Now she stood there, searching for Mark, some sign of his beloved presence, or something of his injury.

Nothing.

Spinning on her heel, she faced Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones coming through the door. While Sam Quaid turned the key in the door lock, Billy Canning walked toward her, smiling.

"Where's Mark?" DesirЋe asked. "I don't see him here."

Billy smiled. He was not bad looking. He had never suffered the acne that had scarred his older brother Johnny's face, and his proximity to and use of drugs had not yet wasted his younger body.

DesirЋe saw his transparent smirk and remembered something of his face out of the nebulous dreams that plagued her sleep at night.

"Just what is this?" she said suspiciously. "Please. Tell me, where is Mark?"

Billy stopped, removing his jacket and loosening his tie while Mr. Smith, Sam Quaid, stood behind him quietly. She forgot, now which was Smith and which was Jones? And it occurred to her that the two names were aliases and that something was seriously wrong. Her voice trembled as she asked meekly, "Please, what's going on? Where's my husband?"

Tossing his jacket and tie on the settee, Billy hooked his thumbs into his belt. "I'm not sure where he is, but he's probably where he's supposed to be. It's you who're in the wrong place."

"I want to go home," she said lamely. "If Mark isn't here, I've nothing to do here."

Billy smiled. "Oh, but you do, I'm afraid." His hand dipped into his pocket and came out with a huge – to her – revolver.

DesirЋe felt her knees going weak, felt a trickle of urine, which she quickly stopped by tightening the exercise-strengthened muscles between her legs. "What-what do you want with me?"