BYLINE FOR PERIL
By Chet
CHAPTER TWO
Samantha drove her crystal blue Dodge Stratus down Damen Avenue through Wicker Park, Chicago’s answer to New York’s SoHo district, trendy and esoteric, filled with night spots and art galleries. The neighborhood was under pressure from those developers with deep pockets who hungered to gentrify the area, transform it into another Lincoln Park packed with high-priced condominiums for upwardly mobile young professionals and a Starbuck’s Coffee shop on every corner.
She came to one of the city’s infamous six-way intersections, this one at Damen, Milwaukee and North avenues, and was held up at a red light. She checked the address for Cowle Photography once more, it was just a little further south in the fifteen hundred block. She glanced up at the elevated tracks of the Chicago Transit Authority, watched a Blue Line train trundle into the Damen station on its way out to O’Hare International Airport. The light turned green and Samantha drove through the intersection and continued down Damen.
Cowle Photography occupied a nondescript storefront, just like all the other storefronts lining Damen Avenue, nothing threatening at all about the location. Samantha eased the Dodge Stratus into the nearest open space, which was four doors down, and parked. Before she stepped out she freshened up her makeup, what little she wore for her beauty was quite wholesome and natural and didn’t need any artificial enhancement.
Samantha gazed into the rearview mirror and she could see the uncertainty in her dark brown eyes reflected back at her. Am I doing the right thing? She wondered. Perhaps she should contact the police first, let them know about this Marcus Cowle.
As quickly as the doubt surfaced it disappeared with a resolute shake of her head. No, I have to check it out first, she convinced herself. Samantha was certain she could handle whatever situation arose in the next few minutes. She had no idea that boundless, yet naïve self-confidence would prove to be her undoing.
Samantha got out of the car and walked up to the door of Cowle Photography, not at all apprehensive. It was the middle of the day, what could possibly happen to her? She opened the door, heard the bell signal her entrance, and stepped inside. The lighting was muted, the furniture sparse, only a desk and a leather couch in this front room. On the walls were examples of the photographer’s skill, framed picture prints of beautiful women in provocative poses.
“Yes, can I help you?” At the desk sat a thin man Samantha estimated to be in his middle to late twenties, not much older than herself. She halted for a brief moment, clutching the strap of her attaché, unsure if she wanted to go on with this. If you want to find out what happened to Kristen Lawrence you will, Samantha reassured her resurgent anxieties. It’s the only way I can find out.
“My name’s Samantha Grayson,” she said, smiling and stepping forward, trying not to appear nervous.
“I’m Marcus, Marcus Cowle,” he replied softly. His face was shallow-cheeked with a hawk’s beak of a nose, his dark eyes were unsettling as they pierced her defenses. Lisa Mahone was right, he gave Samantha the creeps as well. “What can I do for you today?”
“I’m interested in becoming a model and one of my friends gave me your card,” Samantha said as she fished the business card out of her pocket and handed it to the proprietor.
“Who was it that recommended me to you,” Cowle asked politely, but Samantha could sense he was wary.
“Kristen Lawrence,” Samantha replied without batting an eyelash, continuing with the front of a pleasant smile. Cowle didn’t react to the statement. Or at least he didn’t show it.
His gaze slowly trailed over Samantha-she knew when she was being checked out, it happened all the time in clubs-appraising like a buyer of fine artwork what he saw. At five foot five she was a touch on the small side to be a model, but her shapely figure and full mane of luxuriant auburn hair and captivating brown eyes likely convinced him to take a chance on her. The satin blouse and short skirt, and the toned legs sheathed in off-black glimmering nylon hose, didn’t hurt either. “Tell you what, I have to set up the studio,” he jerked is thumb towards the back, “should take me about five minutes. Then we’ll take some shots and see how they turn out.” Cowle motioned to the couch by the wall. “Why don’t you take a seat there while you wait?”
Samantha offered him her warmest smile. “Thank you,” she said and sat down, waiting for him to leave. Five minutes was more than enough time to do a little snooping around.
Samantha waited until he was in the back room and could hear him moving objects about, then she shot up from the couch and tiptoed quietly over to the desk. She quickly scanned the top of the desk, rifling through the stacks of files and prints. A desk almost as disorganized as her own back at the Daily Husky offices. But she found absolutely nothing to heighten her suspicions, or link Marcus Cowle to the disappearance of Kristen Lawrence or the other missing coeds.
She moved onto the drawers, opening the top drawer first. Nothing but pens, markers and other business supplies inside. She kept an ear tuned to the sounds in back, ready to bolt back to the couch if she heard Cowle returning. She moved onto the top drawer on the right side, opened it up as quietly as possible. On top was a thick manila folder and she pulled it out, flipping it open.
Her pulse quickened and her breathing became rapid as she saw the contents. Full color and black and white prints of Kristen Lawrence in modeling poses; the flowing brown hair, the adorable blue eyes, the angelic face, the carefree, radiant smile. So Kristen had been here! He had lied to Lisa. But why? And what had he done with Kristen?
Samantha continued to examine the prints until one made her freeze in place, her heart skipping a beat. No, this can’t be right, she thought dizzily looking at the photo, this can’t be Kristen.
But it was.
Bound and gagged? The posed posture was replaced with Kristen lying prone on a couch, rope looped and cinched brutally around her slender body. Strips of silver duct tape were plastered over her mouth. The blue silk charmeuse blouse undone, revealing the white bra she was wearing, rope brutally wound above and below her breasts. The once adorable blue eyes were now bulging with paralyzed fear above the tape gag.
Samantha continued to stare at the photo, then flicked to the ones underneath that one. All of them pictures of Kristen Lawrence bound and gagged, helpless and deathly afraid of her predicament. All of Lisa Mahone’s, and now Samantha’s, worse fears for Kristen’s well-being were now confirmed. Was Kristen even still alive?
I have to get out of here, now, Samantha thought, fighting to stay calm. She took two of the prints of Kristen tied up and left the rest, closing the folder and moving to put it back into the drawer. Then she would get the hell out of there as quickly as she could.
“Find what you were looking for?” Marcus Cowle’s voice came from behind her, startling Samantha. Before she could react she was grabbed tightly from behind, her arms pinned against her sides and a hand clamped down upon her mouth.
“MMMMMPPPPPHHHHH!” Samantha screamed through the hand, instantly struggling with urgent fury against the grip that held her. She was lifted bodily from the floor, her legs kicking in the air. It took a moment for her to realize the hand over her mouth held a damp cloth to her lips, and a sweetly suffocating odor was invading her lungs.
Samantha fought, struggled, twisted and turned with all of her might, but the arm that held her immobile would not budge. She felt her eyelids drooping, her vision fading off towards black, her movements growing sluggish and slow. Her mind was frantic in these last moments of consciousness. NO! I have…to stay awake! I can’t…pass out! Have…to…get away… But the chloroform slowly took effect and did its work, smothering her senses. Casting her off into a deep, dark hole that closed in all around her…
Then Samantha blearily awoke. Her brown eyes, still fogged from the drug, opened but she found it was still dark. What happened? Samantha wondered. Why can’t I move? In terrified horror Samantha realized that she, like Kristen Lawrence, was now bound and gagged.
Then she heard the footsteps approaching her prison…
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“So, you ready to head over to the Daily Husky and fetch Samantha?” Amanda Christina Walker asked of her roommate, Lauren Shannon Callahan, as she took off her Nike Triax running watch and replaced it with a gold Timex that was more feminine in appearance. She then ran a hand through her long, dark brunette hair that was still slightly damp from her relaxing hot shower following cross-country practice. She frowned slightly, the apple-pie cheeks of her All-American girl next door features dimpling as her feet adjusted to the sensation of black leather pumps with two inch heels; nowhere near as comfortable as her Nike running shoes. But running shoes just didn’t go with a black linen knee-length skirt and cream-colored silk blouse.
Lauren, the most adorable redhead on campus with a slender and willowy physique and the most enchanting emerald eyes of Irish descent that highlighted her friendly, open face, nodded as she finished putting on the last bit of makeup. “I’m all set,” she replied, dressed in an understated ensemble of gray slacks, satin blouse and jacket. The two of them, along with Samantha, were going out for dinner this night to celebrate Amanda’s recent victory at the Great Northern Cross-Country Invitational.
“Then let’s go,” Amanda said, picking up her purse from her desk and slinging the strap over her shoulder. The pair left their suite in Lakeside Hall on the campus of Great Northern. In the mild and waning autumn sunlight they headed across the campus towards Howell Student Commons and the offices of the Daily Husky, where Samantha spent the majority of her time when she wasn’t in her journalism classes or with her boyfriend, Tyler McManaway, the drop-dead gorgeous quarterback of the Great Northern Huskies.
The trio had grown to become extremely close friends since being assigned together as roommates their freshman year at the prestigious Big Ten school. Amanda, from Orlando, was the athletic one. At Great Northern on a free ride, yet enrolled in the demanding School or Archeology. She had spent her previous summer in Egypt assisting on an archeological dig, taking part in the discovery of the four mummified remains that were the Daughters of Antukahnan, the offspring of Pharaoh Antukahnan.
Lauren, the daughter of successful surgeons from Denver, was a pre-med major who wished only to follow in their esteemed footsteps. Where Amanda was bold and adventuresome, quick with a witty comment and a smile, Lauren was shy and reserved, quiet, entertaining notions of romance and serenity, in tune with her spirituality. Yet the two of them, along with the conscientious and beautiful Samantha who was tireless in her quest to be the best reporter she could be, tracking down the truth and standing up for justice, meshed together perfectly.
The pair entered Howell Student Commons and went up to the third floor where the offices of the student newspaper were located. They entered the news room that was only now beginning to bustle and hum with activity as the staff began their harried preparations to get the next day’s issue formatted and sent to the printer.
Samantha’s desk, cluttered with files and notebooks which she told them was the sign of a good reporter, was strangely empty. The two glanced around the office and saw that Samantha was nowhere to be seen.
“Okay, where is she?” Amanda wondered, “she knows we were going to be here by now.”
“And she said she was going to be here waiting for us,” Lauren added. “Unless…” It could only mean one thing: a hot assignment.
“I hope not.” Amanda caught the attention of one of the staff members; he was tall with dishwater blonde hair. “Hey, have you seen Samantha lately?”
Sports Editor Rick Rennert shrugged his shoulders, it was an answer that he hadn’t. “I’ve been here since three this afternoon and I haven’t seen her at all.”
“Is Aaron around?” That was Aaron Dinehart, the news editor and Samantha’s superior. Perhaps he would know where Samantha was.
“Nope,” Rennert answered, “he’s got a test tomorrow. Over at the library studying. I get the honors of putting out the paper tonight.”
“Maybe she’s working on a story, or something,” Lauren pointed out helpfully.
“And when she gets working on a hot story nothing is going to stop her from finishing it. Wonderful,” Amanda muttered, walking over to Samantha’s desk with Lauren in tow, “and she knew we were going out to dinner tonight.” She spotted the Post-it note on the computer screen and studied it, her brow furrowing and brown eyes flashing with puzzlement.
“What is it?” Lauren asked.
“Have you ever heard of Cowle Photography?” Amanda asked, to which Lauren shook her head. Amanda took a piece of paper and jotted down the address down in Chicago’s Wicker Park neighborhood. “Well, that’s where we’re going.” Maybe they’d find out what Samantha was doing there. Amanda hoped the explanation Samantha had for this was a good one…
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Samantha Grayson moaned through the thick cloth gag set deep between her lips, shivering in stupefied fear as she wriggled her body back against the wall of the closet as Marcus Cowle stepped into the tiny cubicle, crouching down before his luckless captive. He reached out and stroked the flawless skin of her smooth cheek with the back of his hand; Samantha remained perfectly still like a frightened rabbit caught out in the open under the predatory gaze of a falcon as he did so. She imagined in detail all the horrible, despicable things he could do to her in this utterly hapless condition.
Like Kristen Lawrence, Samantha was completely at the mercy of whatever Marcus Cowle wanted to do.
Cowle produced her student press card. “Samantha Grayson, Senior Staff Reporter, The Daily Husky, Great Northern University,” he announced with a haughty laugh. “Well, Katie Couric you’re not, and you won’t be filing this story,” he added with a malicious sneer and Samantha cringed at the implications.
“In fact, you won’t be doing any reporting from now on.” With a deliberate arrogance he flicked the press card at Samantha and she watched it flutter to the floor. “I knew something was up when you mentioned Kristen’s name, that it was too much of a coincidence to have her roommate show up this morning and then you this afternoon,” he explained. “I knew you’d snoop around when I went into the back. So I let you. And you found those pictures of Kristen I took.”
It was a trap and I blundered right into it. Samantha couldn’t help but nod at his observation, behind her back her wrists twisted and tugged at the ropes. But she was getting nowhere with her struggles, the bonds were tied much too securely for her escape.
“I presume you found them, those pictures of Kristen all tied up and gagged like that…interesting?” Cowle wondered, and again Samantha nodded. Not so much interested but absolutely terrified by what might have become of Kristen Lawrence. What might soon happen to her as well.
“Now, don’t you wonder what I’m going to do with you?” he asked then, producing a pathetic wail of fear from the thoroughly gagged Samantha. “No one knows you’re here. They won’t miss you for hours at least.” Samantha nodded a fraction, no one at all knew she was now in such a life-threatening dilemma.
“For all you know, that cute little Kristen might be dead already,” Samantha whined at this possibility, one that could loom large in her future. “I could be a serial killer for all you know, did you ever think of that when you decided to come here and poke around where you shouldn’t have?” He laughed grimly. “That Kristen might just be another one of my victims?”
As tears streamed down her cheeks Samantha again nodded frantically, but in truth she hadn’t thought of that when she decided upon this now foolish course of action. She now considered what she had done in different terms: stupid, dumb, foolhardy, dangerous, deadly. “It wouldn’t take much to get rid of you,” Cowle explained, “and not very long at all. Take a piece of rope, wind it around your neck, pull a few times and no more Samantha. Or maybe a pillow over your face; or a plastic bag down over your head. Cut off the air to your lungs, would only take a minute or so. Tied up the way you are, you couldn’t fight back.”
Samantha squealed into her gag, her brown eyes wide and glistening with terror, resuming her useless fight against the ropes as Cowle continued with his grim soliloquy. She began to imagine herself in those states of lethal distress, struggling against the ropes as she took her last breaths. “Of course I’d have to get rid of your body,” he pointed out, “have to wait until dark. Wrap you up in a few sheets, tape them up. Load your body in the trunk of my car. Drive out to the country, out in some backwoods. They’ll never find your grave out there in the middle of nowhere.”
Samantha felt a tear trickle down her cheek as she realized that no one would ever know what terrible fate had befallen her. Not her parents, back home in Upstate New York running the family winery, Grayson Manor, on the shores of tranquil Canandaigua Lake. Not her roommates, Amanda Walker and Lauren Callahan. Not her boyfriend, Tyler McManaway, the starting quarterback for the Great Northern University football team. Not her fellow staff members at The Daily Husky. Her fate would forever remain a puzzling mystery while her body rotted in some shallow grave deep in an Illinois woodland.
“But that’s not going to happen to you,” Cowle suddenly said, Samantha emitting a surprised whimper at his statement, “and I didn’t do anything like that to Kristen or the others. In fact, they’re all quite alive, though indisposed of like you are right now. And you’re going to be joining them in a little while.”
Samantha murmured at him in bewilderment, in this hopeless position she found herself was he just toying with her? “You see, you and the others will be going on a one-way trip to a place far away from here. A little…excursion you won’t ever come back from.”
Cowle produced a wireless phone and punched in a number, grinning evilly at Samantha as he waited for an answer. “Sheik Rahim? This is Cowle,” he said. “I have the last piece of merchandise for your shipment. It took a little sooner than I originally expected.”
Samantha’s forehead creased in confusion at the conversation. Sheik Rahim? Merchandise? Shipment? What is he talking about? “Yes, I’ll accept the going rate for her. $100,000. Just like the others. But I tell you, this one is definitely worth every cent. Auburn hair, a perfect body, and the most soulful brown eyes you will ever see. A true haunting beauty if I must say so. You won’t be disappointed in the least with your purchase.”
Then it hit Samantha with the force of a runaway train, dashing all of her hopes. Oh my God, he’s selling me! He’s a white slaver! That’s what he’s done with Kristen and the others! Among all of the unproved urban legends told and retold, the one that spoke of bands of white slavers roaming the country kidnapping unsuspecting coeds and shipping them overseas to wealthy and cruel owners was one of the more pervasive. She had always laughed at that far-fetched possibility, thought it as nothing but young, active imaginations gone haywire to deal with the tragedy of a person gone mysteriously missing. But now Samantha was learning a brutal lesson that the legend was indeed in fact an insidious reality.
Cowle reached over, began to stroke the pantyhose on Samantha’s tightly bound legs. She shrank away from his lecherous touch, whimpering from behind her gag as he continued his conversation with whom he would sell her into perpetual slavery. “Yes, it’s all arraigned, I and my associate will have her and the other four at Hanger 18 out at O’Hare. Two in the morning, no one will disturb us then. You can load them up into your jet and be on your way back to the Middle East.” Cowle paused. “I must say it is my pleasure doing business with you, Sheik Rahim. Actually, your pleasure is my business.”
Cowle switched off the phone as Samantha moaned pitifully at him. You can’t do this to me! You can’t! she pleaded futilely through her gag. Cowle smiled viciously at her. “Oh I can and I will. You see there are people in this world, rich and powerful people, who prefer to have their women bound and helpless, theirs to control and toy with. And they’re willing to pay me a very handsome sum of money for the product that I procure for them. You and the others are worth a cool half-million to me.”
He laughed at Samantha’s expense, taking immense joy at her utter and all-encompassing fear. “At least you’ll be alive for now, I do hear that Sheik Rahim does eventually tire of his…playthings after a while. I’ve heard that his methods for dispatch are not particularly pleasant to say the least.” Samantha felt her breath quicken; an ugly, inevitable death awaited her at the end of this miserable journey.
Cowle reached up and stroked her auburn tresses. “Relax, baby, at least you’ll get see some of the world before its all over.” Samantha began to struggle in earnest against the ropes cutting harshly into her skin. She grunted and groaned as the bonds refused to give. “It’s no use,” he told her, “I tie good and tight. Wouldn’t want any of my investments to get away from me.” He wagged a finger at Samantha as she squealed through the cloth gag. “And there’s no use trying to scream, no one will be able to hear you with that gag and the closet I have you locked up in.”
Cowle stood up. “You’ll be joining Kristen and the others in due time,” he informed her with the directness of a middle management executive making a decision on what product to market. He grinned down at her bound and gagged form “Now, don’t you wish that you hadn’t come poking around here?”
Cowle closed the door again and locked it, leaving her a helpless captive in the dark recesses of the closet that was now her inescapable cell. Samantha Grayson slumped down onto the floor and pulled her bound legs up towards her chest, began to sob quietly and wished that she had done exactly that in the first place…