Suddenly, out of nowhere, a motorcycle roared straight toward her. She staggered backward and lost her balance. Before she could fall, a pair of arms caught her.

"So early," a voice purred in her ear, "and in such a hurry?"

She fought to see, but the sun was in her eyes. A blurry glimpse of wavy hair, a wide head. . . .

She caught her breath. "What do you want?"

Weyland turned her so that she faced him, keeping a grip on her arm. "Is that the way to greet an old friend? Come and sit in my car and we will talk."

"Talk about what?" She tried to pull away. His grip tightened. Like a noose, she thought wildly. The kind that pulls tighter the more you struggle.

"Just to say hello." His voice was smooth and soft, creamy velvet. He led her to a small black car parked a little way down the street. She looked about, thinking to scream, but no one would hear her. The seemingly lifeless buildings presented solid walls and shuttered windows.

He guided her firmly into the car. She might have resisted, jabbed her elbow into his stomach, but he had muscles of steel. Now it was too late. He climbed in beside her and started the engine. The car began to move.

She tugged at the door handle. It would not open.