As always, for my mom

I would like to thank, as always, my wonderful editor, Anne Sowards; thanks also to Tina, Erica, and Cam— Penguin's Charlie's Angels of kicking publishing ass; Dr. Linda James for her assistance in the medical areas; Jeff Thurman of the Federal Bureau of Investigation for his weapons advice; the unequaled art and design team of Chris McGrath and Ray Lundgren; my agent, Jennifer Jackson; Shannon and River—forever the twins; Jordana, friend and inspiration for the Nature Channel reference; Shawn and Beth, for keeping my Web site up and running; and fellow writer Mara.

I have taken great liberties with the tunnel system at Columbia University, as well as with the interior of Buell Hall. It was all in the interest of the plot, I promise you, but as a result, reality has suffered. My apologies to reality. Then again, what has reality ever done for me?

I hated kidnapping cases. Hated them with an unholy passion.

And trust me, unholy was something I knew about—hell, I wore it like a faded old T-shirt. One I'd had since birth. There were those who said I couldn't let go of that, and that it was long past time I did. But hey, if you can't bitch about your monster half, what can you bitch about?

As for kidnappings, no surprise there on how I felt about them. Several months before, someone I knew had been kidnapped—two someones, actually. Although the second taking had lasted less than an hour, the first had lasted two weeks. Despite the difference in time, they had both left their mark, physically and mentally. My shirt and jacket hid the first. I wasn't sure anything hid the second, but I gave it my best shot with caustic sarcasm, brittle bravado, and good old-fashioned denial. That was a triple threat that had done well by me for a long damn time, and I had no plans to give it up now.