Black Widow df-15

by Randy Wayne White

  Beryl’s chin lifted when our eyes met. She acknowledged me with a stricken shake of the head. I got the impression that something bad had happened… a sense of emergency, and she was eager to talk. A moment later, she touched three fingers to her cheek and tapped three times, communicating something else. What?

  I touched my face in reply, but I also shrugged-I don’t understand- then winked. I’ll figure it out.

  As I filled out forms in the spa’s waiting room, I gave it some thought. Three… Why was the number significant? Beryl, Shay, Corey, and Liz had been seduced by three men. It was three days until Shay’s wedding rehearsal… The women had only three days to wire more money to the blackmailer’s account. As maid of honor, Beryl had three days before she had to return to Florida. It had been three days since I left Sanibel…

  What else?

  That’s all I could come up with.

  Shay and Beryl had already given me all the details they could about the three men. I didn’t need to be reminded we were running out of time. Beryl was smart. Why would she risk communicating something I already knew?

  She wouldn’t.

  Maybe it had something to do with a reply to the e-mail I sent from Jade Mountain. That morning, before Sir James drove Senegal and me to the Saint Lucia airport, I’d stopped at the reception office to check for replies, but the Internet was down. No way to check now.

  To hell with the rules. I had to talk to Beryl.

  27

  A door opened and a woman, mid-thirties, with corded forearms stepped into the spa’s waiting room, drying her hands on a towel. White towel, white shorts, white blouse showing a hint of cleavage. An attractive woman who would’ve been striking if it wasn’t for the frown and sterile, professional manner. Her name tag read: NORMA FMT.

  “Mr. North? Ready for your body analysis?”

  No, but I followed the woman, anyway.

  Along with the body analysis, the Orchid required new arrivals to have a sea-salt cleansing treatment, then spend two hours alternating between a sauna and a cold-water dip pool-“sweat lodge rotation,” it was called.

  As an outsider, I was considered unclean. I couldn’t argue the point. I also couldn’t talk my way out of the treatments. There could be no interacting with other guests until I’d jumped through their hoops.

  Making conversation as I followed the pretty woman down a hallway, I said, “I noticed all the rooms in this building are named for flowers. Orchids, I guess.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Is that confusing for newcomers?”

  “Everything’s confusing for Novitiates. That’s why we number the guest rooms. Keep it one-two-three simple for you people.”

  “Us people, huh? Like we’re kinda dumb. I don’t blame you. I bet you get some weirdos in here occasionally.”

  “Occasionally.”

  “Anyone ever ask what F-M-T stands for?”

  The woman’s reaction was unexpected, but it revealed how fast news traveled. “You already asked Fabron that question. You didn’t believe the man? Or are you testing me?”

  I said, “Oh… F as in female. Like in female massage therapist. I get it.” Fabron would’ve also confirmed I wasn’t very bright.

  He had told the woman more than that.

  Norma opened a door to a room that smelled of eucalyptus, steam, and body lotion. There was a massage table, wall speakers mounted flush, and a stainless table stacked with sheets and towels. “Get yourself undressed, Mr. North. You’re about to learn there’s a lot more to massage therapy than a back rub. We’re professionals. Health care-trained, like doctors.”

  Her condescending manner was consistent with the rest of the staff, but it was still irritating. What were Norma’s limits?

  “Like physicians, you mean?”

  “That’s right.”

  “No kidding? I’m surprised.”

  “Novitiates usually are.”

  I said, “It’s not because of that. It’s because I read an article-some medical journal, maybe. You can get a massage certificate in two weeks, some places. Or you can get a certificate over the Internet, watching videos. Even where it’s regulated, it only takes a little more than a month.”

  The woman knew it was true. I smiled at her reaction before adding, “How’d you like a doctor with a month of medical school try to take out your appendix?”

  She was arranging towels to show my opinion didn’t warrant attention. “If you got something against massage, mister, why come to a place like this?”

  “Because I like back rubs.”

  Norma’s eyes became slits-two dark creatures peering out. Like Fabron, she had boundaries that were seldom tested.

  “You’ve got a hostile streak in you, Mr. North. A sure sign of poison in your system. Lots of built-up toxins and free radicals.”

  I said, “That sounds unhealthy. I’ve never been a fan of radicals, particularly when they’re free.”

  “You’re one for jokes, but I know what I’m saying. Herbal tonics are the best way to flush those toxins, so why not have yourself a drink before I start?”

  There was a carafe of tea-colored liquid on the counter, iced, and garnished with a sprig of blue flowers. Looked like the same flowers I’d seen the previous night. Montbard had said the flowers were rare.

  I said, “No thanks, bottled water’s fine. I prefer to flush my toxins in private,” pushing the boundaries, but what the hell.

  The woman’s frown communicated irritation, but also suspicion. “It makes no sense. You’ve no respect for what we do-massage purifying the body-so why pay all that money to stay here?”

  I shrugged, opening a bottle of water.

  “You’re not wondering why I’m even bothering to care? I see a lot of clients in this room. Asking why they’re wasting their money isn’t something I usually do.”

  “I already told you, Norma-I enjoy back rubs.”

  Still frowning, the woman gestured toward the table. “Slip out of those clothes and lie on your stomach. I’ve got another appointment soon.”

  My list of enemies at the Orchid was growing.

  Norma was wrong. I don’t have a problem with massage. I have a problem with members of the massage industry who promote pseudo-science and quackery-for-profit.

  Some “therapists” make claims so outlandish they would be funny-if they weren’t dangerous. They claim to massage away lymphatic toxins, alter body polarity, restore positive energy, correct meridian imbalances, heal through therapeutic touch, treat disease with reflexology, calm hyperactive pets and children via manipulation or aromatherapy. It is quackery without anatomic or scientific foundation, yet it goes unchallenged even in states that claim to regulate the business. What many dismiss as goofy, new-age fun is actually an intentional con.

  There are good universities where students work their butts off studying the science of sports medicine, a respected field that includes therapeutic massage. The fact that these professionals are confused with “massage therapists” is unfair to the discipline and dangerous to the public. The frauds, of course, love it.

  I’d told Norma I’d read an article about massage. Truth was, I’d read a lot on the subject because of something unfortunate that happened to a female friend. The reading included a book on “voodoo science” by Dr. Robert L. Parker, professor of physics, University of Maryland. Dr. Parker had isolated seven red flags that signal bogus science. Many of those red flags were obvious in the Orchid’s spa literature. I’d thumbed through the stuff in the waiting room.

  The spa offered standard massage fare, along with typically murky claims for shiatsu healing, hot-stone chakra balancing, and the “reintegration” of soul and body.

  There were also flags of much brighter red.

  Aromatherapy: Essential oils balance the patient’s biological background while neutralizing toxins such as free radicals and other causes of disease…

  Lymphatic Massage: Acu-probe safely applied by experts. Causes lymph to flow, an
d improves detoxifying function of the kidneys…

  Colon Hydrotherapy: Detoxifying external and internal massage. Warm herbal water is used to gently flush the colon of intestinal stasis…

  Body/Mind Integration: Patients share innermost thoughts with their therapist during massage, particularly toxic feelings of anxiety, guilt, and negative past-life experiences…

  Sexual Energy Massage: Using an ancient technique, ching chi is released from the genitals through digital manipulation that re-channels libido and eliminates toxins created by undirected sexual energy…

  Rechanneling libido was one of the Orchid’s few legitimate claims. But rechanneling libido isn’t uncommon in the trade-a nasty little secret the massage industry tries to conceal.

  A lady friend of mine who adored massages told me about an experience at a ski resort. An expensive hotel with a spa that had a sterling reputation-according to the spa’s literature.

  My friend scheduled a massage in her room. She requested a male therapist. “Their hands are stronger,” she told me. “I’ve used the same guy in Lauderdale for years. He’s great.”

  It is true there are good, reputable massage technicians. It’s true there are fun, reputable spas that monitor the behavior of their staff. Not all promote quackery. But my friend wasn’t in Lauderdale, and the man who came into her room carrying towels and a folding table was a stranger.

  After half an hour on the table, the hotel’s “therapist” started using a technique new to her, concentrating on her inner thighs. The man’s intent was obvious, but only in hindsight-gradual sexual persuasion. My friend didn’t participate, but she didn’t protest. By the end of the hour, she was no longer fully draped, and the man’s hands had moved to what the industry refers to as “inappropriate regions of the body.”

  That’s when my friend’s husband walked in. No reason he shouldn’t. The massage had gone over the allotted time. He was paying for the room-and the massage. It was only a few seconds before they realized the husband was watching, but it was time enough for him to see what the therapist was doing, and to misinterpret his wife’s role.

  For years, the husband had believed his wife. Massage was therapy. But what he saw transformed years of trust into suspicion. Accusations, denials, and arguments led to counseling.

  When I asked why she didn’t protest, she was sincerely puzzled. “I really don’t know. I guess I was so out of it I didn’t realize… Wait. I don’t believe that. Why should I expect you to believe it?

  “Massage is… intimate. You drift off. You give your body up to the therapist. Of course I knew. I didn’t stop him because, well, it felt good, damn it! I felt safe because he was a professional. It just… happened.”

  She’s a fine person, my friend. She hadn’t done anything wrong, but she’d been conditioned to accept an intimate and dangerous environment that real professionals-physicians, chiropractors, sports-medicine specialists-wouldn’t tolerate even if it were considered ethical. An hour alone with a naked patient?

  It is a bizarre phenomenon-another reason I’d researched the subject.

  The massage industry doesn’t publish data that hurts business. Newspapers do. Cases of sexual assault and prostitution are public record. An example is the “Tibetan healer,” a massage therapist licensed in California, who was expanding his practice to other states when charged with seventeen felonies, including rape and oral copulation with an unconscious person.

  Because it’s rarely reported, there’s no accurate tally of the number of women assaulted after inviting “therapists” into their rooms. For sexual predators, it may be the safest of all covers. Juries aren’t sympathetic to women who willingly take off their clothes and invite a male to touch them. Why bother to report a crime that will never be prosecuted? It’s a sad capitulation to the dim-witted belief that women invite rape through their behavior.

  I found a confidential poll of female massage clients and gave it to my friend to read. A startling percentage responded that on at least one occasion male therapists had touched them “inappropriately.” Only a tiny percentage reported the incidents.

  “It happens,” I told my friend, echoing her own explanation.

  Instead of being relieved, though, she became furious.

  “What are you telling me? Oh… I get it! It’s wrong if a man massages a woman, but it’s perfectly okay for a woman to massage a man. Give him a hand job, a blow job-whatever! But never the opposite. I’ve been hammered enough with that goddamn double standard. I’m not going to take it any more-even from you, Doc!”

  There wasn’t much I could say. She was right.

  Sometimes life’s weird symmetry gets weirder. The same technique used to seduce my unlucky friend was now being used to entrap me.

  I was naked, faceup on the table, draped with a sheet, while Norma stroked the inside of my legs, forcing blood up the thigh into the femoral triangle and genitals.

  Spa literature was right. It is an ancient technique. The geishas of Japan study it; the massage prostitutes of Southeast Asia are masters. Squeegee strokes up the inner thigh affect even unwilling men and women for reasons that have more to do with hydrology than sexuality.

  The clitoris and penis are the same organ but for the differentia of an X chromosome, a few inches, and thousands of years of sexual taboo. Both have spongelike regions of tissue. In the penis, the tissue is called corpus cavernosum; in the clitoris, it is glans clitoridis.

  Male or female, penis or clitoris, the spongy tissue becomes engorged with blood when stimulated-or when blood is manipulated into the region. The primate brain reads the increased pressure as arousal. The body readies itself.

  But my body wasn’t reacting as Norma expected. She kept at it, though, applying more oil, cupping the inside of my thigh, using strong fingers to accelerate blood through the saphenous vein, and also to stimulate the sensitive pudendal nerve, a high-voltage link between thigh and genitals.

  A couple of times she pretended to slip and her fingers made contact- teasing what Tomlinson refers to as “Zamboni and the Hat Trick Twins.” No results.

  It wasn’t the first time in my life I didn’t respond to a woman’s touch, but it was the first time I was ever happy about it.

  Not that it was easy. Almond-scented oil… the woman’s knowing hands… sound of ocean waves rolling from the stereo… waves and the occasional caw and moan of sea birds.

  I kept my eyes closed and pretended to be unaware of what the woman’s fingers were doing. I concentrated mightily on lofty topicsshark dissections… jellyfish… befouled water filters-because I was enjoying Norma’s frustration a hell of a lot more than I would’ve enjoyed what Norma was offering.

  It helped knowing that this classic massage finesse had been used to hurt a friend. It also helped knowing that I was being filmed. Filmed… or, at the very least, watched on a monitor.

  There was a miniature camera lens mounted over the massage table, disguised as a sprinkler head. There was another built into a smoke alarm hanging on the wall at the foot of the table. Common little minicameras-amateur spy shops sell them.

  I’d located the cameras as I got undressed. The discovery wasn’t accidental. Recalling my friend’s experience had provided linkage to what should have been obvious: Shay, Beryl, and friends had been entrapped by a similar ploy using gradual sexual persuasion.

  My friend’s hotel “therapist” had done it for his own amusement. .. or maybe he’d had a hidden camera, too. But Norma was doing it because she worked for a woman who profited by luring wealthy people into this orchid-scented trap.

  A health spa with snob appeal on a tropical island-the perfect vehicle for someone like Isabelle Toussaint. I reminded myself of something else: Toussaint enjoyed humiliating her victims.

  Of course there would be cameras hidden in the treatment rooms. In the cloisters, too. I’d already confirmed there was one in my room-a mini-lens in the clock radio. Someone had searched the place, too; expected-which is why I’d stashed
my contraband gear in an overhead gallery bay outside my door.

  "You got big, thick muscles, Mr. North, you sure do. And some scars here and there, more than most. That tells me you live a man’s life.” Norma had switched to the other leg and was lathering her hands with oil. She had also switched her approach.

  “I feel bad now, being sharp with you earlier. Man like you deserves to be treated right. So you just… you just let go for Norma, and Norma will make you feel very fine. Sure you don’t want a drink of my herbal tonic?”

  I said, “No, but I’m just about ready for a beer. Hey-take it easy.”

  “Little pain’s good for the body, but I’ll be real gentle from now on.”

  Norma cupped her hands around my thigh, and began forcing the blood upward. You can’t remain sexually disinterested when someone you find attractive does what she was doing. Physically, Norma was attractive-an abundance of curves in a select few places.

  Focusing on sharks and jellyfish was a battle. There was also something oddly arousing about the stereo sounds of those ocean waves with birds crying in the background. Why?

  It was a battle I began to lose.

  “Well, well… I can see you like that. Um-huh. Yes… you like that a lot…

  “… nowwwwww you’re starting to relax. Why… yes, you are. I bet you’d find it even more relaxing if I started massaging this part right here-”

  There was a delay of a foggy few seconds before I put my hands under the sheet and stopped her.

  “Why… what’s wrong, Mr. North? You’re enjoying what I’m doing. That’s very obvious.”

  “Yeah, I am. Feels great.”

  “Then why stop me?”

  “Surprised, I guess. I’ve never had a doctor do that before.”

  “Didn’t say I was a doctor. Said I was highly trained like one.”

  “You’ve had a lot of practice, I’m convinced. But what’s the catch? You aren’t selling. You’re not the type… or are you?”