The Big Bad Wolf

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 thirty-something 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 men 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 introduced 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 at the skit. “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, probably still a teenager, luscious red lips, intelligent looking. That was a must—
intelligence.
And the buyer wanted no part of “chickens,” 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, and 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 lost consciousness. Then the Couple lifted Benjamin up and, supporting him on either side, carried 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 30
    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, 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 that had belonged to Potter’s family and now were his. He didn’t live on the farm, but in Hanover, about fifty 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. He was blindfolded and 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 that 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