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die,” the man said, letting the door close quietly behind him.
    Red liquid was smeared on the plastic, but the contents were readily visible. Two severed fingers, one slightly larger than the other, laid side-by-side, like sardines in a tin. Traces of blue nail polish covered the nail of the smaller finger, the same shade of polish his daughter liked to wear. With shaking hands he lifted the container from the table and gently stroked the smooth plastic.
    â€œI’ll get you back,” he said quietly, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. “As God is my witness, I’ll find you and bring you safely home.”

Chapter Four
    Eugene couldn’t sleep. His mind was alive with the horror of what had happened. His wife and daughter were being held by vicious drug dealers who had once been involved with Pablo Escobar—the most dangerous man on the planet in the eighties. And Eugene knew that people who had been involved with his cousin, and had survived, were either equally as ruthless or lucky. From the steely coldness of Javier Rastano’s eyes, he didn’t think it was luck.
    His wife and daughter, gone, abducted. It was unbelievable.
    His son was safe in Caracas. He had phoned his parents and checked after Rastano and his goons had left. Why the concern? his mother had asked. No concern, Mom, but can you keep Miguel for another week or two? Julie and I are heading to Bolivia for a bit to visit some friends. Shiara is staying in Margarita. Carnival is on, and school is out anyway. She had pressed for details, but he had been tight-lipped. Finally, she had agreed to keep the boy until he and Julie returned from the mainland. He hated lying to his parents, but the alternative was to tell them the truth, and that would devastate them. His father hated that his brother’s son had been—and maybe still was—a notorious gangster, and finding out that the family connection was threatening the life of his daughter-in-law and granddaughter might kill him. No, the truth was out of the question.
    In a zombie-like mode he readied himself for bed. The outer doors had yet to be secured, and he latched them as he always did. But tonight the action seemed wasted. Everything worthy of stealing had already been spirited away. The toothpaste tasted foul and he spit in the basin, then rinsed with cool water. He splashed some on his face and neck and let it drip back into the sink and onto the tile floor in the cramped bathroom. A bottle of toilet water sat near the spigots, and he touched it, his finger gently tracing the graceful curves. Inside the glass was an aroma that seemed to have been made for Julie. Somehow the tiny bottle now embodied her; not of great culture, but irreplaceable in design. He lifted the bottle—it seemed so light—and unscrewed the cap, touching his finger to the mouth and tilting it slightly. He closed the lid and carefully set the bottle back on the vanity. Their bedroom was next to the bathroom and he moved around the bed to Julie’s side, touching his finger to her pillow. For a full minute he stood unmoving, his eyes closed, just breathing.
    He slipped under the covers and stared at the ceiling above their bed. It occurred to him that since their marriage he’d never slept without her beside him. They always talked about the day before making love or drifting off in easy sleep. The bed was strange without her and sleep wouldn’t come. Eventually he rose and dressed, then drove into Porlamar, the island’s largest city. It was after two in the morning, but he knew someone who would be awake. The streets were quiet, but not deserted. Avenue 4 de Mayo, dimly lit now that the shops were closed, was home to an occasional prostitute, and groups of various sizes and ages moved between the nightclubs that punctuated the street with music and flashing lights. Eugene cut off the main drag onto a dark side street and found a parking spot for his Vespa. He