The Big Bad Wolf

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. 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 gag over the boy’s mouth. 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 removed the blindfold and looked into Benjamin’s eyes.
    “May I call you Benjy?” he whispered.

Chapter 31
    ANOTHER OF THE CAPTIVES, Audrey Meek, watched her obscene, deviate, possibly
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 had yanked her away from Sarah and Andrew.
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.”
    An 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-foot-two, and well built, with a 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 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.”

Chapter 32
    I WAS MARKING TIME at Quantico and I didn’t like it much. I attended my classes the next day, then an hour of fitness training. At five, I went to see what Monnie Donnelley had collected so far on White Girl. She had a small, cramped cubicle on the third floor of the dining hall building. On one wall was a collage of photos and photocopies of bits of evidence from brutally