Swimsuit Extended Excerpts

PROLOGUE

JUST THE FACTS

One

I know things I don’t want to know.

A true psychopathic killer is nothing like your everyday garden-variety murderer. Not like a hold-up guy who panics and unloads his gun into a hapless liquor store clerk, or a man who bursts into his stock broker’s office and blows his head off, and he’s not like a husband who strangles his wife over a real or imagined affair.

Psychopaths aren’t motivated by love or fear or rage or hatred. They don’t feel those emotions.

They don’t feel anything at all. Trust me on that one.

Gacy, Bundy, Dahmer, BTK and the other all-stars in the twisted killer league were detached, driven by sexual pleasure and the thrill of the kill. If you thought you saw remorse in Ted Bundy’s eye after he’d confessed to killing thirty young women, it was in your own mind, because what distinguishes a psychopath from all other killers is that they don’t care at all. Not about their victims’ lives. Not about their deaths.

But, psychopaths can pretend to care. They mimic human emotion to pass among us and to lure their prey. Closer and closer. And after they’ve killed, it’s on to the next new and better thrill, with no boundaries, no taboos, no holds barred.

I’ve been told that it’s “distracting” to be so consumed by appetite, and so psychopaths screw up.

Sometimes, they make a mistake.

You may remember back to the spring of 2007 when swimsuit model, Kim McDaniels was abducted from a sandy beach in Hawaii. No ransom demand was ever made. The local cops were slow, arrogant and clueless and there were no witnesses or informants who had any idea who had kidnapped that beautiful and talented young woman.

At that time, I was an ex-cop turned mystery writer, but since my last book had gone almost straight from the shipping carton to the remainder racks, I was a third-strike novelist doing the next best thing to writing pulp fiction.

I was reporting crime for the L.A. Times, which, on the upside, was how the novelist Michael Connelly got his start toward fame and success.

I was at my desk on the Friday night, twenty-four hours after Kim went missing. I was filing yet another routinely tragic story of a drive-by fatality when my editor, Daniel Aronstein, leaned into my cube, said “Catch,” and tossed me a ticket to Maui.

I was almost forty then, going numb from crime scene fatigue, still telling myself that I was perfectly positioned to hook a book idea that would turn my life around one more time. It was a lie I believed because it anchored my fraying hope for a better future.

The weird thing is, when the big idea called me out -- I never saw it coming.

Aronstein’s ticket to Hawaii gave me a much-needed hit. I sensed a five-star boondoggle; ocean-front bars and half-naked girls, and I saw myself jousting with the competition – all that, and the L.A. Times was picking up the tab.

I grabbed that airline ticket and flew off to the biggest story of my career.

Kim McDaniels’s abduction was a flash fire, a white hot tale with an unknown shelf-life. Every news outlet on the planet was already on the story when I joined the gaggle of reporters at the police cordon outside the Wailea Princess.

At first, I thought what all the journos thought, that Kim had probably been drinking, got picked up by some bad boys, that they’d raped her, silenced her, dumped her. That the “Missing Beauty” would be top o’ the news for a week, or a month, until some celebrity bigot, or the Department of Homeland Security grabbed back the front page.

But, still, I had my self-delusion to support and an expense account to justify, so I bulled my way into the black heart of a vile and compelling crime spree.

In so doing, and not by my own devising, I became part of the story, selected by a profoundly psychotic killer with a cherished self-delusion of his own.

The book you hold in your hands is the true story of a skillful, elusive, and most would say, first-rate monster who called himself, Henri Benoit. As Henri told me himself, "Jack-the-Ripper never dreamed of killing like this."

For months now, I’ve been in living in a remote location getting “Henri’s” story down. There are frequent electrical brown-outs in this place, so I’ve gotten handy with a manual typewriter.

Turns out, I didn’t need Google because what isn’t in my tapes and notes and clippings, is permanently imprinted on my brain.

“Swimsuit” is about an unprecedented pattern killer who upped the ante to new heights, an assassin like no other before or since. I’ve taken some literary license in telling his story because I can’t know what Henri or his victims were thinking in a given moment.

Don’t worry about that, not even for a second, because what Henri told me in his own words was proven out by the facts.

And the facts tell the truth.

Ant the truth will blow your mind, as it did mine.

Benjamin L. Hawkins

May, 2009



PART ONE

The Camera Loves Her


Chapter 1

Kim McDaniels was barefooted, wearing a blue-and-white striped Juicy Couture mini-dress when she was awoken by a thump against her hip, a bruising thump. She opened her eyes in the blackness, questions breaking the surface of her mind.

Where was she? What the hell was going on?

She wrestled with the blanket draped over her head, finally got her face free, realized a couple of new things. Her hands and feet were bound. And she was in some kind of cramped compartment.

Another thump jolted her and Kim yelled this time, “Hey!”

Her shout went nowhere, muffled by the confined space, the vibration of an engine. She realized she was inside the trunk of a car. But that made no freaking sense! She told herself to wake up!

But she was awake, feeling the bumps for real and so she fought, twisting her wrists against a knotted nylon rope that didn’t give. She rolled onto her back, tucking her knees to her chest, then bam! She kicked up at the lid of the trunk, not budging the lid a fraction of an inch.

She did it again, again, again, and now pain was shooting from her soles to her hips but she was still locked up and now she was hurting. Panic seized her and shook her hard.

She was caught. She was trapped. She didn’t know how this had happened or why, but she wasn’t dead and she wasn’t injured. So, she would get away.

Using her bound hands as a claw, Kim felt around the compartment for a tool box, a jack or a crowbar, but she found nothing and the air was getting thin and foul as she panted alone in the dark.

Why was she here?

Kim searched for her last memory, but her mind was sluggish, as if a blanket had been thrown over her brain, too. She could only guess that she’d been drugged. Someone had slipped her a roofie, but who? When?

“Helllllllpppp! Let me out!” she yelled, kicking out at the trunk lid, banging her head against a hard metal ridge, her eyes filling with tears, getting mad now on top of being scared out of her mind.

Through her tears, Kim saw a glowing five-inch long bar just above her. It had to be the interior trunk release lever, and she whispered, “Thank you, God.”



Chapter 2

Kim’s claw-hands trembled as she reached up, hooked her fingertips over the lever and pulled down. The bar moved -- too easily -- and it didn’t pop the lid.

She tried again, pulling repeatedly, frantically working against her certain knowledge that the release bar had been disabled, that the cable had been cut --when Kim felt the car wheels leave the asphalt. The ride smoothed out, and that made her think the car was maybe rolling over sand.

Was it going into the ocean?

Was she going to drown in this trunk?

She screamed again, a loud wordless shriek of terror that turned into a gibbering prayer, Dear God let me out of this alive and I promise you -- and when her scream ran out, she heard music coming from behind her head. It was a female vocalist, something bluesy, a song she didn’t know.

Who was driving the car? Who had done this to her? For what possible reason?

And now her mind was clearing, running back, flipping through the images of the past hours. She started to remember. She’d been up at three. Make-up at four. On the beach at five. She and Julia and Darla and Monique and that other gorgeous, but weird girl, Ayla. Gils, the photographer, had been drinking coffee with the crew, and men had been hanging around the edges of the shoot, towel boys and early morning joggers agog at the girls in the little bikinis, at the wonder of stumbling on a Sporting Life swimsuit shoot right there.

Kim pictured the moments, posing with Julia, Gils saying, “Less smile, Julia. That’s great. Beautiful, Kim, beautiful, that’s the girl. Eyes to me. That’s perfect.”

She remembered that the phone calls had come after that, during breakfast and throughout the whole day.

Ten freaking calls until she turned off her phone.

Douglas had been calling her, paging her, stalking her, driving her crazy. It was Doug!

And she thought about earlier that night, after dinner, how she’d been in the hotel bar with the art director, Del Swann, his job to oversee the shoot, be her chaperone afterwards and Del had gone to the men’s room and somehow he and Gils, both of them gay as birds, disappeared.

And she remembered that Julia was talking with a guy at the bar and she’d tried to get Julia’s attention but she wouldn’t make eye contact – so, Kim had gone for a walk on the beach …. And that was all she remembered.

Going out to the beach, her cell phone clipped to her belt in the “off” position. And now she was thinking that Doug had flipped out. Rage-aholic, that he was. Stalker that he’d become. Maybe he’d paid someone to put something into her drink.

She was getting it together now. Brain working fine.

She shouted, “Douglas? Dougie?”

And then, as though God Himself had finally heard her calling, a cell phone rang inside the trunk.


Chapter 3

Kim held her breath and listened.

A phone rang, but it wasn’t her ringtone. This was a low-pitched burr, not four bars of Weezer’s “Beverly Hills,” but, anyway, if it was like most phones, it was programmed to send calls to voice mail after three rings.

She couldn’t let that happen!

Where was the damned phone?

She fumbled with the blanket, ropes chafing her wrists. She reached down, pawed at the flooring, felt the lump under a flap of carpet near the edge, bumped it farther away with her clumsy … oh no!

The second ring ended, the third ring was starting and her frenzy was sending her heart rate out of control when she grasped the phone, a thick, old-fashioned thing, clutched it with her shaking fingers, sweat slicking her wrists.

She saw the caller ID number, but there was no name, and she didn’t recognize the number.

But, it didn’t matter who it was. Anyone would do.

Kim pushed the ‘send’ button, pressed the earpiece to her ear, called out, hoarsely, “Hello? Hello? Who’s there?”

But instead of an answer, Kim heard singing, this time Whitney Houston, “I’ll al-ways love you-ou-ou” coming from the car stereo only louder and more clearly.

He was calling her from the front seat of the car! She shouted over Whitney’s voice, “Dougie? Dougie, what the hell? Answer me.”

But he didn’t answer and Kim was quaking there in the cramped trunk, tied up like a chicken, sweating like a pig, Whitney’s voice seeming to taunt her.

“Doug! What do you think you’re doing?”

And then she knew. He was showing her what it was like to be ignored, teaching her a lesson, but he wouldn’t win. They were on an island, right? How far could they go?

So, Kim used her anger to fuel the brain that had gotten her into Columbia pre-med, thinking now about how to turn Doug around. She’d have to play him, say how sorry she was, and explain sweetly that he had to understand it wasn’t her fault. She tried it out in her mind.

See, Dougie, I’m not allowed to take calls. My contract strictly forbids me to tell anyone where we’re shooting. I could get fired. You understand, don’t you?

She’d make him see that even though they’d broken up, that even though he was crazy for what he was doing to her, criminal for God’s sake, she was still his darling.

But -- and this was her plan, once he gave her an opportunity, she’d knee him in the balls or kick in his knee caps. She knew enough judo to disable him -- as big as he was. Then, she’d run for her life. And then the cops would bury him!

“Dougie?” she yelled into the phone. “Will you please answer me? Please. This isn’t really funny.”

Suddenly the music volume went down.

Once again, she held her breath in the dark and listened over the pulse booming in her ears. And this time, a voice spoke to her, a man’s voice and it was warm, almost loving.

“Actually, Kim, it is kind of funny, and it’s kind of wonderfully romantic, too.”

Kim didn’t recognize the voice.

Because it wasn’t Doug.


Chapter 4

A new kind of fear swept through Kim like a cold fire, and she started to pass out. But, she got a grip on herself, squeezed her knees together hard, bit her hand and kept herself awake. And she replayed the voice in her head again.

“It is kind of funny and kind of wonderfully romantic, too.”

She didn’t know that voice, didn’t know it at all.

Everything she’d envisioned a moment ago, Doug’s face, his weakness for her, her year of learning how to win him over when he got out of control -- that was all gone.

Here was the new truth.

A complete stranger had tied her up and thrown her into the trunk of his car. She’d been kidnapped -- but why? Her parents weren’t rich! What was he going to do to her? How was she going to escape? She was -- but how?

Kim listened in silence before asking, “Who is this?”

The voice was mellow and calm when he spoke again.

“Sorry to be so rude, Kim. I’ll introduce myself in a minute or two. It won’t be very long now. And don’t worry. Everything’s going to be fine.”

The line went dead.

Kim blanked when the phone call cut off. It was as if her mind had been disconnected, too. Then the thoughts tumbled in. She found hope in the stranger’s reassurance. So she clung to it. He was acting – nice. He’d said, “Everything’s going to be fine.”

The car took a hard left and Kim rolled against the side of the trunk, braced her feet against the wall of the compartment. And she realized that she was still gripping the phone!

She held the key pad close to her face. She could barely read the numbers by the pale light of the faceplate, but still managed to punch in 911.

She listened to the three rings, then four and then the operator’s voice; “911. What’s your emergency?”

“My name is Kim McDaniels. I’ve been--.”

“— I didn’t get that. Please spell your name.”

Kim rolled forward as the car come to a stop. Then the driver’s side door slammed -- and she heard the key turning in the trunk lock.

Kim gripped the phone, scared that the operator’s voice would be loud enough to give her away, but more scared that if she hung up, she’d lose the GPS connection between herself and the police, her best hope of rescue.

The phone call could be traced. That was correct, wasn’t it?

“I’ve been kidnapped,” she hissed.

The key was turned, left and right, the lock not quite unlatching and in that fraction of a minute, Kim desperately revisited her plan. It was still good. Say her kidnapper wanted to have sex with her. She could survive that obviously, but she had to be smart, make him her friend, remember everything so she could tell the police.

The trunk lid lifted and moonlight spilled over her feet.

And Kim’s plan to seduce her abductor flew out of her mind. She hauled back her knees and kicked hard at the man’s thighs. He jumped back, avoiding her feet and before she could see his face, the blanket was thrown over hers, the cell phone ripped from hand.

Then -- there was the prick of a needle in her thigh.

Kim heard his voice as her head rolled back and the light faded.

“Fighting me is pointless, Kim. This isn’t about you and me. It’s a whole lot bigger than that, trust me. But, then, why should you trust me?”


Chapter 5

Kim came into consciousness.

She was lying face-up on a bed inside a glowing, yellow-painted room. Her arms were tied and anchored behind her head. Her legs, a long way away, were roped to the metal frame of a bed. A white satin sheet was tucked under her chin, draped between her legs. She couldn’t be a hundred percent sure, but she thought she was naked under the sheet.

She pulled at the rope holding her arms behind her, getting terrifying glimmers of what might happen to her next, nothing that matched the man’s promise reassuring her that “Everything will be fine.” Then she heard grunts and squeals coming from her throat, sounds she’d never made before.

She got nowhere with the ropes, so she lifted her head and as best she could, looked around the room. It seemed unreal, like a stage set.

To the right side of the bed were two closed windows, hung with gauzy curtains. There was a table beneath the windows loaded with lit candles of all heights and colors and there were native Hawaiian flowers.

Birds-of-paradise and ginger -- very masculine flowers to her eyes, sexual really, standing erect in a vase beside the bed.

Another look around and she took in cameras, two of them. Professional grade, mounted on tripods on either side of her.

She saw lights on stands and a sound boom she hadn’t noticed at first, positioned above her head.

She became aware of the roar of surf, loud, as if the waves were crashing against the walls. And there she was, pinned like a butterfly at the center of it all.

Kim took in a deep breath and screamed, “HELP MEEEEEE.”

When her scream faded a man’s voice came from behind her head. “Hey - hey. Kim. No one can hear you.”

Kim turned her head harder to the left, stretched her neck with tremendous effort, and she saw a man sitting in a chair. He was wearing earphones and he pulled them down from his head so that they were resting on his collar bones.

Her first look at the man who’d taken her.

She didn’t know him.

He had medium-length dirty-blond hair, was maybe in his late thirties. He had regular, non-distinctive features that could almost be called handsome. He was muscular, wearing form-fitting, expensive looking clothes, a gold watch she’d seen in Vanity Fair. Patek Philippe. The man in the chair looked to her like the actor who played James Bond in the latest of those movies, Daniel Craig.

He put the earphones back on and closed his eyes as he listened. He was ignoring her.

“Hey! Mister! I’m talking to you,” Kim shouted.

“You should hear this,” the man said. He named the music, told her that he knew the artist, that this was a first studio cut.

He stood, brought the headphones over to her and put one of the earpieces against her ear.

“Isn’t that great?”

Kim’s escape plan evaporated. She’d missed her big chance at seduction. She thought, whatever he wants to do, he’s going to do. But she could still beg for her life. Tell him it will be more fun if she participates – but her mind was scrambled from the injection he gave her and she felt woozy, too weak to move.

She looked into the man’s light gray eyes and he looked back as though he felt affection for her. Maybe she could use that. She said, “Listen to me. People know I’m missing. Important people. Life Incorporated. You’ve heard of them? I have a curfew. All the models do. The police are already looking for me…”

“James Blonde” said to her, “I wouldn’t worry about the police, Kim. I was very careful.” He sat beside her on the bed, placed his hand on her cheek, admiringly. Then he put on the latex gloves.

Kim noticed the color of the gloves because they were blue. He lifted something from a nail in the wall, a mask of some sort and when he put it on, his features became distorted. And very scary.

“What are you doing? What are you doing?

Kim’s screams ricocheted around the small room. The man said, “That was great. Could you do that again? Are you ready, Kim?”

He walked around to each of the cameras, checked the angle through the lenses, turned them on. The bright lights blazed.

Kim followed the blue gloves as they whisked the satin sheet away from her body. It was cool in the room, but the sweat immediately beaded up on her skin. She knew.

He was going to rape her.

“You don’t have to do this,” she said.

“I do.”

Kim started keening, a whimper that rose to a cry. She turned her face away, stared toward the closed windows, heard the nameless stranger’s belt buckle hit the floor. She began sobbing without reservation as she felt the drag of latex running over her breasts, the feeling in her groin as he opened her with his mouth, the blunt feel of him pushing his way in, her muscles tightening to stop him from entering her.

His breath was soft against her face as he spoke into her ear.

“Just go along with this, Kim. Just go along. I’m sorry, but it’s a job I’m doing for a lot of money. These people watching are big fans of yours. Try to understand.”

“I want you to die,” she said. She bit down on his wrist, drawing blood and then he hit her, slapped her hard on each of her cheeks, tears making her skin sting.

She wanted to pass out, but she was still conscious, very much under the blond stranger’s body, hearing him grunting, feeling – too much. So she did her best to block out everything but the sound of the waves and thoughts about what she would do to him when she got away.


Chapter 6

When Kim woke up -- she was sitting in a bathtub of warm water, leaning with her back against the sloping rim, hands tied under the suds.

The blond stranger was on a stool beside her, washing her with a sea sponge as naturally as though he’d bathed her many times before.

Kim’s stomach heaved and she vomited bile into the tub and the stranger stood her up in one strong swoop, saying “Alley Ooops,” and she noticed again how strong he was, and this time she heard a hint of an accent. She couldn’t place it. Maybe Russian. Or Czech. Or German. Then he pulled the bathtub plug and turned on the shower.

Kim swayed under the spray and he held her up, supported her body as she cried out and hit out at him, trying even to kick, but losing her footing. She started to go down and he caught her, again, laughing, saying, “You’re a little something special, aren’t you?”

Then he wrapped her in very plush white towels, swaddled her like a baby. When he settled her on the closed toilet seat, he held out a glass of something for her to drink.

“Take this,” he said. “It will help you. Honestly it will.”

Kim shook her head, no, said, “Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?”

“Do you want to remember this evening, Kim?”

“You’ve got to be kidding, you effing pervert.”

“This drink will help you forget. And I want you to be asleep when I take you home.”

“When are you taking me home?”

“It’s almost over,” he said.

Kim raised her hands toward him, noticing that the rope binding her wrists together was different now. It was dark blue, possibly silk, and the pattern of knots was intricate, almost beautiful. She took the glass from him and emptied it down.

Next, the stranger asked her to bend her head forward. She did and he towel-dried her hair. Then he brushed it, making tendrils and curls with his fingers, and he brought bottles and brushes out of the long drawer of the vanity surrounding the sink.

He applied make-up to her cheeks and lips and eyes with a deft hand, dabbing a little cover-up at a raw place near her left eye, wetting the brush with his tongue, blending the foundation in, saying, “I’m very good at this, don’t worry.”

He finished his work, then, he reached his arms around and under her, lifted her towel-wrapped body and carried her into the other room.

Kim’s head lolled back as he placed her on the bed. She was aware that he was dressing her but she didn’t assist him at all as he pulled a bikini bottom up her thighs. Then he tied the strap of the swimsuit top behind her back.

The suit looked to Kim a lot like the Vittadini she’d been wearing toward the end of the shoot. Red with a silver sheen. She must have mumbled “Vittadini,” because “James Blonde” said, “It’s even better. I picked this out myself when I was in St. Tropez. I got it just for you.”

“You don’t know me,” she said, the words pouring sideways out of her mouth.

“Everyone knows you, honey. Kimberly McDaniels. What a beautiful name, too.” He moved her hair to one side and knotted the swimsuit tie behind her neck, tied a bow, apologized if he’d pulled at her hair.

Kim wanted to make a remark, but she forgot what she was going to say. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t scream. She could barely keep her eyes open a little bit. She looked into the pale gray eyes that caressed her.

He said, “Stunning. You look so beautiful for your close-up.”

She tried to say, “Screw you,” but the words blended together and came out as a long tired sigh.

“Scoooooooo.”


Chapter 7

Inside a private library on the other side of the world, a man named Horst sat back in his leather-upholstered armchair and watched the large HD screen beside the fireplace.

“I like the blue hands,” he said to his friend, Jan, who was swirling his drink in a chunky glass. Horst turned up the volume with the remote.

“It’s a nice touch,” Jan agreed. “With the swimsuit, and the skin, she is American as apple pie. Are you quite sure you saved the video?”

“Of course I did. Look now,” said Horst. “Watch now how he quiets his animal.”

Kim was lying on her stomach. She was perfectly hogtied, her hands behind her back and tethered to her legs, which were bent up at the knees. Along with the red swimsuit, she was wearing shiny black patent leather shoes with five-inch high heels and slick red soles. They were top designer shoes, Christian Louboutin, the very best, and Horst had a thought they looked more like toys than shoes.

Kim was pleading with the man his audience knew as “Henri.” She was sobbing softly, “Please, please untie me. I’ll play my role. It will be even better for you and I’ll never tell anyone.”

Horst laughed, said, “That is truth. She will never tell anyone.”

Jan put down his glass, then said with edgy impatience, “Horst, please roll back the video.”

On screen, Kim sobbed again, “I’ll never tell anyone.”

“That’s good, Kim. Our secret, eh?”

Henri’s face was transformed by the plastic mask and his digitally altered voice, but his performance was strong and his audience was avid. Both men leaned forward in their chairs, watched as Henri stroked Kim, rubbed her back and murmured to her until she stopped whimpering.

And then, as she seemed to go to sleep, he straddled her body, wrapping his hand in the young woman’s long, damp yellow hair.

He lifted her head from the flat of the bed, pulling hard enough that Kim’s back arched, and the force of the pull made her cry out. Possibly she saw that he’d picked up a serrated knife with his right hand.

“Kim,” he said. “You’ll wake up soon. And if you ever remember this, it will seem like a bad dream.”

The beautiful young woman was surprisingly quiet as Henri made the first deep cut across the back of her neck. Then, as the pain caught up with her -- hauled her violently out of her stupor -- her eyelids flew open and a curdled scream erupted from her painted mouth. She wrenched her body as Henri sawed and cross-sawed through her muscles, and then the scream cut out, leaving an echo as Henri completely severed Kim’s head from her body in three long strokes.

Arterial blood spurted against the yellow-painted walls, emptied onto the satin bed sheets, ran down the arm and loins of the naked man kneeling over the dead girl.

Henri’s smile was quite visible through the plastic mask as he held Kim’s head by her hair so that it swung gently as it faced the camera. The look of pure despair was still fixed on her beautiful face.

The killer’s digitized voice was eerie and mechanical, but Horst found it extremely satisfying.

“I hope everybody’s happy,” Henri said.

The camera held on Kim’s face for another long moment and then, although the audience wanted more -- the screen went black.



PART TWO

FLY BY NIGHT

Chapter 8

A man stood at the edge of a lava-rock seawall staring out at the dark water and at the clouds turning pink as dawn stormed Maui’s eastern shore.

His name was Henri Benoit, not his real name, but the name he was using now. He was in his thirties with medium-length blondish hair, light gray eyes, stood about six feet tall in his bare feet and he was shoeless now, toes half-buried in the sand.

His white linen shirt hung loosely over his gray cotton pants, and he watched the seabirds calling out as they skimmed the waves.

Henri thought those bird calls could have been the opening notes of another flawless day in paradise. But before the day had even begun, it was down the crapper.

Henri turned away from the ocean, jammed his PDA into a trouser pocket, then, the wind at his back blowing his shirt into a kind of spinnaker, he strode up the sloping lawn to his private bungalow.

There, he swung open the screened door, crossed the lanai and the pale hardwood floors to the kitchen, poured himself a cup of Kona java. Then, out again to the lanai, where he sunk down into the chaise beside the hot tub and settled in to think.

This place, the Hana Beach Hotel, was at the top of his A-list: exclusive, comfortable, no TV or even a telephone. Surrounded by a few thousand acres of rainforest, perched on the coast of the island, the unobtrusive cluster of buildings made a perfect haven for the very rich.

Being here gave a man a chance to fully relax, to be whoever he truly was, to realize his essence as a human.

The phone call from somewhere in Eastern Europe had shot his relaxation all to hell. The conversation and been brief and essentially one way. Horst had delivered both the good and bad news in a tone of voice that attacked Henri’s sense of free agency with the finesse of a shiv through a vital organ.

Horst had told Henri that the job he had done had been well-received, but there were issues.

Had he chosen the right victim? Why was Kim McDaniels’ death the sound of one hand clapping? Where was the press? Had they really gotten all they’d paid for?

“I delivered a brilliant piece of work,” Henri had snapped. “How can you deny it?”

“Watch the attitude, Henri. We’re all friends, yes?”

Yes. Friends in a strictly commercial enterprise in which one set of amigos controlled the money. And now Horst was telling him that his buddies weren’t quite happy enough. They wanted more. More twists. More action. More clapping at the end of the movie.

“Use your imagination, Henri. Surprise us.”

They would pay more, of course, for additional contracted services and after a while, the prospect of more money softened the edges of Henri’s bad mood without touching the core of his contempt for the Peepers.

They wanted more?

So be it.

By the time his second cup of coffee was finished, he had mapped out a new plan. He dug a wireless phone out of his pocket and began making calls.


Chapter 9

That night snow fell lightly on Levon and Barbara McDaniels’ house in Cascade Township, a wooded suburb of Grand Rapids, Michigan. Inside their efficient, but cozy three bedroom brick home, the two boys slept deeply under their quilts.

Down the hall, Levon and Barbara lay back to back, soles touching across the invisible divide of their Sleep Number bed, their twenty-five year connection seemingly unbroken even in sleep.

Barbara’s night table was stacked with magazines and half-read paperbacks, folders of tests and memos, a crowd of vitamin supplements around her bottle of green tea. Don’t worry about it, Levon, and please don’t touch anything. I know where everything is.

Levon’s night stand favored his left brain to Barb’s right; his neat stack of annual reports, annotated copy of Against All Reason, a pen and notepad and a platoon of electronics; phones, laptop, weather clock all lined up four inches from the table’s edge, plugged into a power strip behind the lamp.

The snowfall had wrapped the house in a white silence and then -- a ringing phone jarred Levon awake. His heartbeat boomed and his mind reeled in instant panic. What was happening?

Again, the phone rang, and this time Levon made a grab for the land line.

He glanced at the clock, reading three-fourteen a.m. wondering who the hell would be calling at this hour -- . And then he knew. It was Kim. She was five hours behind them, figured she’d gotten that mixed up somehow.

“Kim? Honey?” Levon said into the mouthpiece.

“Kim is gone,” said the male voice in Levon’s ear.

Levon’s chest tightened and he couldn’t catch his breath. Was he having a heart attack? “Sorry? What did you say?”

Barb sat up in bed, turned on the light.

“Levon?” she said. “What is it?”

Levon held up a hand. Give me a second. “Who is this?” he asked, rubbing his chest to ease the pain.

“I only have a minute, so listen carefully. I’m calling from Hawaii. Kim’s disappeared. She’s fallen into bad hands.”

Levon’s fear filled him from scalp to toes with a cold terror. He clung to the phone, hearing the echo of the man’s voice: “Kim’s fallen into bad hands.”

It made no sense.

“I don’t get you. Is she hurt?”

No answer.

“Hello?”

“Are you listening to what I’m saying, Mr. McDaniels?”

“Yes. Who is this speaking, please?”

“I can only tell you once.”

Levon pulled at the neck of his t-shirt, trying to decide what to think. Was the man a liar, or telling the truth? He knew his name, phone number, that Kim was in Hawaii. How did he know all that?

Barb was asking him, “What’s happening? Levon, is this about Kim?”

“Kim didn’t show up at the shoot yesterday morning,” said the caller. “The magazine is keeping it quiet. Crossing their fingers. Hoping she’ll come back.”

“Have the police been called? Has someone called the police?”

“I’m hanging up now,” said the caller. “But if I were you, I’d get on the next plane to Maui. You and Barbara.”

“Wait! Please, wait. How do you know she’s missing?”

“Because I did it, sir. I saw her. I liked her. I took her. Have a nice day.”


Chapter 10

“What do you want? Tell me what you want!”

There was a click in Levon’s ear followed by a dial tone. He toggled the directory button, read “Unknown” where there should have been a caller ID.

Barb was pulling at his arm. “Levon! Tell me! What’s happened?”

Barb liked to say that she was the flame thrower in the family and that he was the fireman -- and those roles had become fixed over time. So, Levon began to tell Barb what the caller had said, strained the fear out of his voice, kept to the facts.

Barb’s face reflected the terror leaping inside his own mind like a bonfire. Her voice came through to him as if from a far distance; “Did you believe him? Did he say where she was? Did he say what happened? My God, what are we talking about?”

“All he said is she’s gone ...”

“She never goes anywhere without her cell,” Barb said, starting now to gasp for breath, her asthma kicking in.

Levon bolted out of bed, knocked things off Barb’s night table with his shaking hand, spilling pills and papers all over the carpet. He picked the inhaler out of the jumble, handed it to Barb, watched her take in a long pull.

Tears ran down her face.

He reached out his arms for her, and she went to him, cried into his chest, “Please … just call her.”

Levon snatched the phone off the blanket, punched in Kim’s number, counted out the interminable rings, two, then three, looking at the clock, doing the math. It was just after ten at night in Hawaii.

Then, Kim’s voice was in his ear.

“Kim!” he shouted.

Barb clapped her hands over her face in relief -- but Levon realized his mistake.

“It’s only a message—,“ he said to Barb, hearing Kim’s recorded voice; “Leave your name and number and I’ll call you back. Byeeee.”

“Kim, it’s Dad. Are you okay? We’d like to hear from you. Don’t worry about the time. Just call. Everybody here is fine. Love you, honey. Dad.”

Barb was crying, “Oh, my God, Oh, my God,” balling up the comforter, pressing it to her face.

“We don’t know anything, Barb,” he said. “He could be some moron with a sick sense of humor —.“

“Oh, God, Levon. Try her hotel room.”

Sitting at the edge of the bed, staring down at the nubby carpet between his feet, Levon called information. He jotted down the number, disconnected the line, then dialed the Wailea Princess in Maui.

When the operator came on, he asked for Kim McDaniels, got five distant rings in a room six thousand miles away and then a machine answered; “Please leave a message for the occupant of room 314. Or press zero for operator.”

Levon’s chest pains were back and he was short of breath. He said into the mouthpiece, “Kim, call Mom and Dad. It’s important.” He stabbed the O button, until the lilting voice of the hotel operator on the other side of the world came back on the line.

He asked the operator to ring Carol Sweeney’s room, the booker from the model agency, who’d accompanied Kim to Hawaii and was supposed to be there as her chaperone.

There was no answer in Carol’s room, either. Levon left a message; “Carol, this is Levon McDaniels, Kim’s dad. Please call when you get this. Don’t worry about the time. We’re up. Here’s my cell phone number…”

Then he got the operator, again.

“We need help,” he said. “Please connect me to the manager. This is an emergency."


Chapter 11

Levon McDaniels was square jawed, just over six feet, a muscular one hundred-sixty-five pounds. He had always been known as a straight shooter, decisive, thoughtful, a good leader, but sitting in his red boxers, holding a dinky cordless phone that didn’t connect to Kim -- he felt nauseated and powerless.

As he waited for hotel security to go to Kim’s room and report back to the manager, Levon’s imagination fired off images of his daughter, hurt, or the captive of some freaking maniac who was planning God only knew what.

Time passed, probably only a few minutes but Levon imagined himself rocketing across the Pacific Ocean, bounding up the stairs of the hotel and kicking open Kim’s door. Seeing her peacefully asleep, her phone off the hook.

“Mr. McDaniels, security is on the other line. The bed is still made up. Your daughter’s belongings look undisturbed. Would you like us to notify the police?”

“Yes. Right away. Thank you. Could you say and spell your name for me?”

Levon booked a room, then, phoned United Airlines, kept pressing zeros until he got a human voice.

Beside him, Barb’s breathing was wet, her cheeks shining with tears, her graying braid coming undone as she repeatedly pushed her fingers through it. Barb’s suffering was right out in the open and she didn’t know any other way. You always knew how she felt and where you stood with Barb.

“The more I think about it,” she said, her voice coming between jerky sobs, “the more I think it’s a lie. If he took her … he’d want money and he didn’t ask for that, Levon. So… why would he call us?”

“I just don’t know, Barb. It doesn’t make sense to me either.”

“What time is it there?”

“Ten-thirty p.m.”

“So … she’s been gone about eighteen hours?” Barb went on, drying her eyes on his t-shirt, starting to work up the best case scenario. “She probably went for a ride with some cute guy. Got a flat tire. Couldn’t get a cell phone signal, something like that. She’s probably all worked up about missing the shoot. You know how she is. She’s probably stuck somewhere and furious with herself.”

Levon had held back the truly terrifying part of the phone call. He hadn’t told Barb that the caller said she’d fallen into “bad hands.” How would that help Barb? He couldn’t bring himself to say it.

“We have to keep our heads on straight,” he said.

Barb nodded. “Absolutely. Oh, we’re going over there, Levon. But, Kim is going to be mad as bees that you told the hotel to call the police. Watch out when Kim’s mad.”

Levon smiled.

“I’ll shower after you,” Barb said.

Levon came out of the bathroom five minutes later, shaven, his damp brown hair standing up around the bald spot at the back. He tried to picture the Wailea Princess as he dressed, saw frozen postcard images of honeymooners walking the beach at sunset. He thought of never seeing Kim again and a knifing terror cut through him.

Please, God oh please, don’t let anything happen to Kim.

Barb showered quickly, dressed in a blue sweater, gray slacks, flat shoes. Her expression was wide-eyed shock, but she was past the hysteria, her excellent mind in gear.

“I packed underwear and toothbrushes and that’s all, Levon. We’ll get what we need in Maui.”

It was three forty-five in Cascade Township. Less than an hour had passed since the anonymous phone call had cracked open the night and spilled the McDaniels out into a terrifying unknown.

“You call Cissy,” Barb said. “I’ll wake the kids.”