Irresistible

by Andrew J. Peters

  Brendan didn’t know what to think. The lieutenant’s deduction was, on the one hand, reassuring. But was this to be the extent of his interest in the matter?

  Constantinides stood and came around his desk. “I am sorry for your troubles. On your wedding day of all things! It pains me that you and your guests should have such problems on our beautiful island.” He looked down at Brendan, who was still seated in his chair, unable to move. “I do not believe any harm has come to your fiancé, but I myself will search this place where his belongings were found.” He gestured to the plastic bag. “May I keep them?”

  “Of course,” Brendan said. He then remembered he’d brought a photograph of Cal, which he’d downloaded from his phone and printed out at the hotel business center. He handed it to the lieutenant.

  Constantinides glanced at the photo twice. “A handsome man, your fiancé. In Greek, we call this kouklos. Like a teen idol, you would say. Inspiring the strongest and most stirring passion.”

  Brendan smiled weakly. He stood, and the lieutenant ushered him from the office.

  LATER THAT DAY, Brendan hiked the beach to the place where the groundskeeper had found Cal’s flip-flop and bracelet. He knew he was no police detective, but he needed to see the spot himself, to feel like he had the slightest use since Cal had disappeared. Clearly, the local police would do nothing. After his exasperating visit with Lieutenant Constantinides, Brendan had gone over to the ferry station with Grandad and the Panagopoulos men to canvas the employees with a photo of Cal, describing in detail what he’d been wearing. The ferry was the only way off the island, unless Cal had somehow hired a private boat. None of the ferry employees recognized Cal, and they didn’t exactly do a brisk business at this time of the year. There were only two trips off the island each day, one in the morning and one at night.

  Returning to the hotel, Cal’s family mobilized a door-to-door search of the island, calling on their network of relatives and sending the brothers on foot and mule to comb the island’s more rugged regions. Grandad had placed a phone call to a U.S. senator, an old, family chum, in order to exert international pressure on the Greek authorities. The rest of the hotel guests were holed up at the pool bar in varying states of languor and distress.

  The hotel groundskeeper had staked a wooden post at the spot where he’d found Cal’s things. Brendan stood there, looking out to the boundless seascape. It was low tide, and the shallows were indeed rocky and inhospitable as the police lieutenant had said. Brendan kicked off his sandals and walked into the surf.

  Hard pebbles bit his feet, and he had to maneuver very gingerly around bigger, jagged stones, while the icy, weltering current had him swaying for balance. It was nearly intolerable, but Brendan waded in farther, searching for evidence of Cal. Why would Cal have gone swimming in the spot? Brendan trudged out a good ten yards from shore, and the water was only at his knees. It didn’t make sense that Cal would have gone into the water and struggled, or intentionally tried to end his life, or that foul play had been involved. Beyond the fact his body should have been easily found, as Constantinides had said, the shoal was a terrible place to wade into. If Cal had been determined to drown himself, he’d have picked an easier place to trudge into the sea. Any criminal who might have tried to wrestle him down would have had a very difficult time on the sharp rocks. Who would have done that anyway? Cal had no enemies, and the beach was so remote. A criminal would have had to have planned to follow and attack him. There was access to the beach from the hotel, but Brendan observed no trails down from the inland cliffs as far as he could see.

  Glancing toward the shore, he spotted a solitary figure standing on the beach. Squinting, Brendan recognized Derek in a Syracuse University sweatshirt and baggy shorts, both of which were much too big for his skinny frame. Brendan waded toward him. The kid was downcast and shivering.

  “Hey,” he greeted Derek. The young man barely looked up at him. Though Derek was wearing sunglasses, Brendan had the distinct impression he’d been crying. Derek had to be wrecked by his best friend’s disappearance. Brendan joined him at the water’s edge.

  He told Derek about his dealings with the police. “They’re completely useless. They think Cal’s sulking somewhere because we had a fight.” Brendan was glad for Derek’s company. He could tell Derek understood how ominous the situation was. They both knew Cal intimately—that he wasn’t the kind of guy to run off sulking, kissing off everyone who cared about him.

  Derek hiccupped tears. He groaned out, “It’s all my fault.”

  Brendan looked upon him kindly. “How’s it your fault? I’m the bastard who made him run away on our wedding day.”

  Derek fidgeted around like there was some kind of torment eating away at him. “You don’t understand. I did this. I didn’t mean to. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.” He started hyperventilating. Brendan stared at him strangely. Derek blurted out, “It was me, Brendan. I put the condom and the bow tie in your room.”

  For a moment, a smile tweaked up on Brendan’s face from the impossibility of Derek doing something so absurd, so unconscionably conniving. Then, arisen from a vulnerable place, he was beguiled by a sense of absolution. He’d lost it for a reason back in the hotel room with Cal, and neither he nor Cal was to blame. Those were fleeting impressions, however, as the sinister nature of Derek’s confession sank in.

  “Why would you do that?”

  “I’m in love with Cal,” Derek whined. “Always have been. I was afraid of losing him to you.”

  Brendan’s body tensed up like a steel coil. A vein on the side of his brow throbbed. He stormed at Derek, ready to tear him apart. “Why would you fucking do that? You goddamn piece of shit.”

  Derek cowered away. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sorry,” Brendan spat out. He felt like a sheet had been pulled out from under his feet. He remembered Derek’s delight while telling him about Cal’s stalker, Steve. Could Derek have been a sexually obsessed psychopath all along? They say it takes one to know one. Could Derek’s plot have been even more desperate?

  “Where is he?” Brendan demanded. “What did you do to him?”

  “I don’t know where he is,” Derek said. “I thought the two of you would have a fight, and he’d just get upset.”

  Brendan grabbed him by the collar of his sweatshirt. “We had a fight. You made me accuse him of something he didn’t do. You fucking ruined our wedding. You ruined Cal.” Brendan was so disgusted he shoved Derek hard. Derek went toppling backward and fell on the pebbled beach. Brendan stood over him, thinking about a kick to the ribs or stooping down to punch him in the nose. Derek teared up and raised his hands pitifully. The burning embers inside Brendan cooled a bit.

  “Go ahead and hurt me,” Derek said. “I deserve it. I just had to tell you and say I’m sorry. I just want Cal back.”

  “You deserve a whole lot more hurt than I could ever give you,” Brendan said. “And you never deserved Cal. You’re a sick, demented, backstabbing fuckup.”

  “I know,” Derek moaned. “I’d take it all back if I could. I’d confess it all to Cal and walk out of everyone’s lives forever.”

  Brendan looked down at him with venom. “I never want to see your ugly face again. If you ever get anywhere near Cal, I’ll make you wish you were never born.”

  The despicable runt wiped his eyes and muttered to himself. “Beat you to that. I already wish I was never born.”

  “Spare me the melodrama,” Brendan told him. “Why can’t you be a fucking adult?”

  Derek gazed at him in what Brendan supposed was an attempt at earnestness. “I want to help, Brendan. You said the police are useless. I know you’ve got every reason not to trust me, but honest to god, you’ve got to believe me— I’d do anything to bring Cal back safe and sound.”

  Brendan snorted. “You’re right about one thing. I’ve got no reason to trust you. How the hell do you think you’re in any position to help?”

  “I don’t know,” Derek said. He
pushed himself up a little on his elbows, looking like a psychiatric patient who’d lost track of his surroundings.

  Brendan noticed for the first time how frighteningly pale he was. It thawed him a little, though only so much.

  “I saw something,” Derek told him. “Yesterday morning. It couldn’t have been much earlier than when Cal took off from the hotel. There was this tugboat out on the water. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. Maybe it means nothing. But if Cal came around this way, and there’s no other place he could’ve gone, I started thinking maybe it could’ve had something to do with him disappearing.”

  Brendan gave him a good look-over. More goddamn tricks? He’d never know for sure. But it brought to mind an idea.

  He reached his hand to help Derek up and hoisted him to his feet with more force than necessary. “You want to help? This is what you’re going to do. We’re going back to the police station together, and you’re going to tell them exactly what you saw. Then, when we get back to the hotel, you’re going to tell all the guests, including Cal’s family, what you did.” He gave Derek a shove down the beach in the direction of the water taxi dock.

  Chapter Fourteen

  CAL POUNDED HIS feet on the floor of the freight hold and cried out, “I have to pee.” He’d been holding his bladder for what had to have been hours because he didn’t relish a visit from the Romanian crooks. But it was bad enough being bound by hand and foot without pissing himself.

  He’d never known such agony. His back was spasming from being hunched over for so long, his wrists were torn raw from his attempts to free himself, and the hard metal floor bit into his tailbone. This was real, human suffering. His dental surgery for his wisdom teeth? A week in bed with the chicken pox? Cal dreamed about trading for one of those misfortunes.

  Meanwhile, he had to find the courage to face the thugs and hope for some opportunity to free his hands and legs and make a break for it. Maybe a rescue attempt was in the works, but maybe it wasn’t, and even if it was, his captors might decide to cut their losses long before help arrived. If he could work out a way to trick one of the guys to free his hands under the pretext of tending to his private business, he would give it a go to overpower the bastard. Based on his size in relation to the thugs, it would take the viciousness of an alley cat. He had to do it while he still had strength in his body. They hadn’t fed him or given him water. One day and night at sea had passed, and by the fading light from the porthole, it was getting on nighttime again.

  The vault door churned and clanged. Cal zeroed in on the entryway, which he’d noticed could only be locked from the outside. It pulled open, and one of the Eastern European gorillas appeared. He strode into the room, pulled the chain for the overhead light, and glared at Cal with umbrage. A metal pail swung from one of his big meat hooks.

  “I’ve gotta go to the bathroom,” Cal said.

  The guy squinted. As it appeared he didn’t know much English, Cal looked down at his lap and swiveled his hips, hoping to drive home the point. That little motion almost made him lose control of his bladder right then and there. He bit his lip. The big guy lumbered over and dropped the pail on the floor.

  “How am I supposed to use that?” Cal said. He tried to beseech some mercy by maneuvering his arms around the beam, behind which his hands had been pinioned.

  The thug looked him over, appearing to take account of the dilemma. He grunted something in Romanian and gestured with his hands. Loosely following, Cal twisted his legs under himself so he was slightly upright and leaning on his knees. The guy used his foot to slide the pail near Cal’s crotch.

  Cal stared up at him in disbelief. “You’ve got to untie my hands. Or at least untie my feet.”

  Horribly, the guy hunkered down in front of him, grasped the waistband of Cal’s shorts, and fumbled open the button and his zipper.

  “No. No,” Cal pleaded. He tried to squirm away, but his mobility was pitiful. The goon yanked his shorts and briefs down to his knees. Then he rattled over the pail into aiming distance.

  Cal felt like bawling, but the sight of the receptacle triggered a bodily need he could not contain. The water started streaming. He strained his hips to aim it into the bucket, but he was so confined, legs twisted and folded under, his piss went everywhere but the receptacle—the hammock of his briefs, his legs, the floor. Exquisite relief and bald humiliation all at once. He looked up to the thug as a child might search for answers from a stranger who had ground his face into a mound of dog shit. The mustached fink smiled at him in cruel amusement. He turned around and headed to the door.

  Just then, the boss man came to the door. He peeked at Cal, who was contorted in abject distress, and he clipped the henchman hard on the ear. Romanian reprimands and curses flew from the big guy’s mouth. His underling cowered from the vault, as much as a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound gangster could cower.

  Cal buried his gaze in his shoulder. He was exposed and soaked in his own urine from his thighs downward. The man stepped near. His bearing was quiet and gentle. Cal glanced at him. He’d stowed his cigar in his breast pocket, and he held a mug of steaming soup in one hand and a bottle of water tucked beneath one of his lumbering arms. He looked stricken by the sight of Cal’s discomfort. Did the gangster possess some humanity? Though Cal also noticed he’d brought along his gun, strapped to his shoulder holster.

  The guy had sealed closed the portal to the hold, which seemed a gallant gesture to protect Cal’s privacy. As he came over, Cal tried out a piteous expression, which wasn’t too hard to do, given the circumstances. The man set down the water and the soup and mumbled to himself in rancorous Romanian. He looked to Cal’s shorts and then up to his face in a gentlemanly way, skirting the parts in between. Cal nodded his head and maneuvered his legs so the guy would have an easier time pulling up his shorts. He stooped and did the deed.

  “Drink?” the man said.

  When Cal nodded again, he unscrewed the bottle cap and brought the top to Cal’s mouth. The water was cool and fresh and heavenly. He downed the entire bottle, which the guy tipped back very gently. He even brought out his red handkerchief from his suit jacket to dab at the spillage on Cal’s chin.

  Catching his breath, Cal uttered, “How long are you going to keep me here?”

  A musing look passed over the mobster’s bearded face. “This is complicated.”

  “Tell me about it. You’ve got me tied down like prison furniture. It’s not like I’m a flight risk. The door’s locked, and the only other way out is a porthole I could barely get my head through.”

  The man raised the mug of soup. “Eat?”

  Cal nodded. It looked like one of those fluorescent yellow, instant soup mixes, but the smell of food was wonderful. The man blew on it in case it was too hot. He carefully brought it to Cal’s lips. The broth was perfect—not too hot, not too cold. Cal drank it down. Only after he was done did it occur to him to not take food from strangers. His insides shrank. Did he just help himself to a dose of tranquilizers?

  It didn’t feel like he had. The boss man crouched at his side, gazing at him happily. His friendliness was hard for Cal to reject outright. It was always nice to be liked, and in his present situation, it was arguably pretty vital. He tried a play for sympathy.

  Cal looked down at his lap. “I haven’t wet myself since grade school. And now I’m supposed to sit in my wet shorts until we get to some kind of port?” He shivered. It got pretty cold in the hold at night.

  The boss man looked like he’d picked up the music but not the words. Cal jostled his bottom half. He grimaced. He was patient. Finally, a light bulb went off in the man’s head.

  “I bring you.”

  He raised himself to his feet with a groan and stepped stiffly from the room.

  The guy was getting on in years. That could work in Cal’s favor. Unless he collapsed on top of Cal while he was trying to get away. He had to be at least twice Cal’s weight.

  Alone, Cal’s heartbeat raced. This was going to
be his chance. He could appeal to the mobster’s surprising good nature and ask him to give him the dignity of dressing himself. With his hands and legs free, he would figure out a way to grab the guy’s gun and hold him back and race out the door. What he’d have to deal with out and about on the boat was even scarier to consider, so Cal left the plan at that. One desperate act at a time. He heard a clop of footsteps returning and composed himself sullenly.

  The boss man brought in a handful of garments and stood at Cal’s feet. He brandished the clothes proudly. “This for you. Make you good again.”

  Cal raised his hands feebly behind the beam. He winced until he felt a tear sprout from his eye. In his side vision, he saw the man’s face deflate, and then his eyes fixed in on him with concern.

  “This is all so demoralizing,” Cal moaned. “I can’t even dress myself.”

  “I help you.”

  Cal shook his head languidly. “What does it matter anyway? These ropes are so tight; my wrists are torn to shreds. I can’t feel my feet. If I can’t get out of these ropes and into a comfortable position, you might as well just leave me as I am.”

  The boss stepped around the beam to look at Cal’s hands. He muttered a pitiful oath and came around to face Cal again.

  “You see what you did?” Cal said with a pout.

  The mobster’s expression turned dark and grim. It was something like an old cartoon in which Bluto was being chastened by Olive Oyl. He gazed at Cal sharply.

  “You be a good boy?”

  A little glow grew inside Cal, but he did not let it show on his face. “I’ve been tied up for so long, I’m practically an invalid. I don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about.”