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wasting good food and demanded that she finish it.
    Colleen replied that she was grateful, but she was just full.
    Now he was furious. He slapped the leather cuffs on her wrists, hung her from the beam, then set about teaching her a lesson: He whipped her until she passed out. When she came to, she was standing on the ice chest, still hanging from the ceiling.
    She felt faint, and her knees gave out from under her, but rather than take her down, Cameron pulled the ice chest out from under her again and beat her some more.
    Finally Cameron took her down. He set her back on the rack, placed the egg salad sandwiches in front of her and said, “Now do you want to finish this?”
    The last thing Colleen wanted to do was eat. Her back was on fire and she felt weak, but she was afraid of what Cameron might do if she refused, so she forced down the rest of the sandwiches. Then he snapped the head box back on, locked her again on the rack, and left.
    Thus Colleen was initiated into what would become routine: one meal a day, extreme isolation, torturous restraints, and unexpected brutality. Time was no longer defined by the hands of a clock, but by the hands that turned the keys and unclasped the locks of her confinement. She teetered between hope and dread, yearning for those hands to release her bonds, yet fearing the pain those same hands could bring. She existed in a black, grim limbo. Helpless.
    Even so, Cameron Hooker realized that keeping her chained to the rack was not the safest arrangement. True, she was secured in a cement basement with its two high windows covered and its single entrance locked, but it was just conceivable that she could alert neighbors or visitors by somehow making lots of noise. And if anyone entered, she was in plain view. No, the rack would not suffice for the long term.

CHAPTER 3
    While Colleen sweated on the rack in the Hooker’s basement, her roommate up in Oregon was growing concerned. Colleen had told Alice Walsh that she would be back in Eugene on Saturday, May 21. When Colleen failed to appear, Alice guessed that she might have continued down the length of California to visit her mother in Riverside. On Monday, May 23, Alice called Colleen’s mother to see if Colleen was there.
    Their conversation left them both worried.
    Though Alice remembered that Colleen had intended to visit Linda Smith in Westwood, she had no way to get in touch with her — Linda didn’t have a phone. On Tuesday, Alice called the Westwood police. They checked with Linda, who told them she hadn’t seen Colleen for some time, and they reported this back to Alice.
    By Wednesday Alice knew it was time to contact the Eugene Police Department. A missing person report was filled out, a description given: Stan, Colleen Jean. DOB: 12-31-56. White female. 5′6″, 135 lbs. Long, light brown hair; blue eyes; freckles. Last seen wearing gray T-shirt, blue jeans, plaid jacket, brown shoes; has sleeping bag, sweater, and purse.
    Like so many missing person bulletins, this one elicited no response. It was filed and forgotten.
    Colleen had simply vanished.
    There was no reason to assume that Colleen had been kidnapped and no evidence linked her disappearance to any particular locale between Eugene and Westwood. Cameron Hooker had left no clue that could be traced back to him.
    On the surface, life at 1140 Oak Street went on as usual.
    Janice focused her attention on the baby, trying her best to ignore what was going on literally beneath her feet. Only rarely did she venture down into the basement. She felt an unreasonable fear of Colleen, and the first time she went down to check on their captive, whom she could hear moaning and making noise, she took the shotgun with her, just to be on the safe side.
    Meanwhile, Cameron carried on with his working-day routine at the lumberyard. And no one paid much heed when he loaded some heavy particle board into his pickup. A lot of the employees took home a little lumber. While all else seemed