by Chris Orcutt
“Well…trauma, for starters.”
He sighed. “Yes, I can see how this has all been quite traumatic for her.” A sympathetic look came over his face. “I suppose I could make a few calls.”
“Good,” I said. “Sir, while I have you here, there are a few other things you need to know. Including something that happened yesterday.”
“Ah, the big thing that came up, preventing you from coming yesterday, correct?”
“Um…yes, sir.”
“Well?”
I told him about Kevin Teller’s death, the disappearances of the girls on the other campuses, the photos and test tubes of blood I found in Malone’s apartment, and, finally, about the attempted kidnapping of Sally, Megan and Jade.
“When the girls return to school next week,” I said, “they’ll all need increased security for the next couple of months. All of the fourteen girls I mentioned were abducted a month or two after Malone left.”
He shrugged. “Fine, fine. I’ll call the president and arrange the security.”
“For all three girls, sir? Please?”
“Yes, Mr. Stevens—for all three girls.” He opened the desk center drawer, pulled out a check and thrust it at me. “Your room at the Charles is already paid for. However, this, I trust, will cover any expenses you incurred.”
It was a cashier’s check for twenty-five thousand dollars. Guilt—thick and palpable guilt—rose up in me. Guilt for succumbing to his daughter’s charms. But as I sat there and breathed, the feeling passed. With trembling fingers, I folded the check and tucked it in my wallet.
“And then some,” I said. “Thank you, sir.”
“I’m very grateful to you, Mr. Stevens, for getting my sweet Sally away from that horrible man,” he said. “Is there anything else I should know?”
“No, sir. Except to say that your daughter is a wonderful girl, and you’re very fortunate to have her. Despite this lapse in judgment, she—”
“Mr. Stevens, I don’t need you to tell me how great my daughter is.” With effort, he got to his feet. “If there’s nothing further.”
“What about the fourteen abducted girls, sir?” I said. “I spoke to Director Reeves about them, asking him to get the Bureau involved, but he was intractable. Perhaps if you talked to him, he might—”
“I won’t be doing that,” he said. “I’m not telling the Director how to run his shop. It’s probably time you got on your way.” Opening the door, he led me out to the foyer. His voice, louder than it had been in the study, suddenly took on a much more chipper tone. “So, Mr. Stevens…back to Manhattan now?”
“Yes.”
“Hopefully that check will help get your practice off the ground.” He shook my hand and opened the front door. “Goodbye, Mr. Stevens.”
“Actually, sir…Sally wanted to see me before I left.”
“I don’t think that’s appropriate, Mr. Stevens.”
“Wait, Daddy!” Sally yelled.
Her voice came from the second floor somewhere, followed immediately by the pounding of footsteps. A streak flashed across the landing and onto the stair banister. It was Sally, sliding down the banister on her butt like she was riding a horse sidesaddle. At the bottom, she vaulted off, landed with a flourish like a gymnast, and stood demurely next to her father, who frowned at her.
“Daddy wishes Muffin wouldn’t do that,” Mr. Standish said.
“Sorry, Daddy,” she said. “Muffin wants to show Mr. Stevens something before he leaves, okay?”
“Well…all right, but don’t take too long. We need to have a talk, you and I.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
Kissing her father on the cheek, she walked me outside and around the side of the house. We crossed a broad, sloping lawn until it stopped at a fence on the edge of the bluff. A long set of stairs led down to a beach. Out on the Sound, a cabin cruiser drifted by.
“Nice view”—I turned to her and grinned—“Muffin.”
Sally rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”
“What kind of muffin?” I asked.
“Blueberry.”
“Mmm…toasted.” I ribbed her. “My favorite.”
“Mine too.” She ribbed me back. “That’s how I got the nickname.”
“So,” I said, “what did you want me to do for you?”
She pointed at the driveway. “Drive down to the gate. I’ll ask you down there.”
She started walking diagonally up the lawn, toward an arbor built into a tall hedge.
I returned to the car in front of the house. After a few tries, I got the engine started, and when I reached the gate at the end of the driveway, I parked and shut it off. A second later, the passenger door opened and a beaming Sally lunged inside.
“What did you want to ask me?”
“I want you to kiss me,” she said. “One super-long, hot kiss before you go.”
“I don’t know if that’s such a—”
She pounced against me and started kissing me in a frenzy.
“Easy, Sally,” I said, “my ribs.”
“Oooh, sorry. How about…?” She jutted her head at the back seat and wagged her eyebrows.
“Okay, but just kissing,” I said.
She was out of the car in a hummingbird’s heartbeat. Five seconds later she was on top of me in the back seat, crushing her breasts into me, cupping my neck with her hands, grinding her pelvis against mine, and making little sighs of pleasure. It took all the self-control I possessed to keep from fondling her in reply.
The rain, which had been drizzling on and off all day long, increased in intensity until it was drumming on the car roof. The water gushed down the windows like we were in a car wash. We kissed like this for a good ten minutes—until I became aware of the passing time. Gently but forcefully I pushed Sally off me and sat up. Sally was still clinging to me.
“Please don’t leave,” she said. “Not yet.”
“I have to go, honey.”
“It’s pouring out there,” she said. “Kiss me some more.”
“Sally, with the two of us,” I said, “it won’t stay ‘just kissing’ for long.”
“But…I love you, Dakota.”
I winced. “Oh, honey…you only think you love me.”
“Shut up…I know how I feel!” Her eyes were tearing up. “Don’t you love me?”
“I think you’re a wonderful young lady, Sally. Wonderful.” I snapped a Kleenex out of the box on the floor and dabbed her eyes with it. “But we don’t know each other well enough to love each other.”
“Well, I don’t care what you say,” she said. “I love you, Dakota. And in five years, when I’m a woman, you and I are going to be together.”
“You know that in five years I’ll be close to forty, right?”
“I don’t care,” she said. “You’ll be the coolest, sexiest forty-year-old guy alive.”
“Not forty, Sally.” I tapped her nose. “Close to forty.”
“Whatever,” she said. “You’ll still be the hottest man I’ve ever known.”
“All right.” With a glance at the rain streaming down the windows, I smiled and removed her glasses. “That deserves one more kiss.”
“Oh no.” She hastily unbuttoned her blouse. “It deserves a lot more than that.”
By the time we finished with each other, my car had been blocking her driveway for half an hour. We’d run a hell of a risk. The car windows had fogged over, the rain had slowed to a mist. Lightheaded, I got out of the car with her to say goodbye.
“Sally,” I said, hugging her, “promise me you’ll get counseling? Impulsive stuff like that”—I tapped the back window—“isn’t healthy. Do you understand what I mean?”
“I do.” She ran her hands over my chest and shoulders. “I will. I’ll talk to somebody, I promise.”
She l
ooked up at me, visibly struggling to keep herself together. After a few seconds, she planted her head against my chest and started to cry.
“Hey, easy,” I said. “You’re going to be fine. Now, I want you to go back to Harvard and focus on your studies. There will be plenty of time for boys later. You have oodles of potential, Sally. Don’t waste it on a profligate lifestyle, okay?”
“ ‘Oodles’ of potential? You really think so?”
“Yes.”
I gave her a final kiss, squeezed her hands, and got back in the car. The starter gave me trouble again, but when the engine finally turned over, I rolled down my window and smiled at Sally one last time. She leaned her elbows on the window frame.
“I love you, Dakota.”
She waited for me to reply in kind. I didn’t say anything.
“Could I write to you sometime?” she said.
“Sure. My home address is on here.” I gave her my business card. “I want you to stay out of trouble, okay? But if you ever have a major emergency, you can call—”
“Yeah, your beeper.” She forced a smile and kissed me on the cheek. “Goodbye, Dakota. Be careful. I love you.”
“Goodbye, Sally. Be good, sweetheart.”
As I drove away, she followed me out to the road. I watched her in the rear-view mirror blowing kisses and waving to me.
And then I went around a hedge-lined bend, and she was gone.
31
Not by a Long Shot
I’d only driven a few miles from Sally’s house when paranoia set in. What if, after I left, Sally had returned to her house sobbing? And what if, when her parents asked her what was wrong, what if Sally blurted out that she was in love with me, adding, “And, oh, by the way, mommy and daddy, it was the best sex I’ve ever had!”
Given Sally’s proven instability and the fact that in my pocket I had an un-cashed cashier’s check from her father for twenty-five thousand dollars, I was justifiably concerned. So, when I glanced off the highway and spied a branch of Mr. Standish’s bank (the same New York bank with whom I had my own meager accounts), I exited immediately, went inside and cashed the check.
Back in the car, I tossed the brick-sized envelope of cash on the passenger seat and stared at it. Was that it? Could a chunk of money make up for everything I’d put myself through for this case?
Let’s see…over the course of a week I’d…wooed a 19½-year-old girl at her blue-blooded father’s behest…seduced a Bureau colleague…uncovered a human trafficking ring…beat up a pair of rent-a-punks…tormented a grieving father who was later murdered…alienated a potential business partner…extricated the girl from her bad situation…gotten some ribs broken and nearly been killed…walked away while a man drowned in a swamp…disfigured another man with a fire poker…saved the girl and two others from kidnapping and forced prostitution…pissed off the Director of the FBI…and last but not least, for good measure…shtupped into a breathless stupor (several times) the girl I was hired to rescue.
Nice job, Dakota. With all of it.
As I continued to stare at the envelope of cash, the emotion I felt was disgust. I was disgusted with my behavior of the past week. More to the point, I was disgusted with myself because I knew what needed to be done, but I was too chicken to disobey Director Reeves. Instead of boldly going after Malone, smashing his human trafficking ring, and rescuing those girls, I was letting myself be intimidated by the Director—all so I could walk away from the situation hassle-free with some hush money, and launch my PI firm.
Looking at the car key in my hand, I thought about whose car this used to be: my grandfather’s. A no-nonsense, highly principled Mainer, he would not approve of my quitting this job until it was finished. And that’s exactly what it was: unfinished. Come to think of it, my paternal grandfather Al, another Mainer—although a charming scoundrel and sometime bootlegger during his life—would say the same thing. They’d both tell me that, succeed or fail, I had to see it through.
So would PI Jim Rockford. Rockford would be getting bonked on the head every ten minutes, and coming to in alleyways and on beaches, but he’d keep going. He’d keep yanking on the string until the whole thing came unraveled.
This case wasn’t over, not by a long shot. Sure, I’d rescued Sally from Dr. Malone, but what about those fourteen other young women? Director Reeves said he had his “best agents” investigating their disappearances, and that he would forward my report to Interpol. But if I really believed him, why did I feel guilty?
I felt guilty because, deep down, I knew it wasn’t true. The man was just placating me.
Considering the picture that had come to light, it would be downright criminal of me not to see this case through. A Saudi prince had hired Malone to acquire a variety of attractive American college girls to be used for his sexual purposes, and, because the prince was a hemophiliac with the rarest blood type of AB negative, the girls would also serve as living blood banks for him. I’d encountered a lot of scumbags in my time, but they all paled next to this prince and Malone.
I knew where the girls were being held, as well as when and how they were being shipped to Dubai. And, most infuriating of all, I knew from the smug look he’d given me at Megan’s house yesterday that Malone was a remorseless psychopath, and that if I didn’t intervene, he’d get away with not only these fourteen abductions, but countless others to follow.
When I critically examined my behavior during this case, I had more than lived up to Jen Suzuki’s epithet about me as “the hot mess.” Especially deplorable were my seducing Agent Suzuki and succumbing to Sally’s charms.
But here was a chance for me to redeem myself. Here was a chance to bury the “hot mess” label once and for all. Here was a chance, like the Classics scholar Helen had encouraged me, to be heroic—a modern-day Odysseus. I recalled her chestnut hair and her pensive, grey-green eyes when she’d said I was now on Joseph Campbell’s Road of Trials:
“This will be a dark time for you, a time of struggling in the wilderness, alone without the support of a big government agency. But…I believe if you fight your way through this period, and overcome the challenges you’ll face, on the other side of it will be success and satisfaction beyond anything you’ve ever known.”
And then I remembered another beautiful, brilliant woman giving me similar advice in the past week—Svetlana. I had gotten angry with her the other day because she’d confronted me with the truth. Recalling our conversation in the Charles hotel bar, I now recognized she was right—about all of it. Snatches of what she’d said to me replayed in my mind:
“I sense you have it in you to become a great detective.”
“You will have to step out of the shadow of the FBI and take risks.”
“In one fell swoop, you would be rescuing who knows how many young women from something worse than death, and you would solidly establish your investigations firm.”
Svetlana. She was the missing link. She was the gal Friday, maybe the partner, I’d been looking for.
I had to talk to her. No—more than that—I needed her. If I wanted to solve this case, I needed her help.
I had to talk her immediately. In person.
Right now.
I checked my watch. It was three o’clock. Svetlana had mentioned she was returning to Manhattan tonight, but I didn’t know if that meant rush hour or late evening. From here it would take me three hours to get back to Cambridge, or two-and-a-half if I lead-footed it. I crammed the envelope of cash in the inside pocket of my jacket and slipped the car key into the ignition.
After a few tries, I got the Mercedes started and tore out of the bank parking lot like I’d just robbed the place. Squealing off the highway at the next exit, I zoomed down back roads and eventually merged onto the Merritt Parkway eastbound.
I accelerated the car up to 85 mph and raced back to Cambridge.
32
Much E
asier on the Eyes
My beloved Mercedes 280SE, a car that that had served me faithfully from when I first got my driver’s license, died at a stoplight on Mass Ave near Harvard Square.
I was about a mile from Cabot House, where Svetlana was staying. It was pouring rain, but rather than wait around for a tow truck, I simply pushed the car into an illegal parking space and ran across Cambridge to the Radcliffe Quad.
At Cabot House, a student monitor buzzed me in. I was soaked, so naturally she eyed me with suspicion.
“How can I help you, sir?”
“I’m a friend of Svetlana Krüsh, the chess champion. She’s—”
“Oh…I’m sorry, sir. You just missed her.”
I stared blankly at the girl.
“She went home,” she said. “To New York.”
“How was she traveling, do you know?” I asked.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “How…?”
“By plane, car—”
“Right…the train. If you hurry, you might be able to catch her. South Station.”
“Thanks.”
I ran out of the residence hall and down the street, glancing over my shoulder every so often for a cab. Back at the Mercedes, I tried starting it again, but the car was having none of it. I locked it up and kept running down Mass Ave, toward Boston.
I almost reached Central Station before a taxi deigned to stop for me. Not that I could blame the ones that had passed me. Some guy running in the dark in a rainstorm? They probably thought I was fleeing the scene of a homicide.
Motivated by the $50 bill I shoved through the plexiglass porthole, the cabbie raced me to South Station. I bolted inside and scanned the departures monitor. The next train to New York was leaving in ten minutes. I was zigzagging through the crowd in the kiosk area when a woman’s voice called to me from a flower stand.
“Dakota?” The woman had dishwater blonde hair and nicotine-stained teeth. “It’s me, Laura. Remember? Freshman dorm?”
Now I remembered her: Laura Sargent, the snobby Music major who’d turned me down for a date—one of only two girls to do so during college. I remembered seeing her here ten years ago, at this very kiosk.
