James Patterson - Swimsuit

“We're looking for a guest named Peter Fisher,” Levon said. “He has an accent. Australian or South African maybe. ' Pee-ta Fish-a.' You have his room number?”

The clerk flipped pages of the guest book, saying, “Not everyone signs in. If they come in a gang, I only need the one signature of whoever's paying. I don't see any Peter Fleisher.”

“Fisher.”

“Either way, I don't see him. Most people eat in our dining room at dinner. Six dollars, three courses. Ask around later, and you might find your man.”

Gus looked hard at Levon, said, “I know you. You're the parents of that model got killed over on Maui.”

Levon felt his blood pressure rocket, wondered if today was the day he would be cut down by a fatal myocardial infarction. “Where'd you hear that?” he snapped.

“Whad'ya mean? It's on TV. In the newspapers.”

“She's not dead,” Levon said.

He took the keys. With Barb behind him, they climbed to the third floor, opened the door to an appalling room: two small beds, mattress springs poking at grimy sheets. The shower stall was black with mold, there were years of crud in the blinds, and the scatter rug looked damp to the touch.

The sign tacked over the sink read, “Please clean up after yourselfs. There's no maid service here.”

Barbara looked helplessly at her husband.

“We'll go downstairs for dinner in a while and talk to people. We don't have to stay here. We could go back.”

“After we find this Fisher person.”

“Of course,” Levon said. But what he was thinking was, If Fisher hadn't checked out of this hellhole. If the whole thing wasn't a hoax like Lieutenant Jackson warned him from the day they met.

Henri didn't rely on the costume, the cowboy boots or the cameras or the wraparound shades. The trappings were important, but the art of disguise was in the gestures and the voice, and then there was the X Factor. The element that truly distinguished Henri Benoit as a first-class chameleon was his talent for becoming the man he was pretending to be.

At half past six that evening, Henri strolled into the rustic dining room of the Kamehameha Hostel. He was wearing jeans, a summer-weight blue cashmere sweater, sleeves pushed up, Italian loafers, no socks, gold watch, wedding band. His hair, streaked gray, was combed straight back, and his rimless glasses framed the look of a man of sophistication and means.

He gazed around the rough-hewn room, at the rows of tables and folding chairs and at the steam table. He joined the line and took the slop that was offered before heading toward the corner where Barbara and Levon sat behind their untouched food.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked.

“We're about to leave,” Levon said, “but if you're brave enough to eat that, you're welcome to sit down.”

“What the heck do you think this is?” Henri asked, pulling out a chair next to Levon. “Animal, vegetable, or mineral?”

Levon laughed, “I was told it's beef stew, but don't take my word for it.”

Henri put out his hand, said, “Andrew Hogan. From San Francisco.”

Levon shook his hand, introduced Barb and himself, said, “We're the only ones here in the over-forty crowd. Did you know what this pit was like when you booked your room?”

“Actually, I'm not staying here. I'm looking for my daughter. Laurie just graduated from Berkeley,” he said modestly. “I told my wife that Laur's having the time of her life camping out with a bunch of other kids, but she hasn't called home in a few days. A week, actually. So Mom is having fits because of that poor model who went missing, you know, on Maui.”

Henri turned his stew over with his fork, looked up when Barbara said, “That's our daughter. Kim. The model who is missing.”

“Oh, Jesus, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I don't know what to say. How're you holding up?”

“It's been awful,” said Barb, shaking her head, eyes down. “You pray. You try to sleep. Try to keep your wits together.”

Levon said, “You're willing to chase any scrap of hope. What we're doing here, we got a call from some guy named Peter Fisher. He said he had Kim's watch and if we met him here he'd give it to us and tell us about Kim. He knew that Kim wore a Rolex. You said your name is Andrew?”

Henri nodded his head.

“Cops told us the call was probably bull, that there are nut jobs who love to screw with people's heads. Anyway, we've talked to everyone here. No one's heard of Peter Fisher. He's not registered at the fabulous Kamehameha Hilton.”

“You shouldn't stay here, either,” said the man in blue. “Listen, I rented a place about ten minutes from here, three bedrooms, two baths, and it's clean. Why don't you two stay with me tonight? Keep me company.”

Barbara said, “Nice of you to offer, Mr. Hogan, but we don't want to impose.”

“It's Andrew. And you'd be doing me a favor. You like Thai food? I found a place not far from here. What do you say? Get out of this hole, and we'll go looking for our girls in the morning.”

“Thanks, Andrew,” said Barbara. “That's a nice offer. If you let us take you out to dinner, we'll talk about it.”

Barbara woke up in the dark, feeling sheer, naked terror.

Her arms were tied behind her back and they ached. Her legs were roped together at her knees and ankles. She was crammed into a fetal position against the corner of a shallow compartment that was moving!

Was she blind? Or was it just too dark to see? Dear God, what was happening? She screamed, “Levon!”

Behind her back, something stirred.

“Barb? Baby? Are you okay?”

“Oh, honey, thank God, thank God you're here. Are you all right?”

“I'm tied up. Shit. What is this?”

“I think we're in the trunk of a car.”

“Christ! A trunk! It's Hogan. Hogan did this.”

Muffled music came through the backseat to where the couple lay trussed like hens in a crate.

Barbara said, “I'm going crazy. I don't understand any of this. What does he want?”

Levon kicked at the trunk's lid. “Hey! Let us out. Hey!” His kick didn't budge the lid, didn't make a dent. But now Barbara's eyes were growing accustomed to the dark.

“Levon, look! See that? The trunk release.”

The two turned painfully by inches, scraping cheeks and elbows against the carpeting, Barb working off her shoes, pulling at the release lever with her toes. The lever moved, but there was no resistance, no release of the lock.

“Oh, God, please,” Barbara wailed, her asthma kicking in, her voice trailing into a wheeze, then a burst of coughs.

“The cables are cut,” said Levon. “The backseat. We can kick through the backseat.”

“And then what? We're tied up!” Barb gasped.

Still they tried, the two of them kicking without full use of their legs, getting nowhere.

“It's latched, goddammit,” said Levon.

Barb was fighting to take one breath and then another, trying to stop herself from going into a full-blown gag attack. Why had Hogan taken them? Why? What was he going to do with them? What was to be gained from kidnapping them?

Levon said, “I read somewhere, you kick out the taillights and you can stick a hand out, wave until someone notices. Even if we just bust the lights, maybe a cop will pull the car over. Do it, Barb. Try.”

Barb kicked, and plastic shattered. “Now you!” she shouted.

As Levon broke through the taillight on his side of the trunk, Barbara turned so that her face was near the shards and wires.

She actually could see blacktop streaming below the tires. If the car stopped, she'd scream. They weren't helpless, not anymore. They were still alive and dammit, they would fight!