Hollis Burns pulled the Grand Cherokee into the gravel driveway of the little cabin colony just outside the city of Calgary, Alberta. It was a pitch dark and cloudy night. He'd been driving for six hours and was exhausted. He yanked the parking brake on, swung the door open, reached into the back for the small black nylon suitcase he'd packed, and pushed the car door closed with his elbow. Looking toward what he assumed was the motel's office, he began walking across the gravel, making a pssh pssh pssh sound each time his hiking boots hit the pebbles.

Ten minutes later, after waking the desk clerk drowsing in a wooden chair in the office, Hollis was opening the door to Cabin 7. Bizarrely, it was stuffy and drafty at the same time, and smelled of pine cleaner. Hollis didn't care -- it was someplace to sleep for the night.

He untied his shoes, kicked them off, sat down on the bed, unzipped his suitcase, and took out the roadmap to the western provinces of Canada that he'd picked up at the border. Unfolding it and spreading it on the worn chenille bedspread, he had to rub his eyes to focus. It looked from the map that, if he drove straight through and really floored it, he could be in Yellowknife, Northwest Territories by the next evening. He lay back on the bed, intending only to rest his eyes a minute before getting undressed, and began to sleep the deep, uninterrupted sleep of children and innocents -- which he was neither.

Nighty-night Some people who'd done what Hollis has done would have a guilty conscience, and have trouble sleeping. But not him. Is he a gigolo? A sociopath? A con-man? A petty thief? All of the above? You be the judge, dear reader. But not yet.

In New Canaan, Connecticut the following morning at 7:30 a.m., Hillyer, Jones's Senior Copywriter Jill Campbell sat at the kitchen table with her Hitachi notebook PC and a mug a of Sleepytime herbal tea. She hadn't pulled an all-nighter since her sophomore year at Mt. Holyoke, when she did a 50 page term paper on Emily Dickinson in six hours. And got an A.

Writing junk mail copy wasn't quite so easy. And it wasn't a question of getting an A -- this was life and it was strictly Pass/Fail. And she felt as though she were failing. Like most successful copywriters at agencies, Jill Campbell had a lucrative freelance career on the side. In fact, last year was the first year she'd actually earned more money freelance than from her payroll job at Hillyer, Jones.

She'd been up since midnight revising a direct-response letter for a mail-order publisher of art books, and was just about done. Squinting at the LCD screen of her laptop, she rolled her index finger across the tracking-ball, highlighted the words "Dear Collector," hit "Delete," and replaced the letter's greeting with "Dear Lover of Beautiful Things."

It's queer, she thought to herself, but it'll work. She hit "Save," popped a diskette into the floppy drive, copied the document, ejected the disk, and sat back in her chair, her back aching. She couldn't continue to do this for much longer. She was going to have to choose between being a freelance copywriter and being on staff at Hillyer, Jones. She liked the freedom of working at home, but she also dreaded the idea of being stuck in the house all day with a 14-month old, even if she did have an au pair. Problem was, she needed the insurance benefits her job at Hillyer, Jones provided. With a husband who was an aspiring filmmaker -- i.e., zero help financially -- she couldn't afford to give that up.

"Mrs. Campbell?" the young Irish girl said, sticking her head in the kitchen. "Are you up already?"

"I never went to bed, Deirdre," Jill said. "And please don't call me Mrs. Campbell, okay? I'm just not old enough."

"Okay," Deirdre said, smiling the smile of an 18 year old to whom a woman of 32 was, in fact, old. "I'll put some coffee on; the baby will be up soon."

"No, I'll do that," Jill said, slipping the disk she'd just copied into an overnight-delivery envelope, standing up, and straightening the belt on the terrycloth robe she'd been wearing all night. "Just take this to Federal Express for me, will you?"

Deirdre glanced at the clock. She knew Federal Express wasn't open at that hour of the morning, but as she watched her exhausted and cranky employer pour Poland Spring bottled water into the Krups coffeemaker before running to catch the 8:15 to Grand Central, she knew it was hopeless to protest.

Time to wake up. And smell the cappuccino, darling. Isn't it time you faced it? This guy has done a number on you. But whatever you do, don't get cynical. What the New York advertising world DOESN'T need right now is another edgy premenopausal execu-dominatrix with a chip on her shoulder about men and a determination to take it out on her male secretary. (Does our writer sound bitter?)

Jill Campbell wasn't the only Hillyer, Jones employee who hadn't slept all night. On the upper east side of Manhattan, Bernadette DaCapo was trying to cope with the reality she still hadn't fully accepted -- that Hollis Burns had taken her for $100,000 and run off with the money. She'd tried three times now, with three separate long-distance operators, to get through to Hollis's complex in Montana. But each of the three operators had told her the same thing -- that the customer's account had been closed and the line disconnected. Hollis Burns was gone. Each of the operators, Bernadette had thought to herself, had probably assumed she was a hysterical, jilted lover. But this wasn't about emotional betrayal or being dumped. It was about money, and being STUPID! And if there was one thing Bernadette hated being, it was STUPID!

Bernadette paced back and forth on the pink wall to wall carpet in her living room, and glanced at the Emerich Meerson on her wrist: 7:45 a.m. She literally didn't know what to do. She couldn't afford to lose $100,000, god knew. But was she jumping to conclusions? Should she go to the police? Should she fly to Great Falls and try to find Hollis?

She stepped out through the French doors that led onto the terrace that wrapped around her living room, facing both south and east. The morning sun was streaming in over the East River, and if she faced south she could see it glinting off the angled roof of Citicorp Center. It was an unusually clear morning, and as she stood on the wooden decking picking some dead leaves off the petunias that spilled over the planters surrounding the terrace, Bernadette breathed deep, trying to calm herself. She knew what she had to do.

She stepped back inside and dialed the 718 area code number she knew by heart. The phone rang only once before Agnes Ramirez picked up.

"Hello?" Agnes said.

"Agnes, it's me," Bernadette said, sitting down in a floral chintz wing chair and running a hand through her hair. "You're going to kill me."