Retribution

by Shana Figueroa

  Val smiled. “Excellent.”

  Chapter Three

  Val sashayed past lacquered oak tables and plush chairs upholstered in aqua-colored velvet, on her way to the sprawling bar that was the heart of the Pana Sea. Despite it being Wednesday evening, traditionally slow for a bar, the place hummed with men and women in expensive business suits and high-end clothing that looked unassuming but probably cost more than Val’s monthly mortgage. Light pop music played as she felt hungry eyes follow her to the counter, assessing all her curves. Good. Hopefully one of these horny bastards would make the first move, and she could pump him for information while he stared at her breasts. She eased onto a barstool opposite colorful bottles of liquor in rows vaulted almost to the ceiling. A single muted flat-screen TV showed the local news in progress.

  Val flagged down the bartender, a pudgy guy in his early forties or so, with a spiked hairdo too young for his age.

  “Sam Adams, please,” she told him.

  He nodded, poured beer from the tap, and set the glass down on a coaster in front of her.

  “Thank you.” As he turned away, Val said, “Hey—um, what’s your name?”

  He smiled. “Eric.”

  “Hi, Eric. I’m visiting from out of town, and I made plans to meet my cousin here tonight. I don’t see her, though, which is strange because she’s usually real prompt—like, to an anal degree.” Val rolled her eyes and smiled. “I’m afraid I got the day or time wrong, and she’s not answering her cell. Her name’s Margaret—blond hair, brown eyes. Has she come through here?”

  Eric’s brow furrowed as he thought about it for a moment. “I don’t think so, sorry.”

  “Let me show you a picture, maybe that’ll help.” Val pulled her cell phone from her purse and showed Eric the picture of Margaret that Nora had given her. She’d transferred the photo to her phone to make it look as if she’d taken it herself.

  Eric eyed the picture. Recognition flashed across his face. “Margaret, huh?”

  “Well, yeah,” Val said, playing the innocent out-of-town-girl angle. She gave him a confused laugh. “What other name would she go by?”

  Eric leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “People know her here as Celine…get it?”

  “Uh, no,” Val said, though she was pretty sure what he meant.

  Eric rolled his eyes at Val’s naiveté. “Celine is the name she uses when she’s working.” He whispered, “She works for Le Belle Donne, an escort service, if you know what I mean.”

  Val gasped and scanned the modest crowd around her. She spotted a few other beautiful young women dressed to the nines—high-class hookers working the crowd for a wealthy John. Nora would not be happy to learn how Margaret really paid her bills.

  “Oh, my,” Val said to Eric, her eyes wide.

  “I don’t know what your cousin told you, but a good girl like you shouldn’t get involved in this stuff. Find a nice man to marry.” He winked like he might just be that man, and Val resisted the urge to laugh in his sexist face.

  A customer at the opposite end of the bar waved for service. Eric nodded at Val, then left to fetch booze for someone else.

  So Margaret, aka Celine, was a high-end prostitute. Made sense, unfortunately. Prostitutes were easy targets for rapists and murderers, no matter the price range. It also meant Margaret’s friends were probably lying when they said they were with her the night of her disappearance; they were covering for their friend’s illegal second career. They’d be no help. The creepy high school admirer was likely a dead end, too. Her next step was to track down whoever actually was the last person to see Margaret alive—Celine’s last John. Eric might know, though it meant breaking her cover.

  Val sipped her drink while she waited for Eric to finish filling a large order of drinks on the opposite side of the bar. She glanced around in the dim mood lighting for a moment, then let her gaze settle on the TV, still showing the local news. Val flinched when Max appeared on the screen, a shovel in one hand while he waved at a small crowd with the other. Text underneath him read, “Earlier Today: Maxwell Carressa Breaks Ground for New Harborview Medical Center Children’s Cancer Ward.” Max used the shovel to dig up a big clomp of dirt and toss it to the side while the crowd clapped. An older woman—probably the hospital director—rushed forward to shake his hand.

  The closed captioning explained that he’d donated forty million dollars to the hospital for the new addition, to be called the “Lydia Carressa Children’s Cancer Ward,” named after his mother. A small smile flickered across her lips. Forty million dollars also happened to be the amount of money Max’s father had embezzled, to flee in case Max ever told anyone about the years of abuse he’d suffered. No doubt the irony was intentional, though only she and Max knew the whole truth—well, Max, Val, and now his fiancée, she guessed.

  Max walked to the side and joined his bride-to-be, Abigail Westford, daughter of a shipping magnate and all-American beauty with curly blond hair and baby blue eyes. She smiled and gazed at him lovingly as he said something about his mother’s legacy and how much Lydia cared about children. Then he put his arm around her and they posed for pictures. Abigail’s good-girl looks paired with Max’s bad-boy charm made them an eye-searingly beautiful couple. His black, wavy hair was shorter than Val remembered, though his chiseled cheekbones and rough lips had the same Hollywood leading-man quality she couldn’t stop thinking about. And his eyes—warm hazel with starbursts of brilliant green at their centers that haunted her dreams. Their child would’ve had those eyes, if they’d stayed together—

  “He is really milking his fifteen minutes of fame, eh?” a man beside Val said with a soft French accent.

  She turned to see an attractive gentleman perched on the stool next to her, wearing a simple black suit with a gray T-shirt underneath. He looked a little older than her—late thirties or early forties, maybe. His close-cropped blond hair and angular face with a hawk nose made him seem like a long-lost member of the French monarchy. He leaned casually on the bar and sipped from a tumbler of clear liquor and ice.

  “No kidding,” Val replied. “He’s delusional if he thinks that hideous face will launch an acting career.”

  The Frenchman laughed. “I never thought Max would warm up to the media. He always tried to avoid them. I’m shocked at his sudden public renaissance. Doesn’t seem like him.”

  Val raised an eyebrow. “You know him personally?”

  The Frenchman shrugged. “I wouldn’t say we’re friends, but we’ve had some business dealings. He and Abby are at pretty much every charity event these days. I almost wonder if she’s drugging him.” He smiled. “I’m sorry, I’m being rude. My name is Lucien.”

  “Jane,” she said, glad he didn’t recognize her. Since they’d parted ways, Max had jumped whole hog into philanthropy work, dominating the spotlight. Val had been content to let word-of-mouth keep up the momentum for her business while laying low herself. She’d faded from the popular consciousness, though not before the modest ego boost of receiving—and declining—an offer to pose for Playboy.

  “Are you a local, Jane?”

  “Yes—I mean, sort of. I’m a grad student at WSU, so not too far away. I was supposed to meet my cousin, Celine, here tonight.” Val leaned toward him, flipped her hair over her shoulder, and touched his leg with the tip of her shoe. “Do you know Celine?”

  Lucien gave her a sly smile. “I know of Celine. Never had the pleasure of spending time with her.” He picked a piece of Val’s hair off her shoulder. “I prefer redheads.”

  “That’s funny, because I prefer blonds.”

  He let out a chuckle like smooth water sliding over rough rocks. Damn, this guy oozed charm. Val might’ve considered hooking up with him for real if he hadn’t thought he was picking up a prostitute.

  “Looks like Celine has stood you up. Would you consider spending some time with me instead?”

  Val sipped her beer—an excuse to avoid answering him for a few seconds while she considered her o
ptions. Rich, attractive people had all sorts of secrets they excelled at hiding. Max was a prime example. Lucien could have killed Margaret for all she knew. However, Val had the advantage of knowing Lucien might be dangerous and definitely couldn’t be trusted, plus the gun in her purse. If she got him alone, she might be able to tease out of him who Margaret’s popular Johns were, maybe which one she was with on the night of her disappearance. It was worth a try. If things went south, she would shoot him. She’d already blown one man’s head off not too long ago. She could do it again if she had to.

  Val put the glass down and pursed her lips. “Okay. Show me a good time, Lucien.”

  Lucien held out his arm; she took it. He led her to the front entrance, where a valet grabbed his ticket and ran off to fetch his car.

  “Beautiful night, eh?” He slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her flush to him. “Not as beautiful as you, but still pretty nice.”

  Val threw her head back and laughed. He leaned in and kissed her neck.

  “Very smooth,” she said. “You probably say that to all—”

  Chapter Four

  Val woke up in the front seat of her car. She blinked a couple of times, put a hand up to shade her eyes from the bright morning sun pouring in through the windshield.

  “What the hell?” she muttered to herself.

  She sat up from where she’d been slouched over in the driver’s seat. How in the world did she end up in her car? What time was it? What day was it? She’d been standing at the curb in front of the Pana Sea with Lucien, then…nothing. Val ran a hand over her dress, felt underneath her skirt; nothing torn, underwear still on. She looked at herself in the rearview mirror and didn’t see any makeup smears or bruises. Her purse sat in the passenger seat. She snatched it up and rummaged through it. Everything was still there, even her fully loaded gun. She checked her phone. It was almost nine o’clock in the morning, the day after she’d visited the Pana Sea. Nothing seemed amiss—except for her complete memory loss of the last twelve hours.

  Val gripped the steering wheel and tried to stay calm. Had she been drugged? Seemed unlikely someone could have spiked her drink at the bar, since she’d seen Eric pour her drink and it’d been right in front of her the entire time. Maybe the Pana Sea had a rape ring going where they somehow spiked women’s drinks before they served them, or laced the bottom of the glass with drugs before the pour? Val closed her eyes and swallowed hard. Rape ring.

  God, please don’t let this be a rape ring.

  She opened her eyes and exhaled. She’d never heard of a coordinated rape ring operated by an upper-class business. Nor had she ever heard of a rape drug that completely wiped someone’s memory, with no dizziness or disorientation beforehand. Something very, very strange had happened to her.

  Cold sweat trickled down her neck. “Just get home,” she told herself as she started the engine with a trembling hand. “Figure it out from there.”

  * * *

  Val stripped off her clothes as fast as possible and threw them in a corner. She stood in front of the bathroom mirror and ran her fingers over her entire body, searching for any bruises, cuts, or other marks that might not have been there before. She breathed a modest sigh of relief when she found none. Maybe whatever happened to her wasn’t as bad as she feared.

  Then she saw it—a flash of red just behind her ear. She froze for a second, then pulled her hair back. Val gasped when she saw a raw scar the size of her thumbnail, shaped like a circle with another red dot in the center.

  Val grabbed the sides of the sink with white knuckles. Tears clouded her vision. I should go to the hospital and get a rape kit done. Then she shook her head. No, not yet. Something strange had happened to her, she’d been “marked” for some reason, but that didn’t mean she’d been raped. She didn’t know what it meant. One step at a time, Val.

  After she dressed, she fired up her computer and looked up Le Belle Donne, Margaret’s escort service. She found Celine’s profile among a roster of about two-dozen beautiful women. Val scrolled through the mundane and probably made-up “facts” about Celine’s passions and hobbies, then scanned the comments section at the bottom. PG-rated testaments to Celine’s particular set of skills made up the bulk of the section. She paused when she spotted one innocuous-seeming comment, posted a day ago: “Loved Celine in her Rayvit video.”

  Val recognized Rayvit as an anything-goes Internet forum where people gathered to share pictures and videos on a million different subjects. Rayvit’s laissez-faire attitude made it especially popular with creeps who liked to share revenge porn—sexually explicit photos and home movies of ex-girlfriends or other women who’d spurned them. It was possible that Celine’s video referred to something benign, but Val doubted it.

  She went to Rayvit and searched for any reference made to “Celine” within the last week. A handful of links popped up, most on the subject of cats named Celine, or Celine Dion. One linked to a video titled “Finding Celine’s Sweet Spot.”

  “Oh God,” Val muttered, and clicked on the link.

  A red velvet settee appeared, surrounded by walls of dark mahogany with paintings of forest scenes hung around the periphery. Atop the couch lay Margaret, naked and apparently unconscious.

  Shit.

  After a well-lit establishing shot—the video had the sickening air of a professional videographer—two naked men in masquerade-style masks walked into the frame.

  Val stopped the video. If she watched any more, she might throw up. She’d known chances were high that Margaret’s trail would lead somewhere dark and disgusting, but it still made her sick to her stomach to confirm it. What would she tell Nora about her poor daughter? Nothing for now—no good would come of it. But Val’s investigation was far from over. The video had been posted two days ago, and Margaret hadn’t been tied up. The ligature marks Val saw in her vision must happen later. Margaret could still be alive, held captive somewhere. Finding her was Val’s number one priority.

  She cued up a program to make a copy of the video before someone pulled it down. Even on Rayvit, videos of sexual assaults were eventually flagged and deleted from the site. When Val brought the people responsible for Margaret’s kidnapping and rape to justice, the video would be a critical piece of evidence in court.

  As the file downloaded, she called Zach, a local hacker she kept on retainer.

  “Hi Val—”

  Someone yelled in the background, “Zachary, I’m not gonna ask you again to mow the lawn!”

  “In a minute, Mom, God!” Lowering his voice, he said, “Sorry. What’s up?”

  She would’ve laughed at the image of the teenage Goth kid pushing a lawn mower around, his black trench coat flapping behind him in the July breeze, if she weren’t in one of the worst moods of her life. “I’m sending you a link to a video on Rayvit. Don’t watch it. It’s not pretty. I need you to find out who posted it.”

  “Yeah, sure. Might take a few days if the dude knew what he was doing and covered his tracks well, just so you know. See, you can spoof an IP address by—”

  “Just work as fast as you can.”

  She hung up before he could finish one of the IT lectures he loved giving to anyone who’d listen.

  After e-mailing Zach the link, she backtracked to the top of the thread where the “Celine’s Sweet Spot” video had been uploaded. She read the title of the latest post, dropped just a couple of hours ago: “Red Delicious.” Her breathing stopped.

  Oh God no.

  Her hand trembled on the mouse. She should wait for Stacey to come home and ask her friend to look at the video. That was the best thing to do, for her mental health. Maybe it wasn’t her. Nah, it wasn’t her. Val clicked on the video.

  This time, a beige wall decorated with framed movie posters provided the backdrop for a white leather sofa. A naked redhead lay on the couch, also unconscious.

  It was Val.

  A naked man in a mask entered the frame and propped her legs up on his shoulders—


  Val closed her browser. She put a hand over her mouth and stared at the floor while the world spun. For a moment she couldn’t move, every muscle in her body paralyzed like the woman in the video. Then the despair that threatened to overtake her transformed in an instant to pure, hot rage.

  Someone would pay for this. Someone would die for this. They had her word.

  Chapter Five

  The nurse handed Val a small stack of papers and brochures with pictures of sad-looking women on the front.

  “We’ll let you know the results of the STD and pregnancy tests within forty-eight hours,” the nurse told Val in the hospital room. “We’ll also store the biological evidence we’ve gathered from you and your clothes, if you decide you’d like to make a police report.”

  Val gave her a single, weak nod. A police report—what a joke. She knew from other rape cases she’d worked that the police would be no help. Even if she made a report, the backlog was so large it would be months—maybe even years—before they got around to running the DNA through their criminal database. She’d only come to the hospital for STD tests and emergency contraception.

  “In the meantime, there are a lot of places you can go for support—group meetings, one-on-one counselors, anonymous chat rooms, and other resources. It’s all in there.” The nurse pointed to Val’s papers.

  Val supposed it’d be rude to throw the papers away right in front of the nurse. “Can I go now?”

  The nurse nodded, then touched Val’s shoulder. “It gets better, honey.”

  “Yes, it will,” Val said with a dark edge that made the older woman frown.

  Val brushed past the well-meaning nurse and stalked through the maze of sterile hospital hallways until she found the exit. Stacey stood from where she’d been waiting in the lobby. They walked in silence to Stacey’s car.

  From the driver’s seat, Stacey asked in a tiny voice, “What now?”

  Val took a deep breath. The next thing to do was to watch the video in detail and record every clue she could find about where her and Margaret’s attacks had taken place and who the perpetrators might be, then go back to the Pana Sea with the gloves off and start fucking shit up. Val opened her mouth to explain the plan to Stacey, but her voice choked before she could get a word out. A sob ripped from her chest instead. She put her head in her hands and cried as Stacey leaned over and hugged her tight.