by J K Ellem
She thought she had lost the urge altogether, that it would never return. Until now. In this very moment it had returned and Annie suddenly felt a raft of emotions and urges she hadn't felt in years. All because of this man sitting on her couch in front of her right now.
Annie Haywood had paid her dues, had done her penance, had lived a hidden life for long enough. She certainly wasn't about to throw caution to the wind. But there was something about him that made her feel safe, secure, and aroused. He wasn't a threat to her or to her hidden existence.
Annie stood up, placed her wine glass on a side table and held out her hand to Shaw. No words, no expression, just an upturned palm.
Then something moved in Shaw's pants, wriggled against his thigh. The melody of a well-known Katie Perry song filled the living room.
"You've got to be kidding me," Annie exclaimed in disbelief as Shaw awkwardly stood and retrieved a cell phone from his front pocket.
21
Abby could hear her father's voice. He was calling her name, "Abby…"
She was standing at the stern of Wind Dancer, her hands clamped on the helm wheel. Sails, still and listless, rose high above her, the mast disappearing into a cloud of nothingness. Somewhere a snap clip, high on a rope rattled incessantly against the mast, a niggling, metallic sound.
The ocean was flat, dead calm like polished glass. The boat drifted, no breeze, no current, trapped in a vacuum under a blurred sun that was hidden behind a soapy, murky veil of cloud.
Then his voice again. "Abby." He was calling her name, somewhere off the bow, to her right maybe, in the distance, but she couldn't see. The boat was shrouded in fog and mist, thick and heavy, wispy tendrils slinking forward, fingers long, white and bony stretched towards her, pointing at her accusingly, arms without a body.
It was him, she was certain, his voice lost and morose, calling to her, searching for her, but he couldn't find her. The bank of fog crept closer, a wall of white, pressing in on her, bringing with it a brittle, dead coldness.
"Abby…" he called again, his voice fading, moving away now.
She tried to call out, to scream, to say "No! Don't go, I'm here, Daddy please don't go. Please don't leave me." But her voice sounded muffled, her words trapped in her mouth behind lips forced shut.
The bow tilted down slightly, dipping into the glassy surface. Water crept slowly along the bow towards her, a living thing wanting to engulf her. The bow slid a little further, the deck angled a little steeper.
Abby was sinking.
Panic set in. Abby tried to move, but she couldn't. She looked down. Her wrists were bound to the helm wheel, thick heavy rope with tight knots. No matter how hard she pulled her hands were steadfast.
The water was rising, the angle of the deck now more pronounced, she leaned back further to compensate.
Abby looked desperately around deck for something she could use to free the ropes, a knife, anything. It was then she saw the blood. Her feet were bare, gloved in red. Bloody foot prints trailed away from her along the wooden deck towards the rising water, like a person had calmly walked into the water then vanished below the surface.
Abby pulled harder this time, but it was no use. Cold sea water touched her toes, sloshing around her feet, washing away the blood, inky ribbons of red mixed with water, erasing the footprints completely, like they were never there.
Suddenly someone touched her shoulder and she jumped in fright, and screamed a muffled scream. Turning her head she struggled to look behind her, to see who it was.
"Abby." Another voice, closer this time, almost in her ear, someone else’s voice, not her father's. A voice she recognized.
The fog parted, the sun brighter, a small ball of light overhead. Abby could see, but not clearly. Faces loomed large and fuzzy, pressing in around her.
She was cold. She started to shiver despite the sun shining down on her.
She felt a distinct sting in her arm. She heard laughter then the fog returned, warm and smothering, comforting. Her body and mind relaxed, gave in, gave up.
The faces in her vision stretched and warped, jaws danced a hideous and macabre dance. Her head felt heavy, her mind drowsy.
Finally the waves took her, covered her, as the boat with her tied to it was pulled below the surface and into the depths below.
Ignoring the speed limit, it took Shaw close to twenty minutes to reach the gates of the Hanson Estate. Cars lined the road and the front gates were wide open. The place was lit up like a Christmas tree, loud music thumped from the rear of the property near the pool area, the breeze carrying a cacophony of laughter, drunken yelling and high pitched screeching. It was as though the entire population of Long Island had descended on the place, the mother of all parties gone to hell.
Shaw had apologized to Annie, had left her in not a good mood. He had missed the phone call but a text message had come through. Three letters; "hlp." The caller ID was Annie's cell phone. He immediately texted a reply but got no response. He tried calling, but Abby's cell phone went straight to voice mail.
Shaw drove past the estate entrance, parked along the shoulder of the road where he could find a spot then walked back.
Two hulking men, their white polo shirts bulging, stood at the front door screening guests. Shaw continued past, head down. There was a small easement between the side wall and the adjoining property. Shaw made his way through the shadows and down the side, keeping close to the wall. He scaled a section of the wall and dropped down on the other side behind a tall line of manicured hedges. To his right there were stone terraces with wide steps lit with fire pit bowls that led down towards a large paved pool area where a tide of bodies throbbed and pulsed to a rhythmic beat. People swam, piggy-backed or were unashamedly intertwined in the not so private corners of the pool, some in various states of undress, others naked.
A groan came from behind a tree trunk to Shaw's left. One dark shape morphed into two people, grunting, squealing and rutting like pigs in the mire.
Shaw looked at his cell phone again. Nothing.
He had no idea where to look for Abby. The house looked like it had a million rooms and countless places she could be. Shaw stepped onto a pathway and made his way down towards the pool area. He walked past a waiter and grabbed a beer off a proffered tray and kept moving, head low, eyes up, scanning each face and body shape as fast as his brain could process the kaleidoscope of people, trying to find a match for Abby's face or the dress she was wearing. He pushed through the crowd around the edge of the pool as it flowed back and forth. Beer splashed off his arm, someone grabbed his butt, the paved ground a slush of spilled alcohol and crushed red plastic cups. Definitely not the typical, refined, stylish party one would expect in the Hamptons. It was going to be one hell of a cleanup bill when this was over and before Teddy Hanson's parents were due back in a few days.
As best he could, Shaw made his way around, working back and forth, trying not to look obvious or draw attention to himself. Fifteen minutes later he was done with searching the grounds.
Abby was not there.
He walked back up stone steps towards the main house, passing drunken couples arm in arm, staggering men and wobbly women, some with no shoes on, others with sodden clothes smelling of booze. Shaw took off his leather jacket and knotted it around his waist. Passing a fountain he scooped up a handful of water and splashed it across his face and down the front of his shirt then grabbed another beer from a passing waiter so now he had two beers, one in each hand, like he was carrying one for a friend.
A wide set of stone steps delivered him to the main terrace at the rear of the main house. He didn’t apologize as he pushed his way through the throng of bodies.
Christ, how was he going to find her?
A wall of glass folding doors had been pulled back, partially opening up the rear of the house like a sardine can. Shaw stepped inside and found himself in a huge open room with a bar, pool table and massive wall mounted flat screen TV. Music blared from speakers in t
he ceiling. In the gloom people sat on huge couches, some talking, others fondling and groping. Glass crunched under the soles of Shaw's boots as he walked the tile floor searching for Abby, but she wasn't there either.
He made his way down a side corridor with subdued lighting, and people leaning against the walls speaking in hushed tones. Men faking sincerity. Women contemplating, but thinking of the aftermath.
The tunnel of love led to another room that was in total darkness. Inside, Shaw paused, allowing his eyes to adjust. Shapes slowly formed out of the black. Bodies slithered over each other on the floor or bobbed up and down on leather recliners to the sound of friction, human skin and cowhide rubbing together in a sweaty, squeaky song. Groans of ecstasy and grunts of effort melded together. Shaw worked his way around the room, trying to decipher faces from asses as best he could. A hand from the floor grabbed his ankle, a twosome looking for a threesome. He shook it off and moved on, stepping on another leg then an arm as he went.
In the corner of the room, people sat hunched, their interest not in sex, but on the white lines of powder they snorted off a large glass coffee table.
Then a face Shaw recognized. A young woman, not Abby but one of her friends he'd seen at the bistro earlier today, the one with the lingering eyes who had asked Abby who Shaw was. Shaw grabbed her shoulder. "Where's Abby?"
The woman sniveled, wiped her nose and stared up at Shaw, her eyes glassy, her expression vacant.
Shaw shook her hard. "Where is Abby?” he snarled. Still no response.
The young woman was quickly slipping away from reality and into a state of ethereal bliss.
“Hey, man." A voice from behind Shaw. "Leave the bitch alone. Find your own piece of pussy." A man stumbled out of the darkness and grabbed the woman by the arm, hauling her up to her feet. "Come on, babe, there's a space on the couch now. Let's go there and have a little me and you time. Just the two of us."
The woman teetered on her feet for a moment, confused in a stupor, her eyes switching between Shaw and the man holding her arm.
Others around the table looked up but quickly dismissed the commotion as unimportant and went back to measuring out more powder from a plastic bag. That was until seconds later the coffee table exploded into a million glass shards and a billowing cloud of white with the twisted unconscious shape of a man protruding upside-down in what was once the glass top.
There were cries of loss and yells of anguish, but Shaw ignored them. He quickly pulled the woman out of the room and into the corridor outside.
Finding a bathroom Shaw thrust her inside, locking the door behind them. He forced her face into the sink and turned on the cold water faucet full blast, holding her head under the gush until she screamed and fought against him.
Releasing her Shaw grabbed a towel, and wiped her face. "Where is Abigail Brenner?"
Tear-filled eyes stared back at Shaw through a mask of streaked make-up and a nest of sodden hair
"I don't know," she stammered, lines of dark liquid dribbling down her chin.
“You came with her. You were in the Uber that picked her up. I saw your face.”
The woman started to shake. "She could be down at the cabana near the beach. Past the pool. I think I saw her go there a while ago. That's where Teddy likes to take them. It's off limits to everyone else."
"Take them?" Shaw asked. "For what?"
The woman collapsed to the tiles, folded her legs and hugged her knees. "I don't know. Honest. But I think I saw him taking her there.”
22
Shaw could tell he was on the correct path as soon as he saw the silhouette of a man up ahead blocking his way. But he didn’t care. Shaw still twitched from the lingering surge of adrenaline he’d gotten from body slamming the idiot into the glass coffee table back at the house.
He strode towards the man, no time for discretion or niceties, opting for the direct approach instead.
A menacing voice came out of the darkness. "This area is off limits pal." The man was taller, wider, and uglier than Shaw. Too young to be one of the hired security guards. Maybe one of Teddy's jacked-up minions standing guard when dirty deeds were in play.
Shaw pulled out his cell phone and started typing.
"I’m one of Teddy's friends, dickhead,” Shaw replied as he approached, fingers still typing.
"He texted me to meet him down here, at the cabana." Shaw had no idea where the cabana was, but this was a secluded spot well away from the main house and the mayhem around the pool area.
The man blocking the path had the face of an ugly pig, tiny beady eyes pressed deep into a mush of scar tissue, with a nose that had been busted more than once, and a collage of other facial damage. "You look lost, old man."
Old man?
"The retirement village ain't here. You must be mistaken. This is a private party and you're not invited."
Retirement village? Shaw was twenty-eight, not sixty-eight. "Look, Teddy asked me to come. Go check with him."
The man stepped forward halting Shaw with a raised hand.
Shaw pressed the cell towards the man’s face so he could read the text on the lit screen. Not Teddy's text, but a line of letters that formed a message nonetheless: Fuck you asshole.
The man frowned for a split second. It was all Shaw needed.
Shaw's free hand came up, grabbing, bending, twisting before finally breaking the fingers then the wrist of the man’s raised hand.
His mouth dropped open to scream but Shaw hit him with a short right hook, tip of the jaw, cell phone wrapped behind a row of knuckles, dropping him out cold. Shaw dragged the man into the undergrowth then emerged moments later and continued his way down the path.
The cabana was a squat prefab structure, a composite of thatched roof, plywood walls and lumber posts. A poor imitation of a Fijian hut that was partly hidden by the undergrowth and mostly concealed by the dark.
A line of solar lights lit the way along the edge of the path. Shaw didn't care if it was locked or unlocked or who was inside. It was a simple case of linear physics; mass, momentum and rage propelling him in a direct line towards the front door.
Hinges were ripped from the frame as the door burst inwards.
In a perfect 180 degree arc of vision Shaw took in everything in a micro-second; gold sheer cloth, once delicate and radiant, now grubby, tattered and torn at his feet. Upright shapes huddled on both sides of a double bed. A woman's body, pale in its nakedness on the mattress, on her back, not moving, legs splayed wide apart, a thin ribbon of female pinkness amongst a narrow slither of short black bristles, something Shaw wished he had never seen. It wasn’t right and it fed his rage.
He didn't need to see the woman's face to know who it was.
That's all they were now in Shaw's mind: people blinded white into vertical targets.
Shaw lost it, couldn’t pull it back, sanity and discipline thrown out of orbit.
A face turned towards him, the closest, so he punched it. A vicious, unrelenting strike that squelched facial debris into the air. The face, or what was left of it, belonged to a skinny pale man, bony-assed and butt naked with a cell phone in one hand pointed at the woman on the bed.
Shaw spun, an uncontrollable torrent, his cocked fist finding another shape, the next target, a face as it floated towards him. A burst of red, a spray of blood and cartilage, the shape slithered from Shaw's vision.
Then another shape, bigger and faster than the rest. But it didn't matter. Shaw had lost all sense of reality, all sense of composure, all sense of restraint. Jumping, he drove a compact, brutal front kick between the legs of the next shape, driving the instep of his foot deep and hard into the pelvic bone, John Saxon style, Enter the Dragon circa 1973. The kick threw the man backwards, the back of his head punching a hole in the plywood wall behind him before he slid to the floor, screaming in pain, clutching his groin.
Darkness moved off the bed, a mountain of raw strength and power that filled Shaw's vision. Shaw continued forward unperturbed.
Shaw braced himself as their worlds collided, and just managed to knee Ambrose full in the face before he was tackled by him, blunting only slightly the force of being hit by over two hundred and fifty pounds of steroid-induced fury.
Both of them wrapped as one punched through the wall of the cabana and out into the undergrowth outside.
The back of Shaw's head cracked on the ground hard almost knocking him out.
Ambrose straddled Shaw, his full weight on him. Thick, crushing hands wrapped around Shaw's throat then began to slowly squeeze. "I'm going to kill you man," he hissed, tightening his grip.
Shaw couldn't breathe. It was like being buried in the basement of a collapsed skyscraper, compacted floors of twisted steel, concrete, and rubble on top of him.
Once, twice, three, four, five times Shaw's fist found Ambrose's face. He may as well have been punching an anvil.
Shaw's vision darkened at the edges.
Ambrose grinned. Shaw was dying. It would be self-defense. The cops would understand. He had witnesses. Ambrose squeezed harder.
Shaw was turning purple. He groped around on the ground with one hand, his fingers clawing dirt and leaves. A twig, a stick, then a rock.
Shaw swung his arm up in an arc, a large rock in his grip and smashed it into the side of Ambrose's temple. It took three blows before Ambrose tumbled off.
Shaw kicked away and got to one knee, chest heaving, his breath ragged, air flooding back into his lungs. His vision shimmered, his eyes unfocused, the world askew. Shakily he got to his feet, hands on knees, uncertain of where he was, what he was doing, a bloody lump of rock still clenched in one fist. Shaw looked at the rock, uncertain as to how it ended up in his hand. Then released it.
