Fifty-One

"He left the party after dinner because he was staying with a girlfriend in Surf City and wanted to get back. But he was our starting point. We showed him this and told him we needed to get signed releases for everyone in it because we were running a human-interest story." He huffed in half-humor. "That's not quite a lie if you look at it a certain way."

He turned serious again. "Anyway, he was able to give us some names and date it to 1979. We eventually managed to figure out who most of the people were. This one" -- he pointed to a woman -- "is Winterthorne's partner later."

He stopped and stared at me for a long time. I could see him wrestling with what to tell me, then make up his mind. "Her name's Ann. She wasn't hostile, but she refused to sign a release or to talk about the party with us. However, it's not hard to find out some basic facts about people. We found out that Ann is now twenty-one, which would have made her nineteen when she slept with Winterthorne."

"There's nothing wrong with that," I said. There may have been an edge to my voice because, as far as I was concerned, there wasn't. The world didn't always agree. The world could take a flying leap.

"Nope," he agreed. "But this" -- his finger pointed to yet another woman -- "is Ann's cousin. Apparently, they're daughters of a friend and are guests occasionally. She's seventeen now, which would have made her positively underage back then."

My mind was way ahead of him. His next words were predictable.

"Since Winterthorne apparently likes younger women, I want to know if the cousin is on any tapes."

"No."

I could see the reaction. What a story he'd have if that were true. It'd make his career. A second later I felt bad about that cynicism because the expression on his face hadn't been avarice or excitement; it had been concern. And, even though at twenty I'd once banged a guy not too far from double my age, I agreed. Certain lines shouldn't be crossed. Too young was one of them. Another was the reason I'd sent those tapes.

My train of thought was interrupted. "You're sure?" Jack pressed.

"Yes. Does that mean we're done, and I can go back to my life?"

"No and yes."

It took me a second to parse that. "You want to ask me more questions, but I can leave if I'd rather?"

He nodded.

"And you'll let me go?"

He nodded again.

"You still owe me an explanation of how you found me."

"Yes, I do. However, I never agreed to answer everything and get nothing in return. Quid pro quo. Tell me if you have other tapes and then I'll answer."

"I have seven other VHS tapes and four reels of film that I don't know how to look at. Out of twenty-six reels that were there."

"Shit!" The exclamation was involuntary. "Sorry. Why did you send them to the newspapers?"

It was my turn to study him. "Fair's fair. You answer me first. How did you connect me to Trey?"

"That's easy. You gave us your name."

"I did not!"

"Where did you have brunch?" He watched as I thought back to that morning. He nodded when he saw realization appear. "At the Barnegat Club."

"Where guests have to be signed in," I finished.

He nodded. "And where forty bucks--" He broke off as our plates were set in front of us. Passing the salt and pepper, he waited for the waitress to get out of earshot. "Forty bucks will get you a look at the logbook."

It was my turn to say, "Shit."

"Like I told you yesterday, Trey's a busy boy, and you were the second one I've tracked down. Out of three between the end of April and June when we got your present." He looked momentarily apologetic. "I'm sorry if that news upsets you."

I picked at my food. "No. It was a one-night stand." I gave him a challenging look. "Does that shock you?"

He snorted. "Hardly." Then, realizing that might be construed as a comment about me, he added, "I'm not perfect and I don't judge. The heart ... err ... umm ... the some-part-or-other wants what the some-part-or-other wants."

His stumbling attempt at humor brought a burst of laughter from us both. After it passed, he picked up his fork and dug in. "Your turn. Why did you send the tapes?"

No place on the north end of Long Beach Island could be considered cheap, but even I knew that we were in the posh part.

"Here's the deal," Trey said. "My dad doesn't like me using this when he's not here. So, we don't do anything the maid can't clean up."

I laughed inside at the boy-with-hand-in-cookie-jar tone. On the exterior, I settled for a knowing smile. "Do this often?"

"Every once in a while," he admitted. "Champagne?"

I accepted even though we were both amped and ready for where this was going. Other than his hand touching my leg occasionally when he wasn't shifting gears, we'd held off on the ride: a kind of self-denial that only heightened the tension.

Handing me a glass, he joined me for a couple of sips, then took my free hand and led me toward a room I knew was his by the décor. However, sex staring at the visage of Angus Young grimacing from an AC/DC poster ... I stopped in the doorway and looked across the hall.

"What about that one?" The view out the wall of glass, over the dunes down to the ocean, had a lot more appeal.

"That's my parents' room."

"What's your point? Maid, remember?" I walked to the sliding door, unlocked it, and slid it open. Stepping out onto the balcony, I turned back. "We could start out here." I set my glass on a small table. Reaching up, I undid one button of my dress and waited.

There was a moment's hesitation, then a conspiratorial grin before he stripped his shirt up over his head and dropped it on the floor. Nineteen after all.

I admired his lean runner's build with my eyes, my hands and, eventually, my lips. It was obvious he appreciated what was under my dress. I half-expected his finish before I was quite done, but also fully expected the quick recovery that led to a very satisfying round two. He was young, but he was also enthusiastic and attentive. We drifted off, pulling the covers over ourselves against the breeze coming in through the screen.

I felt him get out of bed and assumed he needed to pee. But the sound of flushing was followed by the sound of rustling and I un-burrowed from the pillow. "Do we have to go?"

"Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you. No, we don't. Go back to sleep."

"What time is it?"

"A little before five. I'm going running." In the shadowy pre-dawn, I could see a naked guy standing there holding his clothes from last night.

I groaned. "It's still dark," I protested.

"Best time. It's still cool outside and not much traffic. I'll be back in an hour or so."

I fell back against the pillow. Gesturing vaguely toward his lower half, I said, "Well, you might want some shoes at least. There might be glass on the ground."

"Haha, funny lady. My running clothes are in my room."

I snuggled back into my pillow, awake now. I heard footsteps clattering down the outside stair and then the rhythmic crunch across the gravel. It was peaceful with the quiet broken only by the gulls. The familiar feeling of having been involved with someone for a while, the self-satisfaction at holding up my end, the agreeable lethargy of pleasantly exercised and slightly tender flowed through me.

Pulling the sheet down to bare my breasts, sliding one leg out to sprawl wantonly, I looked at the dim image of myself in the mirror on the side wall and giggled. Maybe I should be lying like this when he comes back. As the morning chill hit my skin, I retreated back under. Brr, nope!

What's that thing next to the mirror? It was hard to see in the dim light, but there was a light-gray spot just below the mirror. I contemplated it idly until my bladder told me that I needed to get up too. Coming back, I poked at it. It gave a little. Flipping on the bedside light, I realized I was looking at a tiny circle of screen that had been painted the same white as the wall. The tiny holes gave it the illusion of being gray.

I pushed aside the mirror to get a better look. It didn't budge. I peered at the edge. It wasn't hanging; it was flush against the wall. A sudden alarm gripped me, mind flashing on the scare stories pre-teen girls told each other about the creepers behind Bergen Mall dressing-rooms. Cupping my hands around my eyes, I leaned against the glass. Nothing ... or maybe? ... not sure ... wait ... no.

I picked up the bedside lamp and pressed it against the glass. All that did was blind me with reflection. I pulled off the shade and grabbed a pillow to seal around the bulb.

Fucking mother-fucking son of a fucking bitch! Dimly visible, but unmistakable: some kind of camera on a tripod.

It didn't take me long; I wasn't stupid. There was a bathroom to the right so it had to be in the closet to the left. Frantically pushing aside hanging clothes, lamp aloft like a torch, I saw a small catch high up. I pushed the panel inward. My fingers found a light switch.

The harsh fluorescent revealed a nightmare scene. The video camera on a tripod aimed through one-way glass. A wire running down to a microphone sticking out of the wall; that explained the screened hole. Another wire running back to what I assumed was a recorder on the table, a wooden chair in front of that. A TV attached to something that looked exactly like the video player the school had. Stacks of tape cartridges on a shelf above, along with a bunch of flat boxes.

As I took everything in, the rising panic began to ebb. Nothing seemed to be powered on, no gleaming lights on the camera or recorder or player. Was Trey ever out of your sight? Think, Lila! You made a trip to the bathroom last night. Was there time for him to come in here? No. Maybe. Would you have heard him shoving those clothes aside? I don't know. I had to be sure.

My fingers fumbled power buttons. I hit Eject on the recorder and, to my dismay, there was a tape in it, and it looked like it was partially used when I took it out. Two tries and I got it back the right way around in the player. The TV finally warmed up. Press Play. Nothing, just static. Idiot! I hit Stop, Rewind and let it go for a while, then Play.

Not me. I didn't know her, and that wasn't Trey. I assumed it was his dad. Fifties and graying, tall and lean, he was an older version of his son, naked and driving into some girl spread-eagled on the bed. My first porno ever held my attention for long seconds -- not out of prurience, out of shock. The second thing I noticed, after the fact that people were having sex in front of me, was that she never once glanced toward the camera. She doesn't know she's being filmed.

A shift of her body and I finally noticed that her pose wasn't simply one of abandon. A short stretch of necktie reached from her wrists to the headboard. Through the rumpled covers, I could see others binding her ankles down to the bed corners. I looked back to her face but no, this wasn't assault. Her smile was a gleam of satisfaction, and the sounds coming from the speaker were encouragement. She didn't look entirely sober, but she was into this.

I fell back in the chair, my eyes roaming. Six, seven, eight, plus one in the player made nine cassettes. I stood and pulled down one of the flat boxes and opened it. Movie film. Twenty-six of those. Looking under the table, I saw two boxes labeled Bell & Howell and, from the images on them, knew I was looking at the older technology from before Winterthorne switched. Two smaller video cameras were under there as well.

"Hey, no!" The sound from the TV pulled my attention back. The girl was squirming underneath him.

I saw him drop the bottle he was holding and lean up to cover her mouth with his hand. I could make out his soft murmur, "You'll like it." He ignored the head shake and muffled "Stop!" As she continued to wriggle and protest, he picked up a piece of fabric -- her panties I realized after a second -- and pushed them into her mouth.

"You said you'd be my slut tonight. Sluts get fucked in all their holes."

My shock turned to horror. Pausing only to drizzle some viscous liquid from the bottle, Augustus Winterthorne pinned her writhing with his weight and slowly shoved his dick into her ass. Then he fucked her, ignoring the tears, the struggles, and the unintelligible protests. His murmured obscenities alternated with exhortations to relax and learn to enjoy it. His weight rested on one hand while the other kneaded a breast hard enough to leave marks and occasionally slid to wrap around her throat. It was too much. I hit Stop. I sat there shaking.

Minutes passed. Suddenly I got scared. What did he do to her after? I forwarded the tape a little, pressed Play. Too soon. Repeat. Three tries and then it lurched back into motion just as he stiffened. He collapsed on top of her for long seconds, then pulled out and sat up. With a hard smack on her flank, a rough run up over a breast, his hand finally reached her mouth and pulled out the wad of damp cloth. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"You bastard." But there was no force behind the sobbed epithet.

"You're fine. At most you'll be sore for a day or two. You said you'd be my slut if I made sure you got the job. Don't worry. You did your part; I'll do mine." He pulled the knot on the upper necktie, freeing her hands. "You can undo your ankles." He stood and went into the bathroom. I heard the sound of running water.

I watched her lying there, her face a mask of pain and despair. As incomprehensible as it was to me, I guess a job in exchange for sex you enjoyed -- or, at least, didn't hate -- had seemed worth it to her. But the hurt, the desolate sense of violation she clearly felt over what it had turned into, that was a whole different story.

Men, they'll destroy you.

The remainder was anticlimactic. Finally, she fumbled the ties off her ankles and stood. She started to pull on her underwear, then wrinkled her nose in disgust and hurled them to the floor, picking up her dress.

He emerged. "I'll call you a taxi."

After she left, I saw him approach the wall, and seconds later the tape cut off. It was back to the point where I found it.

Abruptly, the time concerned me. Has it been an hour? Will Trey be back in a moment?

I flipped off the power and threaded my way back to the bedroom. The red digits on the bedside clock said five twenty. Not even close to an hour. I started to push the clothing back the way I found it, then another bolt of panic hit. I grabbed a pillowcase and went back to scrub every surface I thought I'd touched. I'd seen enough episodes of Columbo and Quincy, M.E. to have an idea of fingerprints.

I surveyed the clothes I'd just rearranged. No, not quite right. Those shirts were--

I stopped and sank back on the bed. Jean's words floated back to me: "... if you don't act when you see something wrong, then you're what's wrong."

Fear gnawed. Conscience pushed. Fear had a head start, but ...

But in my heart, I held onto my belief that I was a good person. And as much as I'd pushed Jean away, my moral compass wasn't impervious to the influence of someone who'd cared about a bereft eighteen-year-old even when she didn't have to.

I picked up the pillowcase again and returned to the porn room. There was still a little space in my makeshift sack after all the videos went in, so I shoved some of the film boxes after them. I started to leave. Wait. How will you see what's on them? No way you can afford one of these.

Wires were disconnected frantically. I tried to lift the player with one arm, holding the bag of tapes with the other. Jesus! Now I know why the AV guys always used a cart. It took two trips to get everything downstairs, my panic growing with each passing second, sure I was going to get caught by Trey. What about the movie projector? Hell with it, no time.

I slipped across the gravel and sand to the house next door that was dark with no cars. Two trips of raising the lid on their garbage enclosure and placing stuff inside. Then I scurried back and pulled the sheets off the bed and dumped them in the washing machine to hide the missing pillowcase. When Trey came back in, sweat gleaming on his forehead, I was busy remaking the bed with new linen I'd found in a closet.

"You said to leave no trace, and I wasn't sure the maid would know to change the sheets."

He gave a little frown of disappointment. "I was maybe wondering if we'd want to use them some more."

I gave him a look that I hoped betrayed none of my tension, nor my absolute lack of desire to make it with him again. "I kind of need to get back sometime this morning and I'm getting hungry." I playacted cuteness to cover my real mood. "Pretty please?"

He heaved a theatrical sigh. "I really need a shower. Take a quick one with me," he wheedled, "and then we'll eat. We belong to a club that has a good breakfast buffet."

So, Trey Winterthorne had me one more time. Not all the way, because getting wet ... in that way, I mean ... wasn't even remotely in the realm of possibility. But he got a blowjob up against the shower wall to keep him from wondering what was wrong.

Over eggs, "Have you ever done it in your parents' bed before?"

"Nope, a first with you. To tell you the truth, I'm worried we didn't get it back the way it was, and Dad's gonna have a cow."

Relative relief and calmness descended: maybe not like father, like son. Oh, I think he'll find out, Trey. Whether he suspects you or someone else is anybody's guess.

Fifteen minutes after being dropped where I'd left my car, I was headed down the shore again.

"I was hoping that a newspaper would print the story and rat him out," I answered Jack.

"Really? Why does a -- no offense intended -- checkout clerk at a grocery store care about whether Augustus Winterthorne is having affairs?"

"I explained in the note."

I thought he'd pull out the sheet of paper he'd shown me once before, but he quoted from memory, "Is this the kind of man we want running on a platform of returning to family values?"

The look he gave me was skeptical. "Lila, I really mean no offense. But I'm having a hard time believing that you give a damn about Winterthorne's platform. In fact, given that he's not in the news very often, I'm having a hard time believing you even know what his platform is."

I recited it lock, stock, and barrel.

"You just blew it. That was a little too glib. Now I'm convinced you researched him. Why?" I looked away and he sighed. "All right. You wanted his affair exposed. I'll leave it at that for now. But tell me, why did you think a paper would publish it?"

I must have looked dumbfounded.

He shook his head. "We have all kinds of laws around invasion of privacy, around acquiring someone's property through illegal means" -- the look he gave me was significant -- "and around libel. No paper is going to run through that minefield without a lot of checking. After all, what if his wife knew and they claimed it was part of their private romantic life? What if they're swingers? And, as I said before, corroboration's an issue." He shrugged. "It could have been a fortune in lawsuits. You'd have done better with a tabloid."

My voice was sour. "I didn't want it to be lumped in with Elvis sightings or alien babies."

He chuckled and turned back to his food. I thought he'd dropped it. "I'd like to take you out to dinner Friday evening."

The change of topic caught me off-balance.

He smiled at my confusion. "There's a story here, whether you admit it or not, and I'm not giving up. I'm not going to bug you right now. I'll let you think about things a bit. And I'm not going to bother you at work." He grimaced. "I owe you an apology, by the way. I wouldn't have interrogated you in the checkout line, and I feel guilty for threatening it. I might have waited and caught you as you came out, but I wouldn't screw around with your job. I'm sorry."