The Stolen

by T. S. Learner

‘I scared you, Liliane, and I apologise – I just thought you felt the same way.’ Destin forced himself to sound like some love-struck teenager, again trying to make good the snare.

  ‘Maybe everything’s moving too fast. You – you’re so different from all the other men I’ve known,’ she answered carefully.

  Different? You have no idea, he thought, aroused by her defencelessness, her naivety. ‘So we can still be friends?’ he asked, his relaxed smile as precise as a mask.

  ‘Maybe,’ she inched closer to the front door, ‘but now can you let me out, please?’

  ‘You really want to go?’ A foot away and he could smell her fear. Again he found himself battling the eroticism of a potential kill.

  ‘Please, unbolt the door. And I’m going to get a taxi.’ It was more of a plea than a command, and he could tell she was close to hysteria.

  He stepped closer to watch her flinch then try and hide it. In another world, at another time, he would have had her there and then, and, like a God who controlled all life, would have taken hers, then sat back to watch Time close over her like she had never lived. But that was then, and this was the West. She was connected – and he needed her for something altogether different. Pity.

  ‘Please, Liliane, you are upsetting me. You make me feel like I have done you a violence when all I wanted to do was to make love to you.’ His tone was soft and pleading as he started unbolting the lock. ‘Forgive me?’ He smiled again, looking as remorseful as he could.

  She glanced up at him; he did seem sorry, and it wasn’t as if she hadn’t been encouraging him. It was her own ambivalence that was confusing her. But then there was the gun. What kind of man kept a revolver? Practically every Swiss male she could think of kept a hunting gun – even her father – but a revolver? They were for killing people. And what was he going to do when he realised she’d taken his revolver? She couldn’t think straight; all she knew was that she wanted the gun and she wanted to be home in her own bedroom, with all her familiar childish things around her. She was tired of being a woman now.

  ‘Will I see you again?’ Reaching out, he stroked her wrist. Again, fear and excitement dried her mouth.

  ‘Maybe. Can I go now?’

  ‘Of course, I wouldn’t dare lock you in. See,’ he demonstrated, his large hand gripped around the doorknob, ‘all you need to do is turn the handle…’ He stepped aside, his body language daring her to leave. In seconds she was out the door and had half-run, half-walked down the path to the street.

  ‘Make sure you get home safely!’ he yelled after her, shivering in his thin cashmere sweater. ‘As I do intend to see you again,’ he added under his breath before turning back to the villa.

  FOURTEEN

  Liliane stumbled along the pavement, trying to remember the last main road Destin had driven along before turning into the quiet side street. It was freezing and the revolver, hidden in her satchel, bumped against her hip. Suddenly she became aware of a car cruising just behind her. The 1970 Chevy pulled up beside her and the door swung open.

  ‘Get in,’ Latcos told her.

  She stared at the young gypsy, wondering whether she should run or scream. But there was something very familiar about his face that made her hesitate.

  ‘Please, I’m a friend of Matthias, your father,’ he insisted. ‘And you shouldn’t be walking around at night, never mind hanging out with crazy Frenchmen.’

  ‘You don’t look like a friend of my father. And how do you know about Destin? Has Papa hired you to check up on me?’

  ‘Liliane, you have to trust me. Look at your face, then look at mine.’

  She leaned into the car and studied him – wondering why both his face and persona felt so familiar. With a shock she understood.

  ‘We look alike!’ She had seen a man like him but older, in her dreams – another figure that was always lurking at the edge of her visions.

  ‘Please get in – I don’t want to be arrested for loitering.’ Latcos tried to sound casual, but he was painfully aware that they were still in view of Destin’s apartment, and the last thing he wanted was the Frenchman to see them.

  ‘I have a gun in my bag,’ she said, to make sure he knew she could defend herself if necessary.

  ‘Excellent, that makes me feel a lot safer,’ Latcos joked, trying to relax the frightened girl.

  Liliane looked round; frost was forming on the tree branches and there was an icy fog creeping up from the valley. Any minute now Destin might come out of his house and chase her. The thought forced her into a decision. She climbed into the car and Latcos accelerated away from the kerb and turned into a main road. Now that she recognised where she was, and the direction he was taking her, she relaxed.

  ‘That man is bad, Liliane – you have to keep away from him.’

  ‘Are you one of my mother’s relatives?’ She couldn’t take her eyes off his profile; he didn’t look like her mother, but the colouring and the distinctive nose were her own.

  ‘Not your mother’s, but your grandmother’s. Your real grandmother’s. I am your father’s half-brother.’

  ‘Papa never told me he had a half-brother!’

  ‘He didn’t know until recently.’

  ‘Does that mean you are my uncle?’

  Latcos glanced at her, this creature who reminded him of his mother and the oldest of his children, a nine-year-old girl, and yet she was so far away from his world. She was a gadji, dressed up in her expensive school uniform, the ease of her existence reflected in her height, her perfect teeth. And yet she was blood.

  ‘Yes, I am your uncle. And this is what uncles do: they protect their family.’

  Klauser sat at the edge of the bed with his trousers down to his knees and waited. It felt strange to be in the brothel and yet not in Celine’s room. This was a smaller room, with red walls and a mirror on the ceiling, no doubt for the clientele to watch themselves perform or be performed upon, he reflected wryly. He had no desire to see his own plump arse move up and down over some poor woman, but it takes all types to run a brothel. He wondered whether he hadn’t made a mistake by agreeing to see another girl when the receptionist told him Celine had cancelled at the last minute due to her son’s school concert. He’d forgotten Celine was a single mother until then. It had made him feel guilty – perhaps he should have been bringing her little presents to give to the kid. He missed his own son, who would be an unrecognisable sixteen years old by now. He’d also wanted to ask Celine about the orgies again; he’d started to wonder whether these might be a way of gleaning more information on the cartel and he wanted to exploit Celine’s practical sensibility. He’d learned over the years that the prostitute would have made a good detective herself.

  He was going to cancel but lust got the better of him. The photograph he was shown excited him and Celine’s substitute looked even better in the flesh.

  He glanced over at the small en suite bathroom – the girl, a curvaceous brunette who looked terrifyingly young, had disappeared there over five minutes ago.

  ‘Are you going to be much longer? It’s getting a bit boring out here,’ he asked through the door.

  ‘Nearly ready. I promise it will be worth the wait,’ she called back. Muttering, he moved back towards the bed. Looking out the half-blacked-out window, he noticed a BMW parked on the opposite kerb. The incongruity of such an expensive car parked in the service lane was intriguing and the number was vaguely familiar – but the bathroom door swung open.

  ‘So, big boy, it’s time I started giving the orders.’ She stood in the doorway looking like a sexed-up cartoon figure. She was wearing a tight PVC corset with quarter cups, her large breasts spilling over the top, thigh-high stiletto boots, and long gloves. Pairs of handcuffs and leather ties dangled from one hand, while she clutched a small leather whip in the other. This was a whole continent away from Celine’s suburban sexuality, and it was not an eroticism Klauser was comfortable with.

  ‘I would have thought reception would have told you I’m not in
to S & M,’ he told her, battling an irrepressible urge to laugh because he was frightened of insulting her – she looked so serious.

  ‘Have you really tried it?’ She cracked the whip with an expert flick of her wrist. How old was she? Twenty? Twenty-five? Bizarrely the S & M gear seemed only to emphasise her youth – as if she were a child playing at being grown-up – the little girl in her mother’s high heels, her mouth smeared with red lipstick. For the second time that evening he regretted Celine’s sudden cancellation. He was too old for this kind of thing. With a queasy, sinking feeling he realised he’d been paying for intimacy all these years, not sex.

  ‘No,’ he replied, now aware of his growing erection.

  ‘Then how do you know?’ She seemed to glide towards him, the rolling motion of her hips already hypnotic. In seconds she was close enough for him to smell her and she smelled delicious, like something edible. She slid up onto the bed and pushed him down flat. She was surprisingly strong, and to his secret chagrin he was finding the disturbing combination of extreme youth with extreme authority erotic. It was shocking to him that he wanted to abdicate control. With one swing of her long firm leg she straddled him, then ran the tip of her whip down his torso, circling it round the head of his tumescent organ. Suddenly she was kittenish, submissive.

  ‘I could do very very naughty things to you if you let me,’ she purred in a babyish voice, the damp lips of her sex brushing against the base of his penis. She lifted one of his arms up towards the metal head of the bed, then the other. To his amazement he let her. Klauser closed his eyes then opened them and found himself staring up at the reflection of himself pinned beneath the girl in the ceiling mirror. From this angle you could see the pale round orbs of her buttocks pushing out of the corset as she sat over him, the curve of her spine and the thick mass of black hair that hung almost down to the small of her back. She looked like some strange priestess involved in a bizarre ritual, with the lamplight glinting off the PVC and her shining boots, their long spiky heels pushed firmly into the red satin sheets. He tried not to focus on the rather overweight, flushed middle-aged man underneath who was staring back at him with a perplexed expression. I don’t have to acknowledge myself in this scenario, he decided – today will be your one day off from being Detective Helmut Klauser – you deserve it.

  ‘And I think you are going to let me because you know deep inside’ – she was fastening his left wrist to the bedpost with one of the handcuffs, deliberately brushing his face with a nipple as she leaned over – ‘you have been a very, very naughty boy and you need to be disciplined.’ She fastened his right wrist to the other bedpost.

  ‘How are you going to discipline me?’ he asked, barely recognising the small, high-pitched voice that came out of him. ‘Are you going to spank me or whip me?’ His mouth dried at the thought and his erection was now rock hard. He couldn’t remember being more excited.

  ‘Well… that depends on how naughty you’ve actually been.’ With a sharp yank she tied one ankle to the lower bedpost, the leather thong taut and professional, then moved over to the other leg to tie that.

  ‘Oh, I am a wicked, naughty, naughty boy,’ he murmured, the thongs round his ankles now two circles of pain. Flexing his leg muscles he realised he was really tied up – there was no way he would be able to break free. Perversely he found this professionalism of hers even more exciting.

  ‘Good – because I can promise you I am far more wicked and far more naughty than you will ever be.’ Now she was back sitting astride him, her long hair falling like curtains. ‘But you know what, officer?’ And he wondered how she knew he was in the police force. ‘I am tired of hearing your voice. I think you would like something to suck on, something in your mouth to remind you of who you are dealing with.’

  Before he had a chance to protest, she’d pushed a rubber ball between his lips, part of a gag, he realised, as she slipped the rest over his head. He was utterly at her mercy. A wave of resistance swept through him and he struggled for a moment against the handcuffs and leather bindings. Then, Relax, what choice do I have? he reasoned to himself. She stared at him for a second, her youth abruptly replaced by something far more steel-like, and he could see he’d been wrong – she was closer to thirty than twenty, the child-like demeanour an act.

  ‘I wasn’t hired to do this, but you are actually quite cute, tied up like this, and you are rather a magnificent specimen of a man…’ What did she mean about not being hired to do this? Wasn’t this exactly what she’d been hired to do? But before he had any more time to analyse the girl’s eccentricities she’d lowered herself onto his penis, very, very slowly, her sex as tight and as wet as any he’d experienced. He groaned, or at least tried to, the noise whistling around the ball gag, his arms straining at their restraints as the desire to touch her grew painful. Suddenly she paused and, reaching over, produced metal nipple clamps which she squeezed down over each of his nipples. The pain – somewhere between delicious and excruciating – ran like a white-hot diamond between his penis and his nipples.

  ‘I hope that really, really hurts,’ she whispered against his ear, ‘because that would give me a lot of pleasure…’

  She went faster and faster, her hips bearing down as she controlled her own enjoyment. Klauser, close to the edge himself, opened and shut his eyes, using the bouncing image reflected above him as a distraction to stop himself coming before her. With a sudden scream she came, flinging her head and hair back, her spine arched, her contractions triggering his own orgasm – a muffled shout against the rubber ball, his arms and legs straining against the restraints. Dimly he realised she hadn’t put a condom on him, the thought of being banned from the brothel for such carelessness as worrying as the possibility of venereal disease. His thoughts were interrupted by the sensation of something being slipped over his head then down to his neck. Thin, cold, like metal. Opening his eyes wide he stared up at her, a horrible wave of panic rolling up from his feet.

  ‘A present from the bull,’ she told him, smiling. ‘Miaow.’ Her hands wound round the two ends of the wire as she pulled the garrotte tight. As he struggled beneath her he remembered where he’d seen the number plate on the BMW.

  Latcos pulled to a stop at the foot of the driveway and glanced up. Judging by the moon he guessed it was past eight. Liliane was fast asleep, her head lolling on the head rest. She’d fallen asleep in the way children did suddenly. Exhaustion and emotional shock, Latcos guessed. He looked back at the house; already he could see the housekeeper peering out at the car from one of the ground-floor windows, but there was no sign of Matthias and the housekeeper looked worried. Reaching over, he gently shook Liliane’s shoulder.

  ‘Wake up, you’re home.’

  Dazed, she looked over at him then the house.

  ‘Oh no… how late is it?’

  ‘I got here as fast as I could.’

  ‘Papa’s going to kill me; will you come in to explain?’

  Latcos switched the engine off and climbed out to join her in the stillness and searing fresh mountain air. They were halfway up the drive when the front door was flung open and Johanna came rushing out.

  ‘Where have you been? Your father went to the Platzspitz looking for you – we’ve been worried sick!’ She stared at Latcos with open disgust. ‘Who’s this gypsy scum?’

  ‘You can’t talk to him like that, he’s family!’

  The housekeeper grabbed Liliane’s arms. ‘Family? Have you gone completely mad? Has he touched you? Just tell me that? Has he molested you?’

  ‘Stop it! You don’t understand anything! Stop it!’

  At that moment Matthias appeared in the doorway, Helen’s face peering over his shoulder. ‘Liliane, where the hell have you been? We were just about to ring the police.’

  Liliane threw herself into his arms. ‘Papa, this man helped me!’

  Latcos stepped into the light. ‘I brought her home – Keja knew she was in danger.’

  ‘Latcos! It’s you, thank God. But Liliane
should have come straight home from school – she has a curfew…’

  ‘You know this man?’ the housekeeper interjected, amazed.

  ‘He says he’s your half-brother, Papa!’

  ‘Half-brother?’ Johanna repeated incredulously. Now Liliane seemed to notice Helen for the first time.

  ‘Papa, who is this woman?’

  Helen held her hand out. ‘I’m Helen.’

  Ignoring her, Liliane turned back to her father. ‘You never said you had a girlfriend.’

  ‘I’ll explain later. Johanna, take Liliane in and make sure she goes straight to bed.’

  ‘I’m not a child!’

  ‘Go.’

  The girl and the housekeeper hurried into the house while Matthias walked over to Latcos.

  ‘I apologise for my daughter’s behaviour, Latcos.’ He turned to Helen. ‘Helen, this is my brother Latcos.’