James Patterson - The Beach House

But all the deities invoked couldn't spare Campion from being abruptly awakened by the rip of electrical tape I was about to place across her mouth.

"Good morning, Campion," I whispered. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"Okay" was all she said. She seemed strangely calm, and I realized she was probably sedated.

I let her pull on a terry-cloth robe over her silk nightshirt and grab a pair of sneakers. Then I handcuffed Campion and led her to where her husband lay struggling on the floor.

I pulled Barry to his feet and prodded the couple down the circular staircase to the ground floor.

Halfway there, I heard the sputter of the East Hampton Dairy's only milk truck.

"Your chariot," I told the Neubauers.

We left the estate, but we still had one more stop closer to town. We picked up Detective Frank Volpi.

THE MILK TRUCK MOSEYED down the glistening country lanes like a squishable, anthropomorphic vehicle in a Saturday-morning cartoon. Look, boys and girls, it's the friendly East Hampton Dairy milk truck. There behind the steering wheel is Mr. Hank, the handsome, courteous milkman.

I thought that I might get into the flow after a while, but it hadn't happened. I was feeling numb and withdrawn, and the queasiness in my stomach wouldn't go away. There was a dreamlike quality to the morning. It was hard to believe this was even happening.

Turning left at the end of Bluff Road and right onto 27, the truck drove through a still-dormant Amagansett. Past the closed restaurants and shops, and the battened-down farmers market.

Then it motored through the flat, lunar dunes of Napeaque and into Montauk. Except for a couple of fishermen eating their egg sandwiches at John's Pancake House, it was also deserted.

The engine strained against its heavy load as it climbed the hill out of town. We rattled past the library and the familiar cutoff to my house on Ditch Plains Road.

About a mile short of the lighthouse, the truck turned right. It bounced over a heavy chain that lay unlocked in the dirt between unkempt hedges.

After hopping out to secure the chain behind us, Hank continued up the long, sandy drive until we could see white-capped waves dancing in the early light.

Only after topping the crest did we catch our first glimpse of a dream house nestled in the dunes at the very edge of the cliff. It was as if Max Kleinerhunt, CEO and founder of everythingbut.com, had been determined to ensure that the sun shined on him before anyone else in North America.

Unfortunately for Max, his stock, which at one time had been selling for $189 a share, had settled in at 67¢ a share. Although he'd already sunk $22 million into his summer house, Kleinerhunt was now far more preoccupied with saving his butt than tanning it. For the past six months the only visitor was the occasional surfer or mountain biker who climbed up from the beach at sunset to catch the view from the endless balconies.

The hot real estate phrase that spring was BANANA, which stood for "build absolutely nothing anywhere near anyone." Max Kleinerhunt had succeeded in that.

Hank pushed a button on the remote control clipped to his visor. A burnished steel door rose out of the dunes, and the truck rolled into an immaculate, subterranean twelve-car garage.

Even before we pulled to a stop, Pauline came running up and hugged me through the open window of the truck. "These were the longest twelve hours of my life," she whispered.

"Me, too," I whispered back.

Behind her stood Fenton, Molly, and Marci.

MY OLDEST FRIENDS crowded around the back of the milk truck like kids around the tree on Christmas morning. I opened the creaky rear door and hopped inside. I began to remove the tape, though not from around anyone's wrists.

"How dare you treat us like this!" Campion said when I pulled the tape off her lips. "You were a guest at our house."

"And now you're our guest," I told her.

Tricia Powell was next to vent, pointing at the creases and smudges on her black velvet evening gown. She hissed, "This is Armani, you animals." Barry Neubauer remained silent after I removed his tape. I looked into his steely eyes and knew he was too busy plotting to say a word.

Frank Volpi offered up that I was "dead meat," and I found the threat convincing coming from him.

While Fenton and I helped them out of the truck, Marci opened up some beach chairs. Hank wheeled out a serving cart bearing two translucent piles: one, disposable, prewrapped syringes; the other, 100ml plastic vials.

Barry Neubauer continued to glower at me as I shared some good news and some bad news. "In a few minutes, you'll be able to go inside and make yourselves comfortable. But first, this man, who is a trained medical technician, is going to draw blood from each of you, except for Mr. Montrose. I'm not going to explain any of this, so please don't ask."

It didn't go down well.

"Anyone who touches me with a needle is going to be sued!" yelled Tom Fitzharding. I remembered the pictures of him and his wife with Peter, when my brother was sixteen or seventeen years old.

I slapped Fitzharding across the face. It made a loud noise and shut everybody up. It felt good, too. I didn't like Fitzharding and his wife, and I had good reasons.

"Once this unpleasantness has been taken care of, you can go inside," I repeated. "You can shower, change, and lie down for a nap. But whether you cooperate or not, no one is going in until this is done."

"You little snot," said Stella Fitzharding.

I leaned in close to her. "I know all about you and Peter. So shut the hell up."

"I need a shower. You can start with me," offered Tricia Powell, sitting down on one of the chairs. She wearily held out her arm.

After that, things went surprisingly smoothly. Hank and Marci carefully drew and labeled 90ml from everyone in the garage. Then the hostages were brought inside and led to the almost completed sports entertainment wing. Foam mattresses were lined up on the floor. There were bathrooms, of course. We even had coffee and rolls. And lots of organic milk. "Try to get some sleep," I advised. "It's going to be a long day."

EARLIER IN THE WEEK Marci had gone to the K-mart in Riverhead and rummaged through the discount tables looking for garments to clothe our guests. When the Neubauers and Fitzhardings, Volpi, Tricia Powell, and Montrose lined up for breakfast, they were dressed, well, modestly and inexpensively. The food and sleep had improved their spirits, but their faces were marked by confusion and anxiety. Why are we here? What now?

We had given a lot of thought to security and decided to keep it simple. Every door in the wing we were using was padlocked. A few were double-padlocked. Everyone was told they would be gagged and tied down the first time they gave us any trouble, or even made us suspicious. So far, the threat had worked. It also helped that Marci, Fenton, and Hank carried stun guns at all times.

Shortly alter breakfast Macklin arrived with a petite, gray-haired woman. The group exchanged more puzzled looks and seemed buoyed by the hope that this would be over soon.

Then, as Macklin and I huddled in the corner, Bill Montrose appealed to my grandfather's better judgment.

"Mr. Mullen, it's very good to see you," said Montrose. "I think you realize that if we're released before anyone is hurt, those involved are likely to fare much better. I can almost promise it."

"You'd know more about that than me," said Macklin as he turned his back on the lawyer.

Nevertheless, the six hostages saw some reason to be hopeful until they were led into a vast oceanfront living room, whose slate floors and redwood beams and jaw-dropping view were the focal point of the house.