by Jay Kerk
I gave her the bus tickets and money, and she argued that she didn’t really need to take the bus. I told her that if the police looked for her, they would see her on the security footage from the various stations. She argued more about the motel but came around eventually. I told her I’d pick her up between two to four days from then, depending on the police. She easily agreed to leave her phone, and I gave her a burner replacement promising her a smartphone soon.
She left the letter in the morning and went on her route. She texted me once she was settled, but said she was afraid to be alone. I expected a call from Melanie, she had no one, but she didn’t call.
That evening, I went to Melanie’s. She was wasted and hadn’t eaten in a few days. She was in a confused state—she didn’t make sense. I had expected a totally different reaction from her. I’d thought she would sob and shout, then call the police, but she did nothing, and I thought she would O.D. within a year or less. The enemy of the addict was money. Having the resources for drugs brought the demise of such people. Worthless shit.
I didn’t know what to do. I would certainly tell Sylvie that her mother hadn’t shed a tear over her, might make her feel better about leaving.
I decided to call the police myself, and after being transferred and waiting for half an hour, I got to someone. I asked about the wait, and they replied this wasn’t an emergency, but anyway I explained everything.
“How old is the girl?”
“I guess sixteen or seventeen. Something like that. I’m not sure, honestly.” She would turn fourteen in a few months.
The lady on the phone transferred me to another department, and I asked about the waiting time and received the same response. I’d thought the fuss would be more prominent like you see in movies about missing people. The guy who answered explained to me the difference between runaway cases and missing people cases. He said about a million runaway cases are filed a year, and the actual number of runaways crossed three million.
“We can’t track down every rebellious teenager, or everyone who fails a class and decides they can make it on their own. Most of them return home on their own, and sometimes, it’s better for them to leave.”
I became ecstatic about this revelation, a significant break for me, the loophole I needed, they don’t look for runaways, as in murder - no body and no crime! This was the path to finding my Alpha in case Sylvie wasn’t the one. I texted Sylvie and told her I could pick her up tomorrow morning, and the news made her happy. I didn’t tell her the details of my phone call, better to let her think the police were searching for her so she’d stay inside, which she needed to do for the plan to work.
A week passed, and then another, and Melanie kept sinking deeper. I felt so happy living with Sylvie, and she was so much fun to be around. Spending this much time together made me realize that she was great and everything, she would help me transform, but sadly she wasn’t my Alpha. She was stubborn about sharing me, so how could I ever hope to take her hunting with me, let alone help me spread my message.
I had to keep searching for my Alpha.
I asked her to pack an essentials bag and to get ready for a special night out. We would sleep in a motel then take a hike through the woods together the next morning before dawn.
That day, I visited the place alone, a perfect location with no cameras, and I could park within meters of the room. I rented three rooms for three days, and we would stay in the one in the middle. That way, we heard no one, and no one heard us.
We came back together that evening, around eight. We had dinner. We joked and laughed. She said, “Why are you looking at me like that?” I answered because she was so special. I’d never imagined that someone would love me like this, so much that they would leave their home for me. We were on the run together, a dream come true.
We made love, we drank juice, we watched a movie. She was sitting next to me on the bed in her undies and a bra. I told her to put her clothes on, “Why? Are we going somewhere?” she asked. I told her no, but I wanted to have sex with her, and I wanted every detail to be perfect.
“But you have to be patient,” I said. “We’ll do something rough, okay?”
She nodded and said, “Ooh la la! Teach me what you want, Sam. Everything.”
I didn’t do anything differently, but I took my time. I enjoyed the salty sweat on her body. When I was inside her, I put my hands around her throat and squeezed. She couldn’t take a breath. I released, and she felt the pleasure. She came a second, then a third time. I hadn’t yet.
We rested a bit then started again.
“I want you to come again,” I said to her and she nodded.” I pressed harder on her throat, but this time, I didn’t release, and I had the best orgasm of my life.
She gasped for breath. I leaned forward and told her I loved her so much. She scratched me with her nails, tried to pull my hands off, punched me. I leaned back, and said, “I swear to you I’ll never love anyone like I love you. You’re part of something huge. In a way, you made me what I am.” Her arms fell down gradually, and I kept on pressing until she had no pulse.
She lay there, and I stood over her body for an hour. I slept next to her, only for one hour. I didn’t need more; elite warriors didn’t need more. When I woke up, her body was cold and stiff. I kissed her on her forehead. I brought a suitcase from the trunk of the car and crammed her into it, cracking her bones in the process. I cleaned the whole room with bleach spray, put the suitcase in the trunk, and drove home.
I had redecorated my basement for her arrival. She was a special guest, my eternal companion. I painted the walls yellow with stripes of red, but not too thick. On one side behind the screens, I made them vertical, and one the other two the stripes were horizontal. Nothing could be done about the stairs, but come to think of it, I thought I should dismantle the stairs and create a different entry point.
I’d dug the hole a few days before so it would be ready when we arrived. I placed her in, mixed the new cement, and filled the hole.
I thought a lot about Xeris_Light2323. I wanted to reach out, but he or she never stayed in one place for too long.
I typed a new message and sent it out on a few platforms.
Thank you. Now I have seen it all, and I have done it all. We should work together. Reach out. Let’s find the people who belong together…
A day later, the response came. Let’s do it. We need to discuss this. I’ll send you the details for a secure place.
PART 5
JASON
CHAPTER 1:
BREEZE
Life had gotten better, and so had I. I didn’t drink as much as I’d used to, and Cynthia kept tabs on me. I jogged with my dog, buddy, in the neighborhood, and I gradually gained some weight. I startled myself when I looked in the mirror: I’d grown a beard and sometimes forgot to trim it.
I couldn’t have said that life was a breeze, though. Not a day passed when I didn’t think about my family every few minutes. The great times were when I forgot.
I felt terrible for Mathew. He wasn’t discussed on national TV or social media as a missing boy, and he wasn’t on the back of milk cartons. Luke and Danny Miller explained that the circumstances of the kidnapping defined how much the public engaged with the children. Evidently, our circumstances weren’t good.
I knew deep down, but I’d never wanted to consider the possibility that he might have been taken by a criminal ring that trafficked children to abuse them. I had heard something about such a ring having a website with thousands of children for customers to choose from. Customers would take a flight to the ring’s place, somewhere, and do what they wanted. How shameful. What a tragedy.
Alternatively, black market organ sellers could have kidnapped him, but I wondered who would find a match in my son. Unless the criminals tried to enrich the bank of donors, also possible. However, these motives didn’t fit with the nature of the crime committed against us.
I tried calling up the police. “This is Jason Stankovic. I wan
t to follow up on my son’s case. He’s missing.”
The detective responded that old leads went cold, and nothing new had come in. He said, “Have you considered hypnosis, to help you remember… what you did.”
I was furious and didn’t hold back on him, but he hung up on me. They didn’t work cold cases, and that was final.
Someone else on the force told me that of the thousands of missing children cases, they prioritized the most recent ones in which the children still had a chance of being alive. Yup, alive. Without any emotional consideration, they’d tell a father there was a 99% his child was dead without imagining the toll it took on him. I was beyond sad, not depressed, crushed. My chest was so tight and painful; I thought I was having a heart attack.
I checked online for informative sources about child abduction. Although a big range of probability, a tab on one website named “know by days since day zero” scared me, and showed ridiculously small numbers for after 2 years of disappearance. I decided it meant nothing, I chose to believe Mathew was still alive and we would be reunited. I read pages written by other parents. They all talked about how the doubt, the not knowing, is the toughest part. I didn’t agree. I feared someone abused Mathew and killed him, this was the worst.
Cynthia was my backbone during this period. I joked and told her she could do the thinking on my behalf, and I would do whatever she planned for me. This covered eating, dressing, and exercising. I much preferred her place, both the view and the neighborhood, but because of Buddy, I stayed at my house, and she slept over most nights. I hadn’t asked her to move in yet, but I would soon.
Danny Miller did her job well enough—as instructed and nothing more, I wished she would go the extra mile, but that never happened. She shortlisted six guys in the end, a garbage man among them, but Danny didn’t even want to hear my suggested theory. She said, “You’re the boss, no need to explain. I only get you what you need. Whether or not it makes sense, I don’t care.” I never tried to include her in my thinking again, but she was reliable and trustworthy.
She confronted half these men with photos and recorded their facial expressions when they first saw the pictures of Lea and Lisa, and according to the experts who analyzed the reactions, none of them had ever seen my girls before. She also confirmed they don’t keep crime memorabilia or a trophy in their houses. When I asked her how she knew about what they stored in their homes, and whether she broke in, she answered she had ways of knowing what is inside without breaking in. She said, “My men can be your everyday plumber, city inspectors for gas leaks and what not. We didn’t break any laws, they showed us around their place.”
The other three were an enigma. Two of them were believed to have left the country, and Danny said that was normal—even kidnappers went on vacation or fled the country. I thought to myself that an abuser who wanted to kidnap a child might find it more successful outside the country, in places with less security.
Danny argued that offenders could have traveled to wherever they wanted and rented sexual services. “They can even buy children in some places. You don’t know what a crazy jungle it is beyond the borders. If purchasing didn’t work, then they would abduct children in countries where the average number of children per household was huge.”
The only elusive suspect was the garbage man who had used a fake name that wasn’t listed in any criminal databases. His colleagues’ memories of him were fading, they recall he made unusual advances to a woman at work, and afterward, he disappeared. He vanished as if he no longer existed. I asked Danny to spare no effort in figuring out who this man was.
She agreed to send agents to track down the two people who had left the country. She had some recognized achievements as a PI, and she always used the practical approach of both a field agent and a consultant. I had faith in her work. The bills tripled; we had agents in multiple countries now, including the people following up on leads about Mathew. I was sure Luke saw the statements, but he didn’t discourage me, he knew I had to do everything I possibly could.
Time passed by, we had no success abroad, and Danny kept searching for the garbage man. I promised not to obsess over any leads, but this one got to me.
I went to the bloody group meetings for sex addicts and offenders, and it seemed okay, none of the attendees seemed creepy. This was a new part of my life. After a few meetings, I realized that someone had done me a favor by placing me in a good group, predominated by sex addicts rather than offenders. The people in the group were regular struggling artists or businessmen describing how they’d fallen into pornography addiction, or this is what I assumed. They could have been offenders, but during the meeting, they would only highlight their addiction.
“Hello. My name is Jay.” I sighed. “I’m an addict.” It never got any easier to say that, even though it is easier than saying I was an offender. I thought someone would call me out for being something else, for not being an addict, but no one did. I spoke about the overwhelming options on the pornographic sites, how I had to see it all, and how my addiction had started. Others described how they’d developed rituals: they’d cook dinner and masturbate before and after, hide in a bathroom stall at work…
I kept my head low, listened, and avoided participation. I enjoyed listening to the stories, and the determination of some people to get laid surprised me. It was better than reality TV. I was disgusted by one person who used his sex addiction to justify his cheating, but nobody else seemed to be annoyed. The group even gasped when he said that he hadn’t known he was an addict. I didn’t buy it because he displayed no signs of shame or remorse.
The dullest part, which didn’t come until near the end of meetings, annoyed me the most. When people shared why they thought they had become sex addicts and how controlling their addictions had helped them reach their potential, like a before-and-after weight loss commercial. I imagined myself speaking: Before becoming an addict; I had a family. After becoming an addict, I lost my family. They committed me. Did I mention the accusation of sleeping with my daughter?
We met three times a week, and I couldn’t help feeling the meetings were a waste of time. I simply wasn’t a sex addict, in fact, I was below-average when it came to sexual drive.
It was my turn to clean up the meeting room before the next one started. It took two minutes to arrange the chairs and remove the SAA sign, but I had to wait for the next group.
I imagined meeting someone from work. In the beginning, I’d thought they might be here for something as bad as I was, but then I thought they might be coming for a regular group, like bridge or bingo. I always worried about someone in the following meeting recognizing me, although I’d forgotten which group came in next.
“Hi,” a man behind me said. My heart pumped an extra beat, but I stayed calm.
“Hello,” I stood up.
“Oh, sorry,” He jolted a bit. I hadn’t stood up quickly, so he shouldn’t have been startled, this kept me wondering about his reaction. I hoped he didn’t recognize me from somewhere.
He shook his head, then said, “Do I know you from somewhere?” He gave a fake laugh. He kept smiling, also fake, tiny wrinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes—a clear sign of a labored smile.
“I’m about to leave. Am I supposed to give the key to you?” I asked. His face was familiar, but I didn’t recall him from work or Lisa’s office. He actually looked like me when I was healthy, not mind-blowingly similar as though a doppelganger but same built, features, and hairline.
“Yeah, sure.” I handed him the key. “I want to ask you something, and I’m sorry if I’m being a pain, but you’re in the SAA group, right?”
I nodded.
“So, about the group here. How big is it? And is it totally private? Like, do people mess up and leak something out?”
“It’s cool,” I told him. “Privacy is very important. People leave their phones outside, and people can use fake names. There are eleven of us in the group. I recommended it if you’re searching.” I was so eager
to leave before others started coming.
“Yeah, I’m thinking of joining. Do you think it works? You know, in controlling it?”
For the first time, I looked into his eyes, and they were still as if they were lifeless or empty.
“I don’t know, works very well for me,” I replied. “You can drop your contact details in the box, and they will contact you.” I hoped that would end the conversation.
“Yeah. I might.” He turned and walked a couple steps. “One more question. Last one—I promise. Do they take severe cases? Are there any severe cases that can’t be controlled? In your group, specifically.”
“I am not sure, some must be severe. This is a support group, doesn’t matter how severe, and I don’t think they turn anyone down.” I said, and he nodded. His disappointment surprised me, maybe he didn’t want to label himself as a severe case.
I added, “Listen. I don’t know for sure, but I think most of the people in the group didn’t have severe addictions. Each one has their own story, and they use the group for their benefit as it suits them. Probably one or two who had severe addictions and got better along the way. For god’s sake, one guy is a cheater and by no means an addict, and he still finds the help he needs.”
He hissed and shook his head in disagreement. “Worthless shit.” He sharply pronounced the S.
I frowned at him.
“Not you.” He laughed, also fake. “I mean the cheater.”
I smiled back out of courtesy, although I didn’t find it funny. We walked to the door.
“I gotta go. What group are you in? The one coming next?”
“Alcoholics. AA,” he said, and I left.
He’d lied. The next meeting was NA. I’d just seen one of the group’s leaflets: Tuesdays at 9 p.m. Perhaps he wanted to hide which substances he abused, addiction is a private matter.
The encounter with the stranger unsettled me for no apparent reason. I had a few drinks, and smoked a lot; I enjoyed the fact that Cynthia wasn’t coming over that night, felt like a cheat night.