to help steady his hand, and spoke as he did what he’d seen makeup artists do to her a hundred times over. “When I woke this morning, this wasn’t how I saw my day panning out.”

  She smiled. “Trust me. Me either.”

  He lined both eyes, and she said, “Lip liner.”

  He searched the counter, found it, and she did that thing women do with their lips when they’re applying either lipstick or liner. He found this more challenging than the eyeliner.

  When finished, she smacked her lips. “Great. Now, brush the lashes. They should be dry by now.”

  He pulled the brush out of the tube, then reinserted it several times to fill the brushes with the black stuff, then slowly and gently painted her enormous fake eyelashes. When he sat back, he said, “You look ridiculous.”

  She nodded. “Great. That’s what we’re shooting for. Now the other.”

  He complied.

  She studied herself in the mirror and nodded. Surprised. “Pockets, you’re a natural. Thanks, doll.”

  He tried to find an exit and whispered to himself, “Doll.”

  She extricated herself from the chair, waddled to her room, waved and called out “Toodles” over her shoulder, and disappeared.

  Riding the elevator down, he found himself talking to himself. “I wonder if what happens in the makeup chair stays in the makeup chair.”

  Fortunately for her and yet unfortunately for him, it did not. Word spread. The crew began referring to him as “Doll” and asked if he was taking appointments.

  The next morning, when his phone rang, he was summoned yet again for round two. To which he replied, “Not a chance.”

  “Please, Pockets! It’s an emergency.”

  “Mum, a man’s got to have his limitations.”

  “I promise I won’t ask again.”

  “Given my experience with you, I highly doubt that.”

  “Okay, I’ll try not to.” She paused. “Pockets . . .”

  He exited the elevator and found her in the same chair. This time, no pedicurist. Leaving her hands free. He waited for instructions. She sipped coffee and nodded at the same bottles he’d used yesterday morning. He objected quietly. “Mum, no offense, but can’t you do it?”

  She nodded. “Yes, I can, but . . .” She lifted her right hand, demonstrating the shake. There was no possible way she could apply eyeliner. Much less lip liner. The shake was a clear indication that she’d been using drugs to stay awake.

  “How long have you been awake?”

  Her eyes moved up and to the left. “I last slept Tuesday.”

  “It’s Friday.”

  She nodded.

  He pulled the cap and began slowly applying the liner to her eyes. “In my former life, we did that to people.”

  Her eyes were jittery. Like someone had plugged her into an electrical socket. “What?”

  “Kept them awake.”

  “Why?”

  He paused and spoke slowly. “To drive them crazy.”

  She spoke matter-of-factly, proving she was buzzing on something. “I can see how that would work.” When he was finished with her face, she stood and raced off to her dressing room for costume change.

  He stayed close during filming, knowing her battery would run out sooner rather than later. Which it did. She was in midsentence when he saw her knee buckle. He stepped in, steadied her, and said, “Mum, you’re needed inside.” He knew if he could get her moving, he maybe could get her upstairs.

  She followed him but her eyes were glazed over. She was asleep and didn’t know it. When the elevator doors opened, she stepped in but collapsed soon after. He caught and held her while the car rode to the suite. The doors opened and he carried her to her room, set her gently on her bed, and, given that it was 4:00 p.m., closed the blinds and covered her eyes with the blackout mask they give you on airplanes. Making her look a bit like Catwoman. Then he closed the door behind him, set a chair in front of it, and began his vigil.

  Twenty minutes later, crew assistants came calling. He simply shook his head. Ten minutes after that, the director arrived, expressing a bit of attitude. Pockets politely declined. When the director tried to push past him, Pockets lifted him off his feet, pressed him against the wall, and told him, “Mrs. Joe does not want to be disturbed. You can resume tomorrow.”

  Ten minutes after the director left, two producers walked in, threatening to call the police and charging that Pockets was holding her hostage. Pockets stood, took off his jacket, loosened his tie, and began rolling up his sleeves. “Gentlemen, I understand you have a deadline. I can appreciate that. But your film is not my concern.” He thumbed over his shoulder. “She is. And she has instructed me that no one is to enter that room. Period. You may resume filming tomorrow morning when she’s rested, which she is not currently.”