Despite Zuria's objections, I convince him to drop me off at the airport. It is not lost on me that I have no money, no passport, not even a change of clothes. I need the time to figure out what the hell I'm going to do.

As I get out of his battered Citroen, Zuria reaches into the backseat and hands me a jacket.

My leather jacket.

"The young one left this for you," he says.

I take it. Wonder when Lance had time to think of a jacket? Was it before he drugged me or when he was stripping me naked for Underwood and his band of loonies?

Zuria's reluctance to go manifests itself in a drumming of fingertips on the steering wheel and an expression of sadness that borders on tearful. I finally have to turn away before he puts the car in gear.

"Come back to us soon, Goddess," he says.

Yeah. Don't hold your breath. I walk toward the terminal and, finally, hear the clutch engage as the car roars off. The trailing noxious plume of burning motor oil tickles my nose and burns my eyes.

I shrug into the jacket, almost regretting it as soon as it settles over my shoulders. Lance's smell wafts up. He must have worn it. The urge to take it off and throw it away is powerful, but damn it, I like this jacket. I'll have it fumigated as soon as I get back home.

The building I'm facing is low-slung and utilitarian. Quiet. I can't see anyone moving around inside. It's not big as far as international airports go. There is a small grassy park in front of the terminal and I lower myself to sit cross-legged on the grass while I review my options.

The obvious first option would be to call my folks.

The drawbacks to that are just as obvious. How do I explain being in France with no money, no passport and no notice?

Shit.

If there's an American consulate somewhere in the vicinity, they may be able to help with money and an emergency visa so I can get out of here.

But I'll need a story. What story can I use? That I was mugged?

That could explain no wallet and no passport. But what about when they ask me where I've been staying? And if I notified the police?

Lance. This is all your fault.

What the hell were you thinking?

How did you get away? If the airport was closed, did you have a car stashed nearby?

For a moment, I'm awash in depression. Drowning in a pool of sorrow, a sense of loss.

The moment passes quickly. Anger swallows it up.

No time for angst.

In frustration, I shove my hands in the pockets of the jacket.

Freeze as my fingers close around-

From the right pocket, I pull my watch.

From the left, an envelope.

I slip the Rolex on my wrist, fasten it before looking at the envelope.

Lance's handwriting.

To Anna.

I don't want to feel what washes over me. Regret. Sadness. I want to feel only anger. The man who claimed he loved me delivered me to Underwood, then watched while he violated me. What excuse could he offer that would allow me to forgive such treachery?

Something shifts in the envelope. Curiosity makes me tear it open. I withdraw two folded sheets. When I open them, a small key falls to the grass. For the moment, I ignore the key, eyes drawn reluctantly to the familiar script.

Dear Anna,

If you're reading this, something has gone wrong. Julian will be dead. If I'm not, I know it's just a matter of time before I will be. Betrayal is the one thing you can never forgive. The only thing I offer in my defense is that Julian said you wouldn't be hurt. The ceremony was to open the door. Your role was to be the conduit through which Julian gained his power. It would need to be done only once. You were drugged so you wouldn't remember. After, you and I would be free to live our lives. Together. Empty words. Lance Turner is no more. My affairs have been put in order. By the time you read this, my lawyers will have informed Adele of my death abroad. She will assume the property in Palm Springs. I ask only that you leave her in peace. She doesn't know anything about what happened. The Malibu property is yours to do with as you wish. As for me, if you must come after me, I understand. You feel betrayed. You are so strong. It's hard for you to understand that not all of us are. I have always been weak. I thought after what Julian did to me, you would see the weakness and our relationship would change. That you would no longer look at me as a lover. That you would ask what kind of man lets himself get whipped like a slave. Julian did it as punishment because I told him I wouldn't go through with his plan. He did it because he could and because I let him. He did it because he thought you would leave me. I should have ended our relationship myself. I didn't have the guts to do even that. When you didn't leave, I started to believe what Julian had been telling me since the day we met. That you and I were destined to be together once the prophecy was fulfilled. One night in exchange for a lifetime. It's when I stopped fighting. It's when I agreed to help. More empty words, but I wanted you to know. I did love you, Anna. I always will.

Lance

My hand crushes the letter into a ball.

Love. My only consolation is that I never told the bastard that I loved him. A small, meaningless triumph but a satisfying one nonetheless.

I look around for the key that fell from the envelope when I withdrew the letter and pluck it from the grass. It's a slender, brass key with a numbers printed on the head.

A locker key.

For the first time since I awakened in the cave, I feel a glimmer of hope. If this is what I think it is, Lance may have earned himself a quick death instead of a long, painful one.

* * * *

At four thirty people start filtering into the airport. Uniformed pilots and flight attendants and security people, and then the less obvious cadre of reservationists and gate attendants and janitors in one-piece jumpsuits. At five thirty, promptly, the doors are opened to a small group of customers who, like me, are waiting to be on their way.

In my halting French, I ask one of the security guards where I can find the casiers. He points down a hall at the end of the ticket counter.

The number on the key is 118. When I find the locker, insert the key and see what's inside, a thrill of relief washes over me.

Wallet. Credit cards. Passport.

Another note.

We left your plane at the borne privee. Proceed through the VIP lounge and inquire at the concierge desk. They will put you in touch with a pilot.

Another grievance to add to the list. The bastard used my own plane to transport me here. What did they tell security when they manhandled me off? That I was incapacitated by what? Illness? Did they say I was infectious to avoid close scrutiny?

No matter now. I find the VIP lounge and enlist the help of a trim, sophisticated young woman who speaks perfect English. She assures me that she will have no trouble making the necessary arrangements to secure a crew and have my plane readied for the trip home. She hands me a manifest to look over and sign.

The cost is staggering. I could have flown round trip commercially a dozen times in first class for far less. When I prepare to offer a credit card, however, she waves it aside.

"No, no, mademoiselle. Monsieur Turner took care of it. He paid in advance. I'm afraid it will take several hours, however, before all is ready. You are welcome to stay here. Food and drink are available in the bar. Spa facilities are through the door in back. You may shower and change if you wish."

I nod my thanks and turn away. A shower sounds good. You have no idea how dirty you can feel until a demon in a man suit rubs himself all over you.

I noticed a few shops on my way to the VIP lounge so I head there now. Like the airport in San Diego there aren't any clothing stores. No designer boutiques. Not even the equivalent of a Gap. I end up buying a little tangerine-colored beach cover-up that will have to do as a dress and a pair of sandals at a surf shop called Quiksilver.

Not exactly my style. When I hold it up, the dress hits mid-thigh .

At least it's clean.

* * * *

It takes a little over three hours before I'm finally allowed to board. The pilot and copilot are American.

"Good to see you looking so well," the pilot says to me, extending a hand. "Mr. Turner said he was bringing you here to recuperate from an illness. Obviously, you have."

He's young, early thirties, oily-his hair, his obsequious smile, his voice.

I smile back, though it feels more like a grimace. The lie is hard to swallow. What I want to do is beat my chest and ask how he could have been so stupid. Did I look like I was ill? Or did I look like I was drugged and being kidnapped?

Maybe that's not fair. Maybe he couldn't have known. Somehow, though, I think it more likely the money he was paid for the charter smoothed away any misgivings he may have harbored about the way I was brought on board.

He leaves for the cockpit. The copilot takes care of the door. He's a little older, forty maybe, and when he's through latching and securing, he joins me in the main cabin.

"Flying time is thirteen hours, Ms. Strong. We will put down once in Bangor, Maine, to refuel. We should be on the ground in San Diego about one o'clock, Pacific daylight time."

He doesn't smile. He doesn't display any of the sycophantic toadying of his coworker. He doesn't even look particularly happy to be here.

I like him.

* * * *

I'm asleep before the plane gains cruising altitude. One moment I'm gazing out at the Basque countryside as we rocket down the runway.

The next, I'm not.

I WAKE UP TO THE WHIR AND PNEUMATIC CLICK OF the landing gear engaging. I stretch and yawn and check my watch. This must be the refueling stop.

The telephone on the console beside my seat buzzes. When I pick it up, the copilot's voice tells me I have a call. He disconnects and a familiar voice booms in my ear.

"My god, Anna. Where have you been?"

"Nice to hear your voice, too, Frey. What's the matter?"

"Everything. Williams' wife went crazy at Culebra's and killed a host. David is missing. Your new partner Tracey has been calling all over the place trying to locate you. She got halfway through the Fs before she found my number in your office Rolodex. I wouldn't have known to try the plane if Lance hadn't called. Where are you?"

His words are disjointed and rambling, launched at me through the phone with the speed of light in a burst of pent-up emotion that renders them almost incomprehensible.

Almost.

It takes me only a second to sort through the tirade and zero in on the one salient point in his rant.

"What do you mean David is missing?"