Part 3 (1/2)

Standing on the bench, he turned the valve perpendicular to the pipe. A loud hiss followed. Even louder was Abby's sigh of relief.

Not only had the heat stopped, there was actually cool air blowing in from the ceiling vent.

”There,” said Ethan. ”With any luck, we've triggered an alarm somewhere. Even if we didn't, we'll be okay. We've got plenty of water. Eventually, they'll find us.”

But the words were barely out of his mouth when they both wrinkled their noses, sniffing the air.

”What's that smell?”

”I don't know,” said Ethan. Whatever it was, there was something not right about it.

Abby coughed first, her hands desperately reaching up around her neck. Her throat was closing; she couldn't breathe.

Ethan tried to help her, but seconds later he couldn't breathe, either.

It was happening so fast. They looked at each other, eyes red and tearing, their bodies twisted in agony. It couldn't get worse than this.

But it did.

Ethan and Abby fell to their knees, gasping, when they saw a pair of eyes through the small window of the sauna door.

”Help!” Ethan barely managed, his hand outstretched. ”Please, help!”

But the eyes just kept staring. Unblinking and unfeeling. Ethan and Abby finally realized what was happening. It was a murderer-a murderer who was watching them die.

Chapter 4

IF I'VE SAID it once, I've said it a thousand times. Things aren't always as they appear.

Take the room I was sitting in, for instance. To look at the elegant furniture, plush Persian rugs, and gilt-framed artwork adorning the walls, you would have thought I'd just walked into some designer show house out in the burbs.

Definitely not some guy's office on the Lower East Side of Manhattan.

Then there was the guy sitting across from me.

If he had been any more laid-back his chair would have tipped over. He was wearing jeans, a polo s.h.i.+rt, and a pair of brown Teva sandals. In a million years you'd never have guessed he was a shrink.

Up until a week ago, I seemed pretty laid-back, too. You'd never have known that I was on the verge of tras.h.i.+ng a somewhat promising eleven-year career at the FBI. I was hiding it well. At least that's what I thought.

But my boss, Frank Walsh, thought otherwise. Of course, that's putting it mildly. Frank basically had me in a verbal headlock, screaming at me in his raspy, two-pack-a-day voice until I cried uncle. You have to see a shrink, John.

So that's why I agreed to meet with the very relaxed Dr. Adam Kline in his office disguised as a living room. He specialized in treating people suffering from ”deep emotional stress due to personal loss or trauma.”

People like me, John O'Hara.