The DJ had just selected a Strokes tune and several couples were dancing the night away. The Couple fit in, which is to say that they didn’t stand out. Slava wore a baby blue T-shirt and Dockers, and had gelled his longish black hair. Zoya had on a raffish sailing cap and made herself up to look like a pretty young male. She had succeeded beyond her own expectations for she had already been hit on.
She and Slava were looking for a certain physical ‘type’, and they had found a promising prospect soon after they arrived. His name, they would learn later, was Benjamin Coffey, and he was a senior at Providence College. Benjamin had first become aware that he was gay while serving as an altar boy at St Thomas in Barrington, Rhode Island. No priest ever touched or abused him while he was there, or even came on to him, but he discovered a like-minded altar server, and they became lovers when they were both fourteen. The two had continued to meet through high school, but then Benjamin moved on.
He was still keeping his sex life a secret at Providence College, but he could be himself in the Pink District. The Couple watched the very handsome boy as he chatted up a thirtysomething bartender, whose toned muscles were set off by the track lighting over his head.
‘The boy could be on the cover of GQ,’ said Slava. ‘He’s the one.’
A strapping man in his fifties approached the bar. Close behind him were four younger males and a woman. Everyone in the group was wearing white ducks and blue Lacoste shirts. The bartender turned away from Benjamin and shook hands with the older man, who then turned to introduce his companions. ‘David Skalah. Crew. Henry Galperin. Crew. Bill Lattanzi. Crew. Sam Hughes. Cook. Nora Hamerman. Crew.’
‘And this’, the bartender said, ‘is Ben.’
‘It’s Benjamin,’ the boy corrected, and smiled brilliantly.
Zoya snuck a look at Slava and the two of them couldn’t help grinning. ‘The boy is just what we want,’ she said. ‘He’s like a cleaned-up version of Brad Pitt.’
He was definitely the physical ‘type’ that the client had specified: slender, blond, boyish, still probably a teenager, luscious red lips, intelligent-looking. That was a must – intelligence. And the buyer wanted no part of ‘chicken hawks’, young boys who sold themselves on the street.
Ten minutes or so passed, then the Couple followed Benjamin to the bathroom, which was white on white and sparkling clean. Illustrations of nautical knots had been drawn on the walls. There was a table elaborately set with colognes, mouthwashes, a teak box filled with amyl nitrite poppers.
Benjamin headed into one of the stalls and the Couple pushed in after him. It was a tight squeeze.
He turned when he felt a hard shove. ‘Taken,’ he said. ‘I’m in here. Jesus, are you two stoned? Give me a break.’
‘Arm or leg?’ said Slava, and laughed at his own joke.
They forced him to his knees. ‘Hey, hey,’ he called out in alarm. ‘Somebody help me. Somebody!’
A gauzy cloth was pressed tightly against his nose and mouth, and he became unconscious. Then the Couple lifted Benjamin up and supported him on either side, carrying him from the bathroom as if they were buddies helping someone who’d passed out.
They took him out a back door to a parking lot filled with convertibles and SUVs. The Couple didn’t care if they were seen, but they were careful not to hurt the boy. No bruises. He was worth a lot of money. Somebody wanted him badly.
Another purchase.
Chapter Thirty-One
The buyer’s name was Mr Potter.
It was the code name he used when he wanted to make a purchase from Sterling, when he and the seller communicated for any reason. Potter was very happy with Benjamin and he’d told this to the Couple when they dropped the package at his farm in Webster, New Hampshire, which had a population of a little more than fourteen hundred – a place where no one bothered you. Ever. The farmhouse he owned there was partially restored, with white antique wood shingling, two stories, a new roof. About a hundred yards behind it sat a red barn, the ‘guest house’. This was where Benjamin would be kept, where the others before him had been stored as well.
The house and barn were surrounded by more than sixty acres of woods and farmland, which had belonged to Potter’s family, and now were his. He didn’t live on the farm, but in Hanover, fifty-two miles away, where he toiled as an assistant professor of English at Dartmouth.
God, he couldn’t take his eyes off Benjamin. Of course, the boy couldn’t see him. Couldn’t speak. Not yet. A hood made of burlap completely covered his face. He was gagged, and his hands and legs were bound by police handcuffs.
Other than that, Benjamin wore nothing but a sliver of silver thong, which looked precious on him. The sight of the very handsome young man took Potter’s breath away for the third or fourth or tenth time since he’d taken possession of him. The maddening thing about teaching at Dartmouth these past five years was: you could watch, but you could not touch the boys who went there. It was frustrating beyond belief to be that close to his heart’s desire, but now – it almost seemed worth it. Benjamin was his reward. For waiting. For being good.
He moved close to the boy, inches at a time. Finally, he slid his hand through the waves of thick blond hair. Benjamin jumped! He actually shivered and shook uncontrollably. That was nice.
‘It’s all right… to be afraid,’ Potter whispered. ‘There’s a strange joy to be found in fear. Trust me on that, Benjamin. I’ve been there. I know exactly what you’re feeling now.’
Potter could barely stand it! This was just too much of a great thing, a dream come true. He had been denied this forbidden pleasure – and now here was this absolutely perfect, beautiful, stunning young man.
What was this? Benjamin was trying to speak through his gag and hood. Potter wanted to hear the boy’s sweet voice, to see his luscious mouth move, to look into his eyes. He bent forward and kissed the place where the boy’s mouth ought to be. He actually felt Benjamin’s lips underneath, their softness.
Then Mr Potter couldn’t stand it for one second more. His fingers fumbling, incoherent whispers seeping from his mouth, his body shaking as if he had palsy, he lifted off the hood and looked at Benjamin’s face.
He also let the boy see him.
‘May I call you Benjy?’ he whispered.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Another of the captives – Audrey Meek – watched this obscene deviate, possibly an insane captor, as he calmly and coolly fixed her breakfast. She was bound by rope, loosely, but she couldn’t run. She couldn’t believe any of this was happening, had happened, and presumably would continue happening. She was being held in a nicely furnished cabin – somewhere, who knew where – and she was still flashing back to the incredible moment when she had been grabbed at the King of Prussia Mall, when they yanked her away from Sarah and Warren. Dear God, were the children all right?
‘My children?’ Audrey asked again. ‘I have to know for sure they’re all right. I want to talk to them. I won’t do anything you ask until I speak to them. Not even eat.’