Might Have Been Ch. 08: Conclusion

Sarah blushed, but her smile dimmed. "Didn't some guy say no plan survives first contact with the enemy?"

"General Moltke, I think. Good thing you and I are old friends."

Sarah wasn't convinced. "You really hurt me, you know. I don't waste time on grudges, but regaining trust is another thing altogether. You have your work cut out for you." Sarah took a sip of coffee, appraising me over the rim with a blue steel glint in her eyes. I had her attention. "I've eaten my bagel. I guess it's time for you to move to Step Two."

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Evanston, Illinois -- April 7, 2012

"Good morning, Mrs. Pugacheva."

"You are... Lance, no? You used to be big shot student who worked with my husband." She was older, with a hint of gray in her hair now. Her eyes were reddened, indicating she hadn't stopped trying to fill the emptiness inside with alcohol. She was still beautiful, even with a morning cocktail in her hand.

"Yes, Mrs. Pugacheva."

"Call me Irina. Please to come in and have drink."

"No, thank you. I can't explain why, but I owe you a favor."

She gave me the once over. "I am having ideas on how you could repay."

"I'm flattered, Irina, but if I accept, you won't believe what I have to say." Uncomfortable truths are always better spoken by someone who behaves with honor.

"Yes?" She frowned. I had piqued her curiosity.

"Let go of the hate. Find a good immigration lawyer and get your divorce, or move back to Ukraine to be with your family. Get your degree again at an American university. You're better than the life you are leading."

Her hands shook slightly as she took a long drink from her martini glass. I saw tears of shame and anger in her eyes as she slammed the door on me.

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New York -- August 25, 2012

Step Two: Convince Sarah I have my shit together and am worth the effort.

Sarah crossed her arms, and a sad expression darkened her face. "Ten years ago, Lance, you would have never needed to convince me you were worth the effort."

"No?" She had steered the conversation away from where I wanted to lead it, but I knew she needed to say this. She was still afraid I was a desperate man on the rebound, and was trying not to hurt me.

"Never. But I'm not looking for a project. People change only slowly, or not at all. I'm not a nurse to put Band-Aids on your romantic wounds, or a guru who will help you find yourself. I live in one of the world's centers of fashion, but I buy my clothes off the rack, because I like to know what I'm getting."

"I left Tasha almost a year ago. I'm not on the rebound. I had some shit to work through, and I did it. That's why I didn't contact you earlier. I wanted to bring my A-game, not baggage."

That earned a brief smile. "Here's a question, Lance. Did you come to New York for me, or for you?"

The question was laced with traps. Telling her it was for me sounded like a lie. Saying it was for her had the stench of desperation. I chose the truth. "I applied to Stanford and Columbia because they were the two programs I wanted most. I did that for me. I was accepted to both. I chose Columbia because I love New York City, I have some academic contacts and friends here who will help me, and because it would give me a chance with you I would never otherwise have."

"You're idealizing me. You just got out of a nasty relationship, and you seem to give me credit for it, even though I haven't seen you in ten years, and we didn't part on the best of terms. You're putting me on a pedestal." Her eyes pleaded with me to prove her wrong.

I shook my head. "I know exactly who you are."

"Oh?"

"You're someone who had the courage ten years ago to sacrifice her own happiness for a man who was willing to pay any price and follow her anywhere to be with her. You had the compassion to do what needed to be done to protect Dave from himself, and the fortitude to stick with your decision, even when vilified by people who should have known better, like Dave himself. And me."

Sarah's eyes were misting again, and she pulled her lower lip into her mouth to conceal a quiver.

"Do you want to know how I got my shit together? By finally realizing what a beautiful thing you did. You're the strongest woman I know."

She swallowed as she looked away, and her hands dropped to her lap. "What time is it?" she asked, with a slight choke to her voice.

"Almost nine o'clock."

Sarah nodded. "I think you're clear for step three."

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Indianapolis -- May 21, 2012

I pulled over and parked a hundred yards away from the gray ranch-style house at 7 AM. I sat in my car, reading the New York Times on my phone while I waited, keeping one eye on the house.

A little before seven thirty, the garage door opened and a Ford Explorer backed out of the driveway, and drove past me, heading toward downtown. I glimpsed the driver -- a thin, weaselly man with a receding hairline. Weaselly Man looked to be the right age.

Once I had driven my car around the corner and parked it again, my nerves tightened. I'm not a criminal, I reassured myself. I walked toward the back of his house, but made a point of acting like I belonged there. I wore a Chicago Cubs cap and had grown a week of beard to make me harder to recognize. Once out of sight, I donned leather gloves, and searched the ground. That landscaping rock should do nicely.

The black paint on the basement windows did not escape my notice.

I pulled out a towel, wrapped it around the rock, and approached the sliding glass door to Weaselly Man's patio. The cushioned rock hit the glass with a muffled crack, punching a hole big enough for my hand to reach inside and unlock the door.

No sign or sound of an alarm system. I wasn't surprised. If I were right, I didn't think Weaselly Man would want authorities responding.

As expected, a quick check of the rooms on the main floor revealed nothing. I swallowed as I opened the basement door, and headed down the stairs, trying to push away thoughts of Silence of the Lambs. The basement was finished, but not in any normal way. The windows were sealed off, covered by a material I didn't immediately recognize. The same material covered the walls and ceiling. Looking back up the stairs, I saw it also covered the basement door. I guessed it was some sort of acoustical panel to mute sound.

A small unenclosed toilet and shower stood in one corner, where the floor was nothing but exposed concrete and a drain. The shower had no curtain.

In the adjacent corner, I noticed a room with concrete blocks for walls, sealed with a steel door.

Oh fuck. I had hoped I was wrong, and I would just be leaving a hundred bucks on Weaselly Man's table to pay for the door damage, but the knot in my stomach, and the evidence in the basement were screaming I wasn't wrong.

An assortment of S&M gear lined the wall, each well-maintained and kept in its own special niche. Weaselly Man showed these instruments lots of care and love.

Anger and bile rose in my throat, and I swallowed both.

The steel door was secured with three deadbolts, plus a drop bolt sending a bar of steel deep into a drilled hole in the concrete. Whatever was inside wasn't coming out through the door, at least without permission.

I pulled all the bolts and opened the door. The air inside had the stagnant smells of mildew and desperation.

A figure stirred on a bed. She was naked, and restrained by a sophisticated system that put silk scarves to shame. She was tied face down and couldn't see me.

Welts marred her back.

I heard a tremulous whisper. "Master?"

Oh, Crystal, I'm so sorry. I masked my voice. "No, it's not. I'm going to get you some help."

"No, it's you. You're testing me again, but there's no need. Your whore has learned its place."

Fuck. One year. Her parents hadn't seen her in one year. She had supposedly dumped her boyfriend and moved to Cincinnati. Her parents had received a few letters and emails for the next six months but then those stopped. They had filed a missing persons report and the police could find nothing. She had vanished in Cincinnati six months ago without a trace.

Her parents told me that story when I tried to track her down. Given what I knew about her boyfriend, I had suspected she had never made it to Cincinnati, and that the communications from her had been forged to deceive.

"Oh, sweetheart, you don't deserve this," I whispered. She flinched when I gently touched her leg in a failed attempt at reassurance.

"Master?" There was doubt in her voice now.

There could be no help for her this way, at least not without having to answer uncomfortable questions about how I found her. I climbed the stairs, and punched three numbers into the telephone with my gloved hands. The line picked up quickly. "Indianapolis 9-1-1. What is your emergency?"

Indianapolis Star -- May 22, 2012

Burglar Discovers Enslaved Woman in Basement

A 9-1-1 call by a burglar lead to the discovery of a woman reported missing in Ohio six months ago. Neighborhood residents were shocked by the revelation Michael Tracy, of Indianapolis, had allegedly imprisoned the woman in his basement. The victim (whose identity is being withheld) has been hospitalized, and her family has been contacted. An Indianapolis Metropolitan Police Department spokesman said the alleged crime was reported by an unidentified burglar, who had broken into the house Monday morning, discovering the woman tied to a bed. In an apparent twist of conscience, the burglar called the police, but left before authorities arrived.

Tracy was arrested at his place of work, and is being charged with kidnapping, multiple counts of sexual assault, and false imprisonment. If convicted, he will face life in prison.

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New York -- August 25, 2012

"How are you going to seduce me, Lance?"

"That's up to you. You get to set me three tasks. If I complete them, I win."

"You win?"

"Your heart, or at least a chance at it."

Sarah considered. "Any task?"

"Yes."

"So I could tell you to climb the Empire State Building and swat down airplanes?" Her smile was sufficiently wicked that I knew she was considering it.

"You can indeed set a task you know I'll fail, which will tell me I can't hope to win your heart. At least not today."

Sarah pursed her lips in mock disapproval. "This seems a lazy seduction, Lance. All the creativity is on me."

"Which is why it's brilliant. I set a creative challenge in front of you that will be irresistible, and make you complicit in your own seduction, which you will find kind of hot."

"You haven't seen me for ten years, and you think you know me well enough to make very specific predictions about what I find irresistible, and what makes me hot?"

"Yes."

"You don't think making such presumptuous predictions will make me say otherwise, even if you're right?"

"Honesty is too important to you."

Sarah screwed up her lips as she considered that, but I could see the laughter in her eyes even before she spoke. "Alright, Lance. Game on."

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Mankato, Minnesota -- June 16, 2012

Snazzy Pete was chatting up Red Madison at the bar under the park pavilion. Scott the Hoople had grown his hair long, had developed the perpetually-wide eyes of the paranoid, and had been socially ostracized after trying to convince everyone at the reunion that 9/11 had been an inside job. Sumbeech Carl had turned into three hundred pounds of disgruntled ex-jock who drank whiskey like water. Heather had hugged me when she saw me, and made a point of introducing her husband, who was six inches taller than me, and treated me with the false friendliness of someone who was pretty sure I was going to ravage his wife on the picnic table, and wanted an excuse to stay close so he could kick my ass if I even looked at her crosswise.

This is fun. I should come to reunions more often.

I had spent time with my parents for the first time in years. For six years, they had avoided telling me what they really thought of Tasha, as they had been smart enough to recognize it would probably drive me even further away, but now that Tasha was gone, the knives came out, and for the past twenty-four hours they had been telling me how much they had disliked her. It was therapeutic, but relentless. The reunion was a welcome respite.

I had missed my five-year reunion because of Tasha, but made a point of attending my ten-year to reconnect, and get leads on a few people. I saw one of my targets from across the room, and walked over to say hello.

"Amy! You won't understand what this means, and I won't explain, but I need to say thank you."

"Um, hi Lance. You're welcome?"

"How have you been?" She had put on fifty pounds, but appeared happy, and had a big smile on her face.

"I have been wonderful since I married a good Christian man, and accepted Jesus Christ as my personal savior."

"Oh hey, is that Brittney over near the bar?" I asked, departing with as much alacrity as I deemed polite. "I haven't seen her in ten years!"

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New York -- August 25, 2012

Step 3: Seduce Sarah

"Your first challenge," she began, "should you choose to accept it, is to name the seven sexiest words in the English language. One bad choice, and challenge two is peace in the Middle East. You have five minutes."

She wanted to see if I still had any sense of whimsy, or whether Tasha had sucked all the fun out of my life. "Child's play."

"You may begin." Sarah sipped her coffee, watching me with her Mona Lisa smile.

"There are layers to this challenge," I said. "You will roll your eyes and scoff if I choose pretentiously obscure words like 'callipygian', or 'euphonic', or if I choose something nonsensically pseudo-intellectual like 'cellar door'. My best bet is to stick with humor and heart, which is also what I find sexiest."

Sarah was bemused. I could tell she enjoyed listening to me think aloud. "What is 'callipygian'"?

"Having a nice ass." I gestured toward hers with my coffee cup.

Sarah bobbed her head from side to side, considering. "That one might have worked."

"Alas, we'll never know."

Sarah's half-smile turned into a half-laugh. "Tick-tock, Lance."

"Chocolate."

"Ha! That's one."

"Breasts."

She peered down at her own, stretching the limits of the fabric of her tank top. "I can't imagine why that word would jump to your mind. You're such a guy. That's two."

"Tulgey."

"'Tulgey'? What the fuck is 'tulgey'?" She was frowning.

I suppressed a smirk at her disappointment. Was she revealing a desire for me to succeed? "Have you forgotten Lewis Caroll's Jabberwocky, the single most erotic poem in the English language?"

"Erotic? Jabberwocky?" She was smiling now, anticipating a punchline.

"Don't you remember how the Jabberwock came through the tulgey wood?"

She laughed. "I thought he burbled as he came."

"That too! You see? The poem is downright pornographic."

Sarah smiled with delight. She had missed our banter, and reminding her was the true point of these challenges. "So, 'tulgey'. Use it in a sentence."

"A good man's wood is always tulgey for his lady love."

"Points for originality. That's three."

"Love."

"From any other guy, I would call shenanigans. But from you? Four."

"Cock."

"Bold and vulgar, contrasting with the arguably effeminate romanticism of 'love' -- which is smart, dear, because if you had tried two girly words in a row, I would have kicked you in your vagina."

I laughed.

Sarah continued. "You're also subtly reminding me of what swings between your legs. I approve. Five."

"My sixth word is Yes."

"A short, classic word, of ancient vintage with notes of cherry and some sort of peel. Orange peel? No. Lemon? No. I have it -- Vincent Peale. Your Power of Positive Thinking is accepted."

"Adlai Stevenson said he found the Apostle Paul appealing, and the Apostle Peale appalling. Please don't lump me in with either."

She blew a raspberry with her tongue, but her smile was wider when she stopped. "Quit showing off. Can he stick the dismount? What is your seventh word?"

"First word. I was working my way to the sexiest. It is 'Sarah'."

"You've still got it, Lance!" She raised her hands over her head in a cheer, and leaned over for a brief hug. I returned it, inhaling her scent and absorbing her soft warmth. I could get used to this.

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Mankato -- June 16, 2012

Dwayne was evidently an apologetic drunk. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so, sorry." He was sitting on a bench next to Scott the Hoople.

"It's okay, man, it was twelve years ago. I got a war wound. Chicks dig the war wound."

"Coach always said we was supposed to check the field before we threw the javelin, but why were you even on the field, you dumb shit?"

"I don't know, man, I was baked."

"Your poor foot. I'm so sorry."

Scott stretched out his foot and flexed it, as if to show there was no harm done. He seemed pleased. As he should be. He had waited twelve years for an apology from Dwayne the Impaler, and finally got it.

I returned my attention to Brittney. "So where in hell is Courtney? I haven't heard from her in ten years." It was getting late, and she was my only lead.

Brittney didn't like my question. Half of my former classmates were as drunk as Dwayne, and she was not one of the exceptions.

She pouted and asked, "Are you still holding a torch for Courtney? Forget about her. You know something? There was this computer dating thing in high school and you were my number four." She stood too close to me, running her hand down the front of my shirt.

Number four for Brittney? I hadn't hacked that! "A computer once told me I had ten million dollars in a Nigerian bank account."

"Really! Let's get it!" Her reddened eyes were wide with bleary excitement.

"I'll forward you the email. Courtney was my best frenemy ever. Where is she?"

Brittney huffed. "Fine. She got an economics degree in Minneapolis, and went to work for a company in New York, as a financial analyst. The last I talked to her was... four years ago? She was engaged to some hot shot securities trader, and was bragging about the great jobs they both had, and how much money they were making." Brittney's tone was critical -- she clearly resented her old friend.

"Which company?" I watched Madison and Pete duck off into the trees together, trying to undo ten years of regret. Good luck, guys.

"I don't remember," she slurred. "A name like a sixties girl group. The Lemon Sisters or something."

Lemon? "Lehman? Lehman Brothers?"

"Yeah, that was it."

Oh, Courtney...

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New York -- August 25, 2012

Sarah was having fun, and I had been right -- making her complicit in her own seduction was getting her hot. Her cheeks were flushed, and she struck a provocative position in her chair after she stopped hugging me. "Your next task is a tough one. I heard about this from Heather, that you had some mysterious ability to undo a woman's bra strap without her noticing."

That earned a grin. "Some have alleged the power is psychic in origin."

"You dated some girls dumb enough to fall for that?" She tsked with her tongue. "Your challenge is to undo mine without me catching you. Good luck getting that done by ten o'clock. What do you want to discuss in a futile effort to distract me?"

I flashed my predator smile.

"What?"

I kept showing my teeth, waiting for her to catch on.

"Oh, you didn't!" She reached behind her back to check her bra, and blushed. "How the fuck..."

I raised my palms in mock helplessness. I had done it during our last hug, but keeping the aura of mystery would work in my favor.