James PATTERSON - The Big Bad Wolf

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 .

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.

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.’

Another uncomfortable silent moment passed, and then the Art Director chose to speak.

‘Your children are just fine. That’s all I’ll tell you,’ he said. ‘You should eat.’

‘How could you know my children are all right?’ she sniffed. ‘You can’t.’

‘Audrey, you’re in no position to make demands. Not anymore. That life is behind you.’

He was tall, maybe six feet two and well-built, with a thick, bushy black beard and flashing blue eyes that seemed intelligent to her. She guessed that he was around fifty. He’d told her to call him Art Director . No rhyme or reason for the name, not yet anyway, nor any other explanation for what had happened so far.

‘I was concerned myself, so I called your house. The children are there with your nanny and husband. I promise. I wouldn’t lie to you, Audrey. I’m different from you in that respect.’

Audrey shook her head. ‘I’m supposed to trust you? Your word?’

‘I think it would be a good idea, yes. Why not? Who else can you trust out here? Yourself of course. And me. That’s all there is. You’re miles and miles away from anybody else. It’s just us two. Please get used to it. You like your scrambled eggs a little soft, right? Fluffy? Isn’t that the word you use?’

‘Why are you doing this?’ Audrey asked, getting braver since he hadn’t actually threatened her yet. ‘What are the two of us doing here?’

He sighed. ‘All in due time, Audrey. For now, let’s just say it’s an unhealthy obsession. It’s more complicated, actually, but let’s leave it at that for now.’ She was surprised by the answer – he knew he was a freaking nutcase, didn’t he? Was that good or bad, though, that he knew exactly what he was doing?

‘I’d like to keep you free like this as much as possible. I don’t want you kept in bondage, for God’s sake. Not even the ropes. Please don’t try to run away, or it won’t be possible. Okay?’

He seemed so reasonable at times. Seemed . Christ! Wasn’t this the most insane thing? Of course it was. But insane things happened all the time to people.

‘I want to be your friend,’ he said as he served her breakfast – the eggs cooked just so, twelve-grain toast, herbal tea, boysenberry jam. ‘I’ve cooked all the things you like. I want to treat you like you deserve. You can trust me, Audrey. Start by trusting me just a little bit… Try your eggs. Fluffy. They’re delish.’

I was marking time at Quantico and I didn’t like it much. I attended my classes the next morning, then an hour of fitness training. At noon, I went to the Dining Hall Building to see what Monnie Donnelley had collected so far on White Girl. She had a small, cramped cubicle on the third floor. On one wall was a collage of photos and photocopies of bits of evidence from brutally violent crimes arranged in an eye-catching cubist’s fantasy.

I rapped my knuckles against her metal nameplate before entering the cube.

Monnie turned and smiled when she saw me standing there. I noticed glossy photos of her sons and a funny portrait of Monnie, the sons, and also one of Pierce Brosnan as debonair, sexy James Bond. ‘Hey, look who’s back for more punishment. You can tell by the size of my digs that the Bureau doesn’t yet realize that this is the Information Age, what Bill Clinton used to call The Third Way. You know the joke – the Bureau supports yesterday’s technology tomorrow.’

‘Any information for me?’

Monnie swiveled back to her computer, an IBM. ‘Let me print up a few of these choice pieces for your burgeoning collection. I know you like hard copies. Dinosaur.’