The vast distance of the Mackenzie Highway north of Edmonton seemed to stretch into eternity as the speedometer on Hollis Burns's Grand Cherokee brushed 85 miles per hour. There were virtually no other vehicles on the road, save for the occasional lumber truck, and it was easy to lose track of speed limits -- they seemed irrelevant in the prairie provinces of Canada.

The reality of what he was becoming -- a con man -- was sinking into Hollis's consciousness as the miles flew past and the wheatfields whizzed by on either side of the road. In fact, the guilt he felt about what he'd done was one of the things that was keeping him from falling asleep for any length of time as he drove the endless distance north.

Not eighteen months ago, his latest book was displayed in the window of Barnes & Noble on Fifth Avenue, and his series of seminars at the New York Open Center had been standing room only. But the book hadn't sold well -- the late-1980s obsession with New Age spirituality had begun to wane -- and the income he'd counted on hadn't come in. To make matters worse, he'd invested all of his liquid assets in a land-development scheme that went south, leaving him with next to nothing ... except a huge monthly mortgage on his Montana property, which had now gone unpaid for three months. Foreclosure was imminent. Bernadette DaCapo was only the second woman student -- follower, disciple, cult member, call them what you will -- that he'd "borrowed" money from. The first was a wealthy 49-year-old widow from Los Angeles who'd come to his Montana retreat six months ago. The $80,000 she'd given him after his whirlwind romancing of her -- money he called a loan but never intended to repay -- kept the wolf from the door for a while. But this time he was really broke -- he'd written bad checks, was way behind in property taxes, and was about to be hauled in by the police. His borrowing of $100,000 from Bernadette was a last-ditch, desperate act of panic, after which he'd padlocked the doors and taken off. What he was counting on was that Bernadette would be too proud to admit that she'd been taken, and would just write off the loss. In the meantime, all he could do was hide out and figure out what to do next.

On the run. But to where? The North Pole?? Faithful and patient readers will be surprised to learn of the other-worldly destination that awaits Hollis Burns. He may not have committed the perfect crime ... but he may well execute perfect getaway, if you catch our drift.

His eyes on the road ahead, Hollis mechanically reached down with his right hand to pick up the styrofoam container of coffee he'd bought at the last truck stop, a hundred miles back, as he held the steering wheel with his left. Just then, he caught sight of a flashing light in the rearview mirror. The car was just close enough so that he could see the letters R.C.M.P. on the hood, painted in reverse, so that they could be read just as he was reading them now. A siren started and the Mountie began to gain on Hollis.

"Damn," he said, under his breath.

At her desk, Sydney Chen unwrapped the cappuccino muffin with chocolate chips she'd bought at the deli downstairs and began flipping through the mail that had been placed on her desk in a rubber band.

She pulled out the weekly copy of Advertising Age, and nearly choked when she saw a four by five inch full-color photograph of Jim Hillyer. It was their worst nightmare come true -- a front page story in the industry weekly about his involvement with Meg Townsend and her disappearance.

She was three paragraphs into the article -- mentally thinking of all the agency's clients' reactions as they read it -- when the phone rang, and she nearly jumped out of her seat.

"Mr. Hillyer's office," she chirped in the fake, sing-songy way Administrative Assistants develop.

"Sydney," the voice over the crackly, static filled line said. "It's Cy Lefkowitz."

"Mr. Lefkowitz!" Sydney said with a start. "How are you? Where are you?"

"I'm calling from Hawaii, Sydney," he said. "But never mind how I am. What the hell is going on back there?"

"Well," Sydney responded, taking a deep breath and wiping the powdered sugar from her lip with a paper napkin, "Where shall I start?"

Don't cross her. Thinking of going one on one with Jane Berkowitz? Don't EVEN go there! This big-boned, no nonsense gal combines a dogged persistence, a "make my day" attitude, and a New Yawk accent that together add up to ... well, let's just call it "effective law enforcement" and leave it at that.

Detective Jane Berkowitz of the Midtown North precinct was a tough cookie, and she had hold of this Artemis Bagley/Lucien Brandt thing like a terrier with a bone ... and she wasn't letting go. The pudgy, fortysomething brunette dressed in khaki pants from The Gap and a man's flannel shirt -- her usual plainclothes uniform -- sat at her desk in the dingy precinct house on the west side, phones ringing all around her and the smell of half burned, hours old coffee filling the room. She was talking with a fellow detective, Harry Delgado, a Puerto Rican guy about five years younger than she was, who'd just made junior grade. "This is a weird one, Harry," she said, referring to the case.

"What do you mean?" Delgado asked, pulling up a folding chair that suspects being questioned usually sat on.

"They're brothers, only one changed his name, and they haven't seen each other in years. One's down and out, one's a big shot Madison Avenue executive -- they look exactly alike, but they couldn't be more different.

"You mean like on The Patty Duke Show?"

"Please, Delgado, no Nick at Nite references, okay?" Berkowitz said impatiently. "Don't go Generation X on me here."

"Sorry," Delgado said, laughing. "Just teasing."

"Seriously. This guy Artemis Bagley shows up in New York, hooks up with his long lost brother, and the next thing he's found dead in a rooming house. Strangled. It's so Alfred Hitchcock."

"My money's on the brother," said Delgado.

"You know it," Berkowitz said. "And I know it. But there's no evidence whatsoever to link him to it. Other than that he acts guilty as sin."

"Maybe he's not acting," said Delgado, raising his eyebrows.

"You got it," Berkowitz said, shaking her head and looking down at her notes.