9
Missing in Action
The first thing on Monday morning before my first class, I take a detour over to the faculty office building, and specifically, make a stop at Professor’s Armentrout’s office.
As I expect, Kandace is still filling in this week for the absent-for-elective-surgery Diane Forester.
“Hi Kandace,” I greet cordially, “I was here-”
“Oh yeah," she cuts me off, "Carson Matthews, of course. I remember you. Dan isn’t in yet though. Did you have an appointment?” she asks, giving me a quizzical look.
“No, no,” I reply, “I was just trying to locate another one of Professor Armentrout’s students from our Communications class last semester. Well . . . we had sort’ve been working on a project together, and of course, I lost contact with her after my uh . . . accident.”
“Oh yes,” she replies, “I heard about that unfortunate incident from Dan. Such a horrible thing to happen. But I don’t understand? Don’t you have her cell number or address?”
“The thing is my cell phone has never been recovered. It’s not even traceable. And all of my contact information was stored in it naturally,” I reply, “You know, the digital age and all. Her name is Shelby Parker. I haven’t seen her around campus, but that doesn’t mean she’s not around somewhere. I just thought I might reach out to her. She’d be a senior.”
“Well,” Kandace replies, biting her lower lip, “I can look through Dan’s class roster for this semester to see if she’s in any of his classes. Hang on a sec.”
I wait while she starts tapping some keys on her desk computer. “Shelby Parker, Shelby Parker . . .” she repeats to herself. “Nope, none on any of this semester’s class rosters. Let me look at last semester’s grades. You say she was in Dan’s Communication class?”
“That’s right.”
She keys something else in and waits. “There she is. Shelby Parker, Communications 201. She got an 'I' last semester. That means ‘Incomplete’,” she clarifies. “Oh and down here under ‘Status Code’ there’s a ‘W’. That means she’s withdrawn from the university.”
“Withdrawn?” I repeat.
“Yes, apparently your friend dropped out of school. You see, if there was a Status Code ‘T’ that would mean she transferred. This simply is coded that she left Columbia. Now you may get further information at the Registrar’s Office, but this is all I have on Ms. Parker.”
“Thanks, Kandace,” I reply heading out. Next stop: Registrar’s Office.
As one might expect, the Registrar’s office was not permitted to divulge a student’s or former student’s record without express written permission which includes the last four digits of their social, birth date and Student I.D. number.
Fantastic.
I’m screwed in finding Shelby.
Maybe. Maybe not.
If Shelby left Columbia, that’s one thing. But if she’s still in the city, that’s quite another. But I'm going to need some help. Some trusted help, and I have just the person in mind.
10
Do Me a Solid
“Ohh, damn, that hurts. Please stop, you’re killing me for Chrissake, Krew!”
“What a wimp,” he teases, lowering the tension on the rowing machine. “You’ve only done ten minutes. I had you up to twenty-five when you were in P.T.”
I grab a towel, and wipe my face and neck. “What can I say, I backslid.”
“No doubt,” he replies, as I climb off and he takes my place. I admire his bulging biceps and quadriceps as he shows off his rowing skills. “See?” he asks, “This is how you build up muscles which give you strength, Princess.”
I roll my eyes and drop to the floor to sit and watch, while guzzling some of my bottled water. “Now you’re just showing off,” I quip.
“You’ll get there,” he says, continuing to punish his beautiful body like that. “Glad you took me up on my offer, although I didn’t expect to have to open up for you so late at night. What’s the hurry?”
I pause from slurping more water, wanting to make sure I word my request in such a way he won’t be inclined to refuse.
“I need you to go to a sex club with me.”
Way to go, Carson.
I hear the snap of the handle clang against the frame as Krew lets go of it, no doubt in shock at my lurid request.
“Come again?” he rasps, and then gets an ornery look on his face. “Oh, and pardon the pun there.”
I bite my lower lip, trying not to laugh. What he must think of me! “That wasn’t how I meant for it to come out,” I say, “I totally freaked you out, I’m sorry. What I meant is that I need somebody to go with me to this private sex club so I can find out what happened to my friend Shelby.”
He exhales a hard breath, grabbing his towel and wiping off his face. “Uh . . . you actually are a member at one of these places?”
“Oh no, I mean I don’t think so anyway. But I do know that I went there as a guest at least once. You know my memory issues prevent me from having the full picture . . . because of my accident.”
“I don’t understand what exactly it is you want me to do. Can you be a bit more definitive, Princess?”
I sigh. “Okay, bits and pieces of my past from last semester, are slowly surfacing in what my therapist refers to as ‘recollection memories.’ They occur in occasional dreams. But they're not totally inclusive of all of the specifics. Just enough of the deets have come out that I started looking for one of the members of this club called ‘Sanctuary.’ She was in one of my classes last semester, and she knew about this club. I think she might’ve belonged to it or something. I guess I was curious and I went there with her one time, I’m pretty sure.”
“You’re pretty sure?”
“Yeah, well as sure as my dream seems valid. Anyway, I tried to look her up, but apparently she’s withdrawn from the university. I figure if she’s still in the city, I can stake out the club one night at closing, and see if she emerges.”
“Okay,” Krew replies, arching an eyebrow. “And then what?”
“Well, then maybe I can find out more about that . . . night.”
“The night of your accident?” he asks softly.
“Exactly. It’s just that I don’t want to go there and stake it out by myself, because well, what if somebody recognizes me, and I don’t recognize them? And that person was part of . . .”
He interrupts me, placing the palm of his hand against my cheek gently. “I’ll go, Carson. There’s no way I’d even let you go by yourself. We’ll take my car just in case you were more than a one-time guest there. What time do they close?”
“We’d have to take you car,” I reply with a laugh. “Mine is back in D.C.”
Another concession I made.
“Oh, and they close at midnight on weeknights," I explain. "On weekends they have special themes and it’s by invitation only. Those have a per-couple cost, so I'm not sure about the hours. I think Shelby mostly went on weeknights, because it wasn’t too expensive.”
He quirks a quizzical brow at me.
“Yeah, I know. I remember certain things. I can’t explain it. I just know that I have to trust it.”
“When do you want to go?” he asks.
“Tomorrow night? From about eight until midnight?”
He nods, and I feel relief that he doesn’t bitch about the time. “You bring the snacks,” he orders, giving me a smile.
“You got it.”
11
The Stakeout
As soon as Krew pulls up to the block in Washington Heights where Sanctuary is located, a flood of recognition and fearful emotions flood my mind. My body quivers as he drives by the non-descript front of the building. There’s nothing that screams ‘sex club’ or House of Depravity, as one might expect.
It’s a brick building, with barred windows, and I already know what the interior looks like. It all comes back. The parking lot is at the side of the building, and for a Wednesday night, there aren’t a whole lot
of members with cars here. An occasional cab or Uber drops members off at the front.
Krew has parked across the street and down a bit from the entrance. It’s only a quarter to eight, we beat a lot of traffic, and darkness is starting to set in. Once the street lamps come on, I’m sure they’ll allow for ample lighting. I bought a pair of tiny binoculars to assist in the stake-out.
“Seriously?” he teases as I pull them out of my handbag, and adjust the focus. “Good thing my windows are tinted otherwise we could blow our cover. Who are we here, Bones and Booth?”
I lower the binoculars from my eyes and give him an eye roll. “Very funny. I just want to be prepared. This is important.”
“Hey,” he says softly, “I know it is Princess. And I didn’t mean to make light of it. I’m just a little surprised, I guess. You sure as hell didn’t want to talk about your injuries after it happened. And I can’t say I blamed you. You had a lot of healing to do.”
His words, full of compassion and empathy give me a warm feeling inside for some reason. As much as Krew and I had sparred during my stint with him during physical therapy, there had always been something there. He hadn’t drilled me with questions. But he hadn’t coddled me either, he was like a Marine drill sergeant during our sessions, but afterwards, he’d bring me a juice or a smoothie, and just kick back with me and we’d talk about normal stuff.
Like his family, and Buffalo, where he was born and raised. Not from privilege for sure, but he’d worked his ass off to get where he is and I totally respect that.
“So,” he breaks the silence, “What kind of snacks did you bring?”
I reach into the backseat and unzip my backpack. “An assortment you’re sure to love,” I reply. “We’ve got pretzels, Cheetos, and M & M’s, and bottled water. What’s your pleasure?”
“Cheetos,” he replies, “And a water please.”
“Here you go,” I say handing them over and putting the binoculars back up to my face. A dark compact car is pulling into the lot. I watch as two girls and two guys get out and go to the back entrance. They press the buzzer and in a few moments, the door is opened by a huge, burly man with a bald head and lots of ink. “He looks familiar,” I say.
Krew is straining to look past me out the passenger window of his SUV and as the girls enter, he notices the same thing I do. We both say it at the same time: “Those are teenagers!” Boys and girls looking like they’re fifteen or sixteen max.
His dash clock has the time at 7:55 p.m.
“I bet their shift starts at eight,” I comment as if I would somehow know this.
My mind is in turmoil, trying to make sense of the young girls going in the back door to the club. I close my eyes and try to remember my visit or visits to this place. I only remember the time I was with Shelby. I can’t recall seeing anyone underage. As I reflect back, it was mostly middle aged couples, and an assortment of males in their fifties and sixties.
My head throbs with confettied pieces of a skewed memory puzzle. My conscious is at war with my subconscious and in that moment, I can’t take sides. My fingers press against my temples, making circles as my eyes shut tightly, seeing the flashes of memories start taking form.
“Carson?” Krew’s voice cuts through. “Carson, look at me!” My eyes flicker open and I see his face studying me with concern. “What happened? Are you okay?”
I nod slowly. “I remember a little bit. There’s a studio in there. One where they wear masquerade. I remember they put on plays–sex plays. Shelby and I were there. Young girls in bondage. The masks couldn’t hide their youth,” I sputter. This club-they have staff. Underage staff. Now I remember that part of it!”
Krew pulls me against his hard chest, running a hand through my hair. “You’re shaking,” he says, “Can you remember anything else?”
I shake my head slowly. “No. Just the one time is all.”
“Do you want me to take you back to your dorm?” he asks gently.
“Can we please stay until midnight when it closes up? I may see others from . . . before.”
“Of course,” he replies, wrapping an arm around me and I feel the comfort he’s providing. And I won’t lie. I feel safe and protected in Krew Beckett’s arms.
It’s after ten when I notice a few people exiting the Sanctuary from the front lobby. I grab the binoculars and peer through them.
“That’s her!” I say excitedly. “That’s Shelby Parker! She’s with two guys.” I continue to watch as a cab pulls up at the curb in front of them. One of the guys opens the back seat door for her and she climbs in. He closes the door, the cab takes off, and both men go back inside the club.
“Follow that cab,” I blurt. “I’ve got to see where she’s staying.”
“I don’t think you should confront her tonight, Carson,” Krew says firmly. “You need to find out more.”
I glance over at him. “You mean; remember more, don’t you?”
“Whatever works,” he responds, following the cab as it turns from Amsterdam Avenue onto Harlem River Drive, “I mean you don’t know if she was behind your . . . accident.”
I like that he also refers to it that way. “I know. And I hadn’t planned on confronting her. But knowing where she lives is something at least.”
Krew does a fantastic job of staying far enough behind the cab so as not to draw attention, but close enough to not lose sight of it.
After a few miles, the cab turns onto E. 116th Street and pulls over to the curb a half a block down. Krew pulls over to the curb after the turn, and we wait for Shelby to get out and the cab to leave before pulling back out.
The building she enters is an old brick 4-plex in East Harlem. I jot the address down in my notebook. “All I need now is to figure out my approach,” I remark.
“You’ll clue me in on that? Right, Princess?”
I arch a brow at Krew. “I really appreciate you doing this for me tonight, Krew, but hey, you’re not obligated to be my chauffeur or partner in crime fighting,” I finish with a soft laugh.
He remains serious. “What if I want to be obligated? What if I saw firsthand the damage done to you, and feel the need to help you figure it all out? You gonna kick me to the curb now?” He sounds almost hurt, but I’m not sure if he’s doing that for effect or not.
“Well, no,” I reply meekly. “But I know what I have to do next.”
“What’s that?” he asks.
“Hypnotherapy. Got any recommendations?”
He reaches over and takes my hand in his, giving it a warm squeeze. “I just might have, Princess. Let me see what I can do.”
12
Removing the Band-Aid
Krew wasted no time in setting me up with some holistic hypnotherapy. As it turns out, when I show up at his office at one o’clock the following Sunday afternoon, he unlocks the door to the lobby, letting me inside and then locks it again.
I look around and see there’s nobody else here except for the two of us. I immediately feel a stab of apprehension.
“Umm . . . is the therapist here?” I ask tentatively.
“Right here,” he replies with a smile.
“What is this, Krew?” I blurt, my eyes narrowing suspiciously. “You invite me here on a day you’re closed, tell me to eat something before I leave my dorm, and allow no caffeine to pass my lips, which is the hardest part, and I get here and what?”
“I’m trained in holistic hypnotherapy,” he announces. “It’s just me and you for the next three hours.”
“Ohh–nooo,” I reply, “I’m not about to go through this hypnotherapy with you pushing the buttons!”
He looks at me with those golden-flecked hazel eyes and frowns. “Do you trust me Carson?” he asks.
I bite my lower lip. “It’s not a matter of trust, Krew. It’s the fear of this repressed whatever, not knowing how bad it is, being revealed with . . . you present.”
He helps me off with my jacket as if what I’ve just admitted is no big deal at all to him. “Listen,”
he says softly, “there’s nothing you could say or reveal that would make me feel any differently about you. I’m not here with a Ouija Board, Princess. I’m a certified holistic hypnotherapy professional. I know you personally, I’ve worked with you professionally on the physical healing, and now I very much want to help with the emotional healing.”
I’m still not sure I want to continue. He sees my reluctance.
“How about this? We go into my comfort room, and I’ll lay out the process for you, from start to finish. If you decide against it, I’ll take you back to your dorm. Agreed?”
I exhale a sigh. “Yeah . . . I guess.”
“Great, follow me.”
We enter his comfort room, which I clearly see how it got its name. The lighting is soft; the walls are painted in pale shades of blue; the furnishings are upholstered in soft grey plush and match the thick carpet. There is a soothing water fountain in the corner, and some vanilla scented candles on the glass-top table next to the sofa.
“Take a seat,” Krew offers, his hand reaching out towards the sofa. The sofa has an array of pastel colored velvet toss pillows strewn about, and as I sink down onto it, I pull one of them against my torso hugging it like a child would a teddy bear.
“Nice,” I remark. “I see you know your stuff with the soothing, calming and stress-relieving decor.”
He takes a seat across from me on a matching love seat, and steeples his hands under his chin. “Carson, the important thing is that you feel comfortable and relaxed. Disregard any notions or preconceptions you might have on hypnotherapy, in particular, the holistic approach I use. You will be conscious, you will be in a deep state of relaxation, similar to when you might find yourself daydreaming during a class or maybe during a stakeout,” he says with a smile.
Wicked Love Page 4