James Patterson - I, Alex Cross

Then came the handcuffs. They bit into his wrists before he knew they were there.

Handcuffs?

Next, the Hispanic intruder dragged him by the collar all the way back into the living room, where he dropped him midpoint on the rug.

Charlotte was sitting in one of the Barcelona chairs with a strip of silver tape plastered over her mouth.

A second man – were there really only two of them? – stood over her, watching Nicholson with faint interest, almost boredom, like he did this kind of thing every day.

They weren't FBI or police; that much seemed clear. And they were nothing like the two goons from last week. Their clothes were dark, and they wore black balaclavas pulled up off their faces and latex gloves on their hands.

Not exactly cops, but close. Former cops? Special Forces?

The one who had attacked him was smash nosed, with dark eyes that seemed to be looking down at an unworthy specimen more than anything.

"The disk?" was all that he said.

"Disk?" Nicholson gutted out the word between clenched teeth. "What the hell are you talking about? Who are you two?"

" Two – I like that number."

The man looked at his stainless-steel watch. "You have about two minutes."

"Two minutes or what?" Nicholson asked, but then he saw the answer to his question.

The taller one took out a clear plastic bag and pulled it down over Charlotte 's head. She struggled, but he had no trouble wrapping bands of the silver tape around her neck, sealing her head inside the plastic.

Nicholson could see Charlotte 's expression change as she realized exactly what was happening. He even felt a pinch of pity, maybe even lost love, something emotional and, well, human. For the first time in years, he felt a connection to Charlotte.

"You're insane! You can't do this!" he yelled at the man holding down his wife.

" You're the one doing this, Mr. Nicholson. You're in complete control of the situation, not us. This is all on you. For God's sake, make us stop."

"But I don't even understand what you want. Tell me what it is!"

He lunged for Charlotte, but the injured knee took him right back down, wedged embarrassingly between the couch and the coffee table.

"Please, tell me what you want! I don't understand!" Nicholson begged at the top of his lungs as convincingly as possible. It was the performance of a lifetime, and it had to be.

By the time he got himself onto the couch, Charlotte had gone still.

Her familiar blue eyes were wide open. Her head lolled against her shoulder like some marionette waiting to be picked up. It was grotesque, with the plastic bag still on, and easy to respond to.

"You bastards! You fucking bastards, you killed her! Now do you believe me? Is that what it takes?"

The two men were as cool as ever. They exchanged a glance. A couple of shrugs.

"We should go," the white guy said. The other nodded, and for a second Nicholson thought he'd pulled it off, that maybe "we" meant only the two of them. It didn't. One of them picked up Charlotte and the other dragged Nicholson.

As he was forced to hobble on his good leg toward the door – and God knew where after that – Nicholson had the strangest thought he'd had all day. He wished he had been nicer to Charlotte.

NED MAHONEY AND I were in my car, headed east on I-66 toward Alexandria, when the call came in that we were too late. Virginia State Police were reporting that they'd found Nicholson's house empty. There were signs of a break-in and a struggle, two packed suitcases left behind, both of the Nicholsons' cars still in the garage.

An APB was in effect, but without a specific vehicle to look for, it didn't carry much hope of an apprehension.

The plan was still to convene at the Nicholson house. ADIC Hamel was calling in another Evidence Response Team right away. And Mahoney phoned someone at the Hoover Building to do some fast digging on Nicholson.

He also had one of the Bureau-issue Toughbooks in the car, which let him double up on research. He started feeding me information rapid-fire, the way Ned always does when he's keyed up.

"Well, our boy's never been arrested, naturalized, federally employed, in the military – no big surprises. He doesn't have any known aliases either. And he doesn't cross-reference in any Bureau file, under Tony or Anthony Nicholson."

"I don't think he's our killer," I said.

Mahoney stopped what he was doing and gave me his attention. "Because?"

"There're too many loose ends here," I explained. "Nicholson's obviously one of them, but that's all he is, Ned. It's like that old story about the five blind men and all the elephant parts."

"Which makes Nicholson what – the asshole? "

I had to laugh. Mahoney is never without a quick response, and he's at his best when the pressure's on.

"I think someone came after the same thing we're looking for, only they got to him first. Which just means they have more puzzle pieces to work with than we do."

"Or" – Mahoney held up a finger – "he staged his own disappearance. It wouldn't be hard – drop a few suitcases, bust up some furniture, and he's halfway over the Atlantic with his little snuff film collection while we're still dusting the house for prints."

We batted possibilities around some more, until another call came in. Whatever it was got Mahoney excited – again. He punched an address into his laptop.

A few seconds later, we were following the GPS onto the Beltway toward Alexandria – but not to Nicholson's house.

"Avalon Apartments," Mahoney said. "Nicholson came up on a tenant database. Guess he missed a payment or something."

"A rental?" I said. "In the same town where he already lives?"

Mahoney nodded. "Lives with his wife, " he said, "who I'm betting is at least fifteen years older than whoever we find behind door number two. What do you say – twenty bucks?"

"No bet."

TONY NICHOLSON LEANED forward from the backseat, as far as the cuffs would allow. He could see that the lights on the second floor were on.

"We don't need to be here," he said. "She doesn't know anything. I promise you."

The one who had ruined Nicholson's leg opened the passenger door. "Who knows?" he said. "Maybe you talk in your sleep."

He got out and went to the front door. Then he used one of Nicholson's keys to let himself in.

Nicholson was thinking that he still might be able to save himself, and maybe Mara. He had a surreal image of her beautiful face trapped inside a plastic bag.

The driver was tall and blond – like him – with pale eyes and a square forehead. He looked more intelligent than the spic. Maybe he was more reasonable too.

"Listen," Nicholson said in a whisper. "I do know what you're looking for. I can help you get it, but not without some kind of exit strategy for me."

The man sat straight and still, staring out the windshield as if Nicholson hadn't spoken.

"I'm willing to make a deal, is what I'm saying."

Still nothing from the front seat.

"For the disk. Of Zeus. Do you hear me? I'll tell you where it is."

"Yeah," the blond guy finally said. "You will."

"So… why won't you make a deal? Now? Here? Why the hell not?"

The driver's fingers drummed lightly on the wheel. "Because we're going to kill you anyway. You and the girlfriend."

Nicholson felt a hollow beating in his chest, and he was finally feeling as if nothing mattered anymore. He laughed, a little desperately.

"Jesus, friend, I don't mean to tell you your job, but then why the hell would I -"

All at once, the driver turned, reached down, and squeezed the soft parts of Nicholson's mangled knee.