“They did much more than that,” said Andie.

  “How do you mean?”

  “We’re dealing with a kidnapper who drowned a completely innocent woman in an underwater cave because a million-dollar ransom wasn’t the right number. Kind of makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

  “What?”

  She looked away, as if afraid to answer her own question. “What’s he got in store for the woman who lowballed him in a televised court proceeding?”

  Martinez drummed his fingers on the tabletop, thinking. “There’s only one way to answer that, Henning.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Find this guy. Fast.”

  43

  The one-eyed monster was staring at her again.

  Mia’s mangled toe was no longer a source of constant pain, but the throbbing returned upon the mere sight of the video camera. Clearly there was a Pavlovian association imbedded in her subconscious; her captor wouldn’t go to all the trouble of setting up the camera unless he intended to hurt her.

  She waited in silence, seated on the hard floor with her legs extended straight out in front of her. As usual, her hands and ankles were bound with plastic handcuffs. The room was completely dark, save for the narrow tunnel of brightness that shot like a laser from the tripod. It was a tightly focused beam, a rope of light that seemingly tethered her to the video camera. Her kidnapper had used the same lighting system before. That first time, however, the beam of light had been directed straight at her face with blinding intensity. This time, the focus was different, and the difference was troubling.

  The spotlight was aimed below the waist.

  Mia could feel her body temperature rising, the combined effect of frayed nerves and the halogen bulb. Her captor was a silhouette in the shadows, lurking behind the glowing spotlight. She couldn’t really see him, but somehow she felt his stare. Then she heard his footsteps. Finally, she saw the knife.

  He was towering over her, the steel blade glimmering in the bright light. She didn’t dare make eye contact. She stared down into her lap, which only heightened her anxiety, as the spotlight was aimed at her most private zone.

  He got down on one knee, his face contorted and unrecognizable behind the tight nylon stocking. A wad of cotton or something similar in his mouth distorted his voice. “Don’t make a move,” he said, brandishing the knife just inches from her cheek. She was terrified, but she complied to the letter, barely even allowing her chest to swell with each shallow breath. She knew the price of disobedience.

  With a flick of the knife, her hands were free. Another quick swipe, and the ankle binders were broken. He rose and stepped back behind the camera. Mia remained motionless, still heeding his order not to move.

  “Take off your pants,” he said.

  Not very long ago, a command such as that would have met with defiance, or at least indignation. Those days were over. Without a moment’s hesitation, she unbuttoned her jeans and unzipped the fly. She worked her pants down steadily, around the hips and past the knees—fast enough to satisfy him, but not so fast as to arouse suspicion. She pulled them off one leg at a time and then laid them aside. He’d said nothing about removing her underwear, so she left it alone.

  “Sit yoga style for me.”

  She was afraid to ask for clarification, so she guessed that he wanted her to sit baddha konasana, a position she’d learned in a stretching class at her health club. She sat upright, her knees bent and flaring outward, the souls of her bare feet touching and the heels drawn inward toward her groin. She felt somewhat vulnerable, but it was better than spread-eagled.

  “Good,” he said. “Now move your feet forward a little—away from your body.”

  So much time in captivity had stiffened her joints, and she found it impossible to move her feet without a helping hand. She pushed gently against her heels, sliding the feet away from her, all the while remaining in the yoga position.

  “Very good.” He adjusted the spotlight. It was aimed straight at her crotch, but she felt no embarrassment. Only fear.

  “Hold it right there, bitch.”

  Mia didn’t move. She wanted to close her eyes and begin her mental escape, but she remembered how furious that had made him the last time, how he had mashed her toe even harder whenever she looked away from the camera. She kept her eyes wide open this time, staring straight into the blinding spotlight, as if seeking the refuge of darkness in the brightest point of light. She wanted to find her safety zone, that trancelike state of numbness that carried her through the worst of times. She was unable to concentrate, however. Try as she might to detach herself from the moment, she could still sense his unnerving presence, almost feel him moving about the room. She heard him coming toward her, and she started at the sudden clamor beside her. It was the sound of the bucket hitting the floor, the same bucket that he had left with her earlier. She peered cautiously over the rim, just like the last time. The only thing inside was the lightbulb. In a sudden blur he smashed it with his heel, and the loud pop made her heart skip a beat.

  “Take it,” he said.

  She glanced toward the camera, but otherwise she didn’t move.

  “Do it!” he shouted.

  She trembled as her gaze drifted back to the broken lightbulb, the twisted filament, the razor-sharp shards of thin glass.

  “I said do it!”

  “Do what?” she asked, barely audible.

  “Don’t talk back to me. Just do it. Show him.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Show him, damn it.”

  “Show who? Show what?”

  She could hear the anger in his heavy footsteps as he hurried to her side, grabbed her by the hair, and jerked her head back. He pressed the broken lightbulb into her palm, curled her hand into a fist, and squeezed until the sharpness sliced her skin. Blood oozed from her clenched fist like water from a sponge, but she contained her scream, denying him that satisfaction.

  “What do you want me to do?” she said, her voice quaking.

  “I want you to show him,” he said as he grabbed between her legs. He was squeezing hard, bringing tears to her eyes, nearly ripping the old scar tissue from the inside of her thigh. “Show Jack Swyteck how you cut yourself. Teresa.”

  44

  Even at three o’clock in the afternoon, it seemed only fitting to hold the most important meeting of the trip over the most important meal of the day. So Jack chose the Five Points Diner, where breakfast was served 24/7. The sign out front would lead you to believe that “five points” meant the tines of a fork, but it actually referred to downtown Atlanta’s best-known intersection, where Peachtree connects several major thoroughfares. The old diner wasn’t exactly the area’s shining jewel, but it was convenient, just a few MARTA stops south of Charlene Wright’s midtown office, not far from the courthouse and the glimmering gold-leaf dome of the capitol building. Most important, it was directly across the street from Bud’s Bail Bonds.

  Jack wasn’t sure if there actually was a Bud or if it was just a catchy trade name for a guy named Wilbur or Maurice. A little checking around with local attorneys confirmed that there was indeed a Bud, better known as Ball-Bustin’ Bud. It required no imagination on Jack’s part to discern how a bail bondsman earned a name like that. Bud operated much like any other bondsman. If a judge set your bail at one hundred thousand dollars, you gave Bud ten grand, and he posted bail. The ten thousand was nonrefundable. If you skipped, Bud was out ninety Gs. At least until he found you. That was where the ball bustin’ kicked in. And rest assured, Bud would find you. Eventually.

  Word on the street was that he was still looking for Gerard Montalvo, even after seven years.

  Jack’s initial inclination was to handle Bud by himself, but the more he learned about his reputation, the more he realized that he needed a little extra something to even the playing field. When it came to dealing with thugs, Jack had one great equalizer at his disposal. All it took was a phone call. Theo caught a midmorning flight from Miami and met him on the sidewalk right outside the Five Points Diner.

  “Pancakes,” said Theo. He was staring at the steaming stack of hotcakes painted on the diner’s plate-glass window. “Blueberry pancakes is what I want. With butter and lots of syrup.”

  “Pardon the reminder, but your only job here is to convince Ball-Bustin’ Bud that you can be an even worse badass than he is. Can’t you order something a little more…tough guy?”

  “I want pancakes.”

  “All right, fine. Just, I don’t know, order a side of raw bacon or something.”

  Jack entered the restaurant and Theo followed. The old man at the counter never looked up from his plate of runny eggs over easy. The short-order cook was scraping grease from the griddle with a pumice stone, like nails on a chalkboard. A big guy with a crew cut and a neck as wide as a sequoia was seated in the booth by the window, drinking coffee. He was wearing a black leather jacket, blue jeans, and a plain white T-shirt. His eyes were like a night watchman’s, narrow and discerning. He had the nose of an ex-boxer, which was to say that it had apparently been rearranged several times before finally retiring to a place just left of center on his face. A toothpick dangled from his lips, and it moved to one side when he sipped his coffee, never leaving his mouth. His huge hands were covered with the tattoo of a spiderweb, as if to tell the world that no one ever escaped his grasp.

  Theo and his pancakes, thought Jack. Now this guy is a real badass.

  Bud rose and introduced himself, the toothpick wagging as he spoke. They slid into the booth, Jack and Theo on one side, Bud on the other. Bud was less than subtle in sizing up Theo, probably trying to decide if he was armed, dangerous, or both of the above. Jack heard a toilet flush somewhere toward the end of the back hallway. A waitress emerged from the bathroom, wiping her hands on her coffee-stained apron. She grabbed a pot of coffee on her way to their table and refilled Bud’s half-empty mug, saying nothing, displaying all the warmth and personality of a walking cadaver. She pulled a dog-eared notepad from her back pocket, yanked a pencil from behind her ear, and took their orders. Just black coffee for Jack, a double stack of blueberry pancakes for Theo.

  “Hold the whipped cream,” said Theo. “Cuz I’m a badass.”

  Jack could have killed him on the spot, but he decided to wait for another day, hopefully in the not too distant future, when they were traveling together in a state without capital punishment.

  Bud looked confused, as if not quite sure what to make of Jack’s sidekick. “So, what’s the deal, gents? How much is the bail?”

  “There is no bail,” said Jack.

  “Then what the hell is so urgent?”

  “We’re here to talk about a guy named Gerard Montalvo. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”

  “Everyone’s heard of him now. I saw the BOLO the FBI issued this morning. Said he’s wanted for kidnapping.”

  “I would imagine that you remember him better than most people.”

  “Course I do,” he said, scoffing. “Son of a bitch skipped bail and cost me almost half a million.”

  “He didn’t put up any collateral?” said Jack.

  “Shit yeah. I always get collateral. But you ever tried litigating against the Montalvo family? I swear, the richer these sons of bitches are, the harder it is to squeeze a dime out of them. Their lawyers got me tied up in knots. Only way I’m gonna see that money is to put a gun to Gerard’s head. Not that I would do that, of course.”

  “Of course,” said Theo. “Gotta find him before you can put a gun to his head.”

  The remark seemed to intrigue Bud. “Are you saying you can find Gerard Montalvo?”

  Jack leaned closer, lowering his voice for effect. “I’m saying we have found him.”

  A wave of interest washed over Bud’s face. “If that’s true, you guys are my new best friends.”

  Jack laid his hands atop the table. “Here’s how I see it. You’d like nothing better than to get your half million dollars back from Montalvo. For my own reasons, I’d like to get my hands on just half that much.”

  “So what are you proposing?”

  “Here’s the deal,” said Jack. “I’ll pay your usual fee, ten percent. In other words, I’ll put up twenty-five thousand dollars for a thirty-day loan of a quarter million dollars. After the thirty days, I give you back your quarter million, and Gerard Montalvo is back in police custody.”

  “What good does that do me?”

  Theo said, “I been in prison. I know what kind of pressure you can bring on someone inside the box to make his family pay off a debt.”

  Bud nodded, as if he liked the way Theo’s mind worked. “That would make me a very happy man. But how are you in any kind of position to deliver on a promise to have Montalvo back in police custody within thirty days?”

  “We’ll deliver,” said Jack.

  “But what if you don’t?”

  The waitress returned, and all conversation ceased. She slid a double order of pancakes in front of Theo. He looked quizzically at his plate of food, his expression turning sour.

  “What the hell is this?” he said.

  “Blueberry pancakes,” she said in her gum-cracking monotone.

  “These ain’t blueberry pancakes.”

  “Yeah, they is.”

  “What’s this stuff on top?”

  “Blueberry compote.”

  “That’s not blueberry pancakes. Blueberry pancakes are pancakes with blueberries inside.”

  “Ours come with blueberry compote on top.”

  “Then you shouldn’t call them blueberry pancakes. Cuz I can’t eat this.”

  “It tastes the same, trust me.”

  “I trust you, darlin’. But when I sees this stack of pancakes covered in blue goop, it don’t make me think, Mmm, dig in. It makes me think, Who let the Blue Man Group shit all over my breakfast?”

  “Then eat around it.”

  Theo shot her one of his patented looks, the kind that could tie even an ex-con’s intestines in knots. “No, I’m not gonna eat around it. Cuz here’s what’s gonna happen, babe. You’re gonna take this plate to the bathroom, you’re gonna drop this compote in the crapper, and you’re gonna flush. And you’re gonna keep right on flushin’ till a big blue load of blueberry shit comes floating out somewhere in the middle of Lake Lanier. Then you’re gonna go back in the kitchen and bring me some real blueberry pancakes. Got it?”

  His glare intensified. The waitress was so speechless that she’d even stopped chomping on her chewing gum. Jack felt a little sorry for her, even though he knew that Theo was just putting on a show for Bud’s benefit. She took the pancakes and slithered away.

  Bud chuckled, toothpick wagging faster than ever. “I like your style, pal.”

  Theo was stone-cold serious. “Like Jack said: We’ll have Montalvo back in jail in thirty days.”

  “But you still haven’t answered my question. What if you don’t?”

  Jack said, “Then you keep my twenty-five grand, and I pay you back the quarter million. You made twenty-five thousand dollars in one month.”

  “Pay me back out of what?”

  “Three-year promissory note. Ten percent interest.”

  “Twenty,” said Bud. “And before I deliver one red cent, I need proof that you know where Montalvo is. I don’t care if you are the son of a former governor. I’m not laying out this kind of money on blind faith.”

  Jack didn’t want to play this final card, but a guy like Bud was his only chance of raising this much cash in a matter of days. He pulled his Dictaphone from his coat pocket and gave it to Bud, along with an earpiece. Jack said, “Montalvo kidnapped my girlfriend. This is his last phone call to me. His voice is disguised, but he gives himself away at the end. He’s the Got the Look Rapist.”

  Bud seemed more than a little skeptical, but Jack definitely didn’t want to get into the whole story of how Mia was Teresa. “Go ahead,” said Jack. “Listen to it. I haven’t shared this with anyone but the FBI.”

  Bud inserted the earpiece, hit Play, and listened in silence for about two minutes as the conversation unfolded. The tape ended with the kidnapper’s response to Jack’s pointed question—whether he would still say the Mia’s “got the look.” Some of the skepticism had drained from Bud’s face, but he still didn’t look convinced. “Okay, he seems to acknowledge that he’s the Got the Look Rapist. But the caller’s voice is disguised. How do I know this isn’t you and Theo cooking up some scam?”

  “Didn’t you hear Jack’s voice?” said Theo. “If he was faking it, he should get an Academy Award.”

  Bud drew a deep breath, as if he were almost willing to concede that Theo had a point. “You geniuses got a plan?”

  “Does Miami habla español?” said Theo.

  “Huh?”

  “He means yes,” said Jack.

  “What is it?”

  Jack couldn’t spell out everything to a stranger, but any lender had a right to know his money wasn’t being squandered. “It’s a few simple steps. One, I continue dealing with him in a way that will convince him that I’m following his order to keep the cops out of it.”

  “You gonna arrest him yourself?”

  “No. The FBI has to be involved. But it’s my job to make him believe he’s dealing only with me. And it’s up to me to negotiate a simultaneous exchange. He gets the money when he gives me Mia. That’s the only way I can lure him out into the open to let the FBI do its job.”

  “How do you get him to agree to your simultaneous exchange?”

  “That’s where your loan comes in,” said Jack. “I have to assure him that the payoff at the end of the day is big enough to justify the risk. So far, the FBI is only willing to put up twenty thousand as bait. I need a lot more than that to lure Montalvo out into the open.”

  Bud seemed nearly sold, but not quite. “Quarter million bucks is a lot of money. Even if you just plan to use it as bait, there’s no guarantee you won’t lose it. I’m gonna need some collateral.”