A heavy burden lifted from her shoulders when she entered the big bedroom and spotted her son. He was bent over a complex mass of plastic and metal in the far corner. Next to him, squatting uncomfortably on his knees, looking quite bemused, was Bruno.

  "Mommy, mommy," shouted Timmy as he spotted her, "Grandpa bought me Fortress Maximus. Look, he has three extra Transformers as bodyguards."

  Janet grinned. Leave it to her father to find the one toy that Tim really wanted. Her son had been asking for the giant robot for months. It was unavailable at any of the local stores. Transformers were hot and they disappeared the minute they hit the shelves. But such mundane considerations never stopped Leo Packard.

  "Where did you find it, Bruno?" she asked as her son excitedly pointed out the huge robot's many features.

  "Boss made a few phone calls," said Bruno. As always, his deep, scratchy voice made Janet think of a 45 RPM record being played at 33. "He called in a few favors."

  "He made some big men jump through hoops all for a little boy's toy. That sounds like father. Why did you pick up Tim at school, Bruno?"

  The chauffeur smiled up at her and shrugged his massive shoulders. "I do what your father tells me, Miss Janet. He says to get the Little Prince and bring him here, so I did it. Never meant no harm."

  "No, I'm sure you didn't." As far as Janet knew, Bruno had no family. In a house unequipped for small children, he took care of Timmy during their infrequent visits. With infinite patience and no visible temper, he made a perfect baby-sitter. "The Little Prince," Bruno called Janet's son. And he always treated the boy like royalty.

  "Is he an Autobot or Decepticon?" she asked Timmy, bending over to look at the new machine.

  "An Autobot, of course," he answered without looking up. "Remember the movie, Mom. Autobots are cars. Deceptions are always jets."

  "Of course. I just forgot. How was school today?"

  "Good."

  Janet nodded. Tim used the same term to describe nearly everything acceptable in life. "How did you do on your spelling test?"

  "Good. I got one wrong. That was an A minus."

  "How was lunch?"

  "Good. Mom, do you mind? I'm trying to concentrate and you're disturbing me."

  "Sorry. I'll go talk with your grandfather."

  "Okay." He glanced up at her for a second. "Mom, what time is it? Ghostbusters is on at four o'clock and I don't want to miss it."

  "You've got plenty of time. You can watch it in the study."

  "Is Martha gonna make me tacos for dinner?"

  "If we stay for dinner, she probably will. She knows your tastes by now."

  "I'm sleeping over," said Timmy cheerfully. "Grandpa told me. All week, he said."

  "Oh, really," said Janet, her temper rising. "You don't say."

  "Your father is waiting for you on the sun porch," said Bruno, avoiding her stare. "Maybe you should talk to him, Miss Janet."

  "Thank you for that suggestion, Bruno. I believe I shall do exactly that. Take care of Timmy."

  "Of course, miss. He's safe with me."

  Wondering exactly what the chauffeur meant by that last remark, Janet left the room. The sooner she spoke with her father, the better.

  5

  Her father rose from his chair when she entered the sun room. He was dressed casually, in a gray pullover sweater and matching slacks. The colors perfectly complemented his crew-cut gray hair and bushy eyebrows. A dynamic, forceful man, his bearing and posture made him seem inches taller than five foot eight.

  "Martha informed me when you arrived." He gestured to a wicker chair facing his. "She made you a Bloody Mary. Sit down, relax, drink."

  "You know I never drink during the afternoon," said Janet, as she settled in her chair.

  "Bad habit," said her father, sipping from his glass. She knew it contained Scotch straight up. Leo Packard never diluted his liquor. "Best real estate deals I ever landed were over a bottle."

  "That's because you got the clients so drunk they didn't know what they were signing," said Janet with a laugh. She took a small gulp of the Bloody Mary. As always, even just a taste left her feeling dizzy. "Martha still mixes them stiff."

  "Warms the blood," Leo replied. "You're staying for dinner." He offered the remark not as a question but as a statement of fact.

  "So I've been told by my son. Any particular reason?"

  "Company. You never visit. I'm a lonely old man."

  "Bull," replied Janet. "Don't look for any sympathy from me, you old fraud. At sixty-five, you're in better physical shape than I am. You probably get your kicks from rolling street punks who come begging for change."

  "Now, now," her father said, with only a trace of a smile on his lips. "Let's not exaggerate. Though I always did say that age and treachery will always triumph over youth and enthusiasm."

  Janet laughed. Her father never changed.

  Years ago, while reading a book on World War I, she came across a picture of "Black Jack" Pershing. She found the resemblance between the famous general and her father incredible. Everything matched—their hair, their expression, even the way they both sat stiffly on a couch so that their back never once touched the back cushion. Only much later did she discover her father deliberately copied Pershing's mannerisms for his own ends.

  He explained the deception to her in the most simple of terms. "Life—and business reflects life—is a constant struggle for survival. To succeed, you need to use every tool you possess along with inventing new ones along the way. The smart businessman always looks for that extra edge. If my appearance or bearing overwhelms a few clients and makes it easier for me to swing a deal, all the better. Only the strong advance. The weak fall by the wayside. You create your own success."

  At twenty, young and idealistic, she thought his words depressingly materialistic. Nine years passed. Life took its toll. She endured a brief, terrible marriage; gave birth to a son; divorced. Black and white merged into a thousand subtle shades of gray. Now, struggling to establish her presence in the cutthroat jewelry market, she considered his early advice the bedrock of her career.

  "You sent Bruno to pick up Timmy from school. Why?"

  "I told you. I felt lonely."

  With a snort of annoyance, Janet rose to her feet. "Time for us to leave. You're treating me like a child. I won't stand for that. Call me when you want to tell me the truth."

  "Enough foolishness," said her father, in the flat, neutral tone he used when angry. "Sit down. You can leave if you really want to. But Timmy stays here."

  "Leo, what is going on? What are you hiding from me?"

  "No reason to get all worked up," he said, taking a deep swallow from his glass. "You know me well enough. I prefer not to take any chances in life. Recently, your ex-husband has been seen in the company of several notorious criminals. Today, certain facts came to my attention that disturbed me. I thought it better to be cautious than sorry."

  "Roger threatening Timmy? Harm his own son? I don't believe it."

  "Think again," said Leo, again in that cold, emotionless manner that sent chills through her. "Consider . . . ransom."

  "You think he plans to kidnap Tim?" Janet asked, anger twisting inside her like a poisonous snake. "He wouldn't dare."

  "You know better. Roger would dare anything if it suited his purpose. He never worried before about the morality of his actions. I assure you that in the years since your divorce, he has not changed a bit."

  Janet shook her head. "There's a big difference between sex in public places and kidnaping."

  "Not to Roger. He is totally self-centered. Whatever furthers his ambitions is good. Anything that thwarts his plans is bad.

  "He hungers for the fame and fortune he thought marrying you would provide. He still hates you for divorcing him. Roger sees Tim as his ticket to those riches."

  "Holding his own son for ransom? That's crazy."

  Leo Packard sighed deeply. "You betray your naive faith in human nature when you say things like that, Janet. Roger is an obnoxious bastard, but he is nobody's fool."

  "The police . . ."

  "... would see it as two wealthy parents squabbling over their only child. A smart lawyer could keep the case tangled in court for years."

  "Meanwhile, Roger would have Tim. But why?"

  "I believe the word ransom came up in our conversation. Though I'm positive that term would never actually be mentioned. Pay up and get your son back. Otherwise, fight your ex-husband in court for custody."

  "No. I don't believe it," she said, her cheeks flushed with anger. "I know Roger too well. He despises lawyers. He could never work that closely with one. More important, he fears you. The power of your fortune scares him."

  "I think you underestimate his ambition."

  "Not true. Remember, I lived with that son-of-a-bitch for over a year." She paused, her thoughts speeding far ahead of the conversation. "Anyway, what do you want us to do? Timmy can't stay in hiding for the rest of his life."

  "He need only remain here till Saturday," said her father, a bit too quickly. "By then, I'll have this whole mess straightened out. I'm working on it right now. Give me till then, won't you?"

  He rushed on, not waiting for her answer. "No need to get Timmy all upset. Bruno can drive him to school each day and pick him up afterward. Let him invite some of his friends over to play if you like. There are plenty of toys in the house, and Tim enjoys staying here. Martha loves when he visits."

  "But my plans for the week . . ." said Janet, growing more suspicious of the whole story by the minute.

  "Change them. Cancel what you can't postpone." Leo's voice grew deathly calm. "I cannot guarantee Tim's safety unless he remains here, Janet."

  Leaning forward, her father stared directly at her, his dark eyes hard as stone. "I never liked Roger. He struck me as a dangerously unstable individual, not a suitable husband for my only child. When you realized the error of your ways and divorced him, I secretly rejoiced. Old enough to know when to keep my mouth shut, I did exactly that.

  "Meanwhile, I hired a team of investigators to keep close tabs on your ex-husband. An incredibly self-centered individual, Roger never adjusted to your leaving him. That denial struck at the very core of his being. Instead of trying to understand the reasons for the breakup, he shifted all of the blame on you."

  "No surprise there," said Janet. "He always found some convenient excuse for his failures. He never admitted he might be in the wrong."

  "Such individuals never accept responsibility for their own actions," said her father, pausing only for an instant to emphasize his point. "Roger hated you with an all-consuming rage. Every setback he suffered since then became linked with your departure. Resentment grew inside him like a cancer. He wanted to strike back at you, but no opportunity presented itself."

  "You seem to know quite a bit about him."

  "I pay for the best, Janet, and I get what I pay for. Over the past few years, one of my men has become close friends with Roger. He confides nearly everything to him. And thus, to me."

  Leo paused, as if gathering his thoughts. "In recent days, that agent reported a disturbing change in Roger. In the past few weeks, he stopped frequenting his usual haunts. His actions, never the most stable, became more and more erratic. And he suffered a tremendous loss of weight. It all pointed to one inescapable conclusion.

  "This morning, Roger didn't show up for work. My detective, playing the concerned friend, checked his apartment. He checked out last night, leaving no forwarding address. I dared not wait till my men found him. I acted immediately, instructing Bruno to pick Tim up after school."

  "Hold on a minute," said Janet, incredulously. "This entire paranoid scenario took place because Roger went on a diet?"

  Her father sighed again. He shook his head slowly from side to side. "My poor, innocent daughter. Roger lost twenty pounds in two weeks. Only one diet works that fast—the crack diet. Once you get hooked on the drug, you don't eat, you don't drink, you don't sleep. All you want is crack."

  For once, she was struck speechless. Her ex-husband hooked on the most addictive drug known, still hating her for leaving him years before. Seeking revenge, he plotted to kidnap the one person she loved more than life itself. It sounded too incredible to be true. But the newspapers were filled with accounts of grisly murders based on similar circumstances.

  "Now you understand why I fear for Timmy's safety," said Leo. "People smoking crack commit the most violent crimes imaginable. The 'rush' they receive from the purified cocaine is a hundred times die high from any other drug. It reacts directly with the brain, destroying their ability to think clearly. They cease to act rationally.

  "You read about the drug wars in Washington and New York. Dealers shot down their rivals in broad daylight. Madmen turn their guns on innocent bystanders. Two-bit hustlers battle with machine guns, killing anyone in their path."

  Leo's hands clenched into fists. "I dare not take the chance with Tim's life. Will you?"

  "No. Of course not."

  "Good." Leo relaxed a little, leaning back in his chair. "After dinner, you can make a quick trip home to gather some clothes for your visit. It should only last a few days. My men are working on the problem as we speak."

  6

  Lisa Ray softly hummed her favorite Aretha Franklin song as she scrubbed the last traces of dirt from the stack of tiny glass bottles floating in the kitchen sink. With a satisfied chuckle, she surveyed the hundreds of clear containers drying on the nearby counter. Every day the line of bottles grew longer. Every day her bank got fatter. And every day, she drew a little closer to her dream car.

  She still remembered the laughter of her so-called friends when, late one hot summer night last year, she told them her plans. "My ride is a pink Cadillac," she told Delores and Tasha and Neise. "I saw Aretha driving one in a music video. It got big fins and chrome and white-walled tires. That car called loud to me. If the Queen of Soul rides one, I want it, too."

  To the others, it was all a big joke. They all knew she worshiped Aretha and taunted her unmercifully about her own lack of talent. Now the three of them had something new to tease her about.

  "Where you gonna get that big money?" Tasha wanted to know. "Only flashy whores or soul sisters make that change. We all know you ain't got the voice." Then Tasha laughed that deep down dirty laugh of hers. "And you sure can't sell that stick-pole body of yours for nothin'."

  "You should know all 'bout selling for cheap," Lisa had shot back, her eyes filling with tears. "You hump anybody that got five bucks and a zipper."

  "Who you callin' a cheap ho'," said Tasha angrily. She swung a fist wildly at Lisa, catching her with a glancing blow to the forehead.

  "Yeah," said Neise, giggling, "Tasha ain't no cheap lay. She charges ten bucks, not five. She's high-class."

  The conversation had degenerated from there, but Lisa learned her lesson. She never again mentioned her secret dream to anyone else. Instead, she stored the image of the shiny new car with big fins deep within herself, waiting for the time and opportunity to make it all come true.

  Now, bending over a sink full of steaming hot soapy water, she was making her dream reality. She worked hard but the money was good and the risks minimal.

  Deciding to take a short break, Lisa pulled the plug from the drain and let the soapy water empty out of the sink. Turning on the cold tap for an instant, she rinsed her calloused fingers under the freezing water. This constant washing painfully dried out the skin of her hands. The flesh was thin as paper, splitting into a network of fine red lines around her knuckles and joints. Skin cream provided no relief. Only ice water lessened the burning sensation. Still, she considered the minor pain a small price to pay for the money she was earning.

  Lisa glanced around the small kitchen. A long narrow box of a room, it was five feet wide and twelve feet long. An open doorway, covered by a curtain of glass beads running from floor to ceiling, bisected the inner wall and led to the living room. Almost directly opposite that passage was a heavy wood door that opened outdoors onto a rickety old wooden stairway that doubled as a fire escape. A heavy steel chain and three sturdy dead bolt locks, each spaced a foot apart from the next, held the door closed in an unbreakable grip.

  The keys for the locks hung on a wood bar off to the side of the door. The back entrance provided an emergency exit only for the most extreme disasters. Oliver worried more about someone breaking in than their ever needing to get out.

  The refrigerator was a relic from the fifties, with an icebox the size of a toaster. The oven didn't work, but that didn't matter. One burner still functioned on the stove and that was all they needed. They rarely ate anything other than canned food or boxed cereal. Oliver mistrusted frozen foods and refused to eat anything fresh. He was a little bit crazy, Lisa knew. But he was her man and she could put up with his weird ideas. Unlike Neise's lover, he never beat her. And he shared with her the money they earned working like slaves, keeping alive her dream.

  The place was a dump, she concluded for the hundredth time, but it was home. At least, for now, until they made enough money to blow this town. She and Oliver had lived and worked in this rat-hole for the past five months. Twenty-three weeks of sixteen-hour days making crack for the Children of Danballah.

  She did most of the busy work—cleaning the tubes, buying the supplies, measuring out the rock into each container. Oliver functioned as the brains of the operation. He handled the actual manufacturing, wielding a portable blowtorch with the experienced hand of a prison school graduate.

  "You got them vials ready yet?" Oliver called from the front room. "Them Hernandez Brothers done be here soon and they ain't the patient sort."

  "Sure, sure," said Lisa, gathering up the glass vials in a breadbasket lined with cloth napkins stolen from uptown restaurants.

  They prided themselves in the purity of their crack. Nobody made better rock. No impurities tainted their product. It was pure coke in hard rock form, stored in clean glass containers kept airtight with oversize rubber caps. Nobody died from their crack, Lisa told herself every time she heard about another drug death on the street. No one died from good crack.