Still furious that Julian had to give a lecture in Los Angeles, Nicole sat quietly in her living room sipping her third glass of crisp La Crema Chardonnay. Not normally a drinker, tonight she wished to numb her brain. Isabel and Lorena occupied themselves playing the Wii in the family room.

When the telephone rang, she guessed it was Julian. Before picking up the cordless, Nicole glanced at the Caller ID and it indicated “Private Number.” Thinking it was likely a telemarketer, she let the answering machine pick up, but listened carefully.

“This is Ted Hastings calling for Julian—”

Nicole snatched the telephone. “Hello.”

“Sorry to bother you, but I’d like to speak with Julian, please.”

“Is this Doctor Ted Hastings?”

“Why yes, it is.”

“I’m Nicole, Julian’s wife. We haven’t met but my husband’s mentioned your name.”

“Nice to talk to you, Nicole.”

“I’m a little confused. Why would you be calling for Julian when he’s giving a lecture for you in LA?”

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t you have the flu?”

“Um, well, I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Weren’t you supposed to be giving a lecture in LA?”

“Sorry, but I’m not following you.”

The blood rushed to her face. “Maybe I’m confused.” She had to enlist every ounce of willpower not to bounce the cordless off the far wall. “Julian will be back tomorrow. I’ll tell him to call you. Unless you’d like his cell phone number.”

“Nothing urgent. I just wanted to speak to him about the upcoming golf tournament.”

“Have a good night, Doctor Hastings.”

“You as well, Nicole.”

“Where can Julian reach you?”

“He has my number.”

And I have his.

Julian walked into Cutty’s Bar & Grill, located in North Park, an eclectic neighborhood in San Diego, and as he’d done before, he made himself comfortable at the bar. He didn’t expect that any of his colleagues patronized this place, unless, of course, they were living a double life like him. So, for the most part, he felt reasonably comfortable. Gazing at the crowd, he could see that men outnumbered women two-to-one. His goal tonight was to search for another young woman, so the selection was limited.

What troubled him most was that by researching only one subject at a time, he hadn’t figured out how he could possibly gather the data he needed in only six months. And when he added his limited availability to the equation because of his fulltime job and obligation to his wife and daughters, these responsibilities carved out a big chunk of time. There had to be a way for him to study multiple subjects. But how?

Julian swiveled on the barstool to get a better look at the crowd. No one of particular interest caught his eye. Then, a tall redhead walked in the front door, swinging her hips like a model walking a runway. Her curly hair grazed her shoulders and bounced in harmony with her stride. Her lips, full and glossy, pouted ever so slightly. She waved and smiled at someone as she headed for the bar. His expectations crashed when he watched her embrace a man and kiss him on the lips. Of one thing he was certain: the guy wasn’t her brother or best friend.

Julian’s first thought was to forget about the redhead and search for someone else. But then he wondered if he could benefit from the situation. Was there a way for the redhead and her boyfriend to become his next subjects? He had no plan. He couldn’t imagine that they would voluntarily go back to his loft. But his instincts told him to take the next step to see how things unfolded. What could it hurt?

With each of his subjects, Julian faced the same major obstacle. How could he know for sure that a potential subject’s heart was healthy? The only factors he could rely on were their approximate age and physical appearance—both based on his visual evaluation. If potential subjects were young and slender, he had to presume that they were relatively healthy. But even if they weren’t ideal subjects, no matter what their health situation, every heart in every chest offered potential for data.

As much as he hated to admit it, good-looking women got his attention. The risk with this mindset was that he tempted fate by selecting women to whom he felt attracted. With Genevieve, he almost compromised his research by letting his lustful desires overpower him. Was it possible to satisfy both his research and his appetite for raw sex?

As inconspicuously as possible, he watched the redhead’s boyfriend downing bottles of beer as if he were chugging shot glasses of tequila. Soon, the guy would likely be stumbling drunk. Irrational. Disoriented. Defenseless. Julian guessed that eventually he’d have to empty his bladder.

Could be risky, he thought, but maybe there was a way for him to study two subjects at the same time. Maybe Lady Luck had dealt him a straight flush.

He waited as patiently as he could, nursing the last mouthful of his cocktail, a scenario playing out in his mind.

“Another drink, sir?” the bartender said, interrupting Julian’s deep thoughts.

Normally, he’d enjoy a second drink. But in a low-end pub like this, the best Scotch they offered was Dewar’s White Label, and Julian’s palate had grown accustomed to the silkiness of Johnny Walker Blue. Besides, he had drunk just enough to relax. The last thing he wanted was to compromise his alertness. “No thanks. I’m good.”

Glancing to his left every so often, keeping an eye on “Beer-Man,” Julian saw him ease off a barstool and hightail it in the direction of the men’s room. Not wanting to squander even a minute, yet having no idea how to proceed, he sucked in a heavy breath and headed toward the redhead.

“Anyone sitting here?” Julian asked her, smiling as innocently as he could.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, someone is sitting there—my fiancé.”

He found her tone particularly annoying. But she was as sexy as they come. “He’d have to be out of his mind to leave a looker like you alone.”

“A ‘looker’?” she said. “You’re shitting me, right? That expression went out with high-fives. What century are you living in?”

Julian forced a laugh. She’s a feisty one. “If I had a woman like you, I’d never leave her side.”

“Not even if you had to piss?”

“I guess that’s the only exception.”

“Then I suppose you’ll forgive my fiancé for emptying his bladder.”

“Can I buy you a drink?” Julian asked.

“Obviously, you can’t take a hint, can you?” the words flowed off her tongue with bold contempt.

He didn’t like the way things were going. He almost turned and walked away.

“I’m not trying to offend you, and I’m not proposing. I was just asking you to have a drink with me. Totally innocent.”

“And when my fiancé finishes business in the bathroom, are you going to explain why I’m having a drink with a stranger?”

Before he could respond, the fiancé returned, a little stagger in his walk. He eyeballed Julian, then put his arm around the redhead. He looked like a guy who could be leader of a biker gang. “This guy a friend of yours, Sugar?”

“He’s trying to be.”

“Is that right, Bud?”

“No harm done. Just being cordial.”

“How about being cordial someplace else. Or would you rather I tear your fucking tonsils out?”

Julian raised his hands, palms out, as if he were about to push a heavy object. “No need to get all hostile on me. I get the message.”

More humiliated than he’d ever believed possible, infuriated at Beer-Man’s threat, Julian worked his way to the front door for some cool evening air. Once outside, he paced up and down University Avenue angry with himself and angry with Redhead and Beer-Man. He had wasted valuable time and would have to go someplace else looking for a subject.

As he stood there, feeling a fever rise, it felt almost as if the couple had flipped a switch in him, that suddenly the whole A-Fib research project didn’t matter. He could never recall feeling so much anger. The more he paced, the greater his rage. Having a woman reject him was uncharted water for him. He never knew what it felt like to crash and burn. Overwhelmed with a strong primitive impulse, a desire for revenge, he could not find the strength to just walk away.

What am I doing? Get in the car, drive to another bar, and search for someone else! Forget about this couple. Let. It. Go. The only thing that matters is the research.

Julian found his way to his rental car parked at the curb only a hundred feet away from Cutty’s. When he got inside, he slammed the door harder than he intended to. What to do, he thought. Maybe there was a way for him to salvage the evening. He grabbed the leather satchel from the back seat, turned on the reading light, and pawed through an assortment of medical items. When he found what he was looking for, he grabbed the remote garage door opener clipped to the visor, got out of the car, crossed the busy road, and parked himself in front of a closed boutique, making certain he had a clear view of Cutty’s entrance.

I think I’m losing my grip.

About to abort his idea altogether, Julian spotted Beer-Man and Redhead walking out the front door of the bar. What were the chances, he thought. Maybe it’s an omen. The man, teetering slightly from left to right, appeared to be intoxicated.

Walking a safe distance behind the couple, Julian followed them. He hoped that they’d parked their car on a side street with less traffic and fewer inquisitive onlookers. At the next intersection, the couple turned left into a dark alley.

Julian picked up the pace a bit and closed the gap, mindful to remain in the shadows of the buildings he passed. What he was about to do violated everything he believed about right and wrong. To stay focused, he had to whisper his credo.

The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.

He watched the couple approach a black GMC Envoy. Beer-Man, apparently sober enough to remember the basics of chivalry, unlocked the passenger door for his fiancée. The moment before Redhead entered the car, Julian, unnoticed by either of them, snuck up behind Redhead, firmly grabbed her around the torso with one arm, and with the other, he pressed his Berretta .380 automatic handgun against Redhead’s temple. Neither she nor Beer-Man realized that the pistol was empty. But Julian seriously doubted they would call his bluff.

“Remember me, Sweetheart?” Julian said, his face pressed against her curly red hair.

“What the fuck!” Beer-Man yelled.

“You’re driving, shithead. Get in.” Julian ordered. “Try anything heroic and your girlfriend’s brains are going to decorate the inside of your shiny new SUV.”

“Please, man,” Beer-Man pleaded, “don’t hurt her.”

“That’s entirely up to you. Now get in the fucking car and drive.”

Julian forced Redhead into the back seat and sat next to her. Still holding the gun against her temple, he barked directions to Beer-Man. During the short ride to his loft, he kept a close eye on Beer-Man, talking to him constantly, making sure he didn’t speed or drive erratically. Neither Redhead nor Beer-Man said a word.

With his body pressed firmly against her, his arm wrapped around her waist, and his face nestled in her curly red hair, Julian caught a whiff of Redhead’s coconut shampoo. He adjusted his hand and could feel it brush against her breast. Her denim mini-skirt left little to his imagination. The last thing Julian needed was a distraction. But his thoughts moved toward tantalizing possibilities.

Julian felt as though he were dreaming, unable to fathom what was going on. Some force had taken hold of him and he was incapable of breaking free. The more he thought about what he’d just done, the more excited he became. But his excitement quickly turned to paranoia. Suppose someone had seen this abduction? What if they’d called the police? His entire life, all the hard work, all the hours of sweat and blood, could be gone in a blink of an eye. And what about his family? How would they feel when his photo was plastered all over the front page of the newspaper? He could see the headlines now:

“Esteemed Cardiologist Arrested for Kidnapping.”

How would his family survive the humiliation? At this juncture, the situation was beyond the point of no return. His only option was to move forward and turn this madness into something productive. After all, he had hoped to find a way to experiment on two subjects simultaneously. So, he had to clear his mind of these troubling thoughts and focus on his objective.

Still pressing the gun against Redhead’s temple, he released his grip on her long enough to reach in his jacket pocket and push the garage door remote. The steel gate swung open and Julian told Beer-Man where to park.

Having only a one-bedroom loft, Julian sat Redhead on a wooden chair next to the bed, and pointed the gun at Beer-Man. He motioned with the .380. “Lie on the bed, face down.” He swung the gun toward Redhead. “And don’t you even think about moving.”

Beer-Man did as he was told, and Redhead sat frozen.

Julian opened the drawer on the cart holding the surgical instruments and grabbed a handful of nylon straps.

“Get over here,” he yelled at Redhead.

Once there, Julian tapped his gun on Beer-Man’s shoulder. “Roll over.”

He handed four nylon straps to Redhead. “I want you to secure this asshole’s wrists and ankles to the bed. And make them tight.”

When Redhead was finished, Julian checked to be sure the straps were secure.

“Back on the chair,” he ordered.

Once Redhead sat down, Julian bound her ankles to the legs of the chair and secured her hands behind her back.

From the moment they’d set foot in the loft apartment, the cocky-confidant woman who’d insulted Julian with her wiseass attitude was reduced to a sobbing little girl who’d just lost her Barbie doll. “Why are you doing this? Please let us go.”

Julian found no logical reason to explain. Not yet.

“Are you some kind of fucking pervert, or what?” Beer-Man shouted, the fight in him still very much alive.

Ignoring him completely, Julian went into the storage closet and returned pushing a heart monitor. He wheeled it next to the cart with an assortment of surgical instruments and related items. He picked up an instrument looking like fancy pliers and held them up as if examining them.

“What the fuck is all that shit?” Beer-Man shouted.

“What was that you were saying about tearing out my tonsils?”