The Never List

clearly within sight. The first was of average height, heavyset, with what looked like reddish-blond hair and a goatee. The second man was tall. He walked unhurriedly, at ease, along the side of the van. Then the headlights shone on him just long enough to reveal his face. There was no doubt about it: it was Noah Philben.
    I went cold. Why would a religious leader hang out at a remote S&M club in the middle of the night? The very one where Jack Derber used to go, no less. Was Noah looking for Sylvia, the lost lamb from his fold? Or did he have something to do with her disappearance? Whatever it was, this could be it, the lead I was looking for.
    It was now two-thirty in the morning. I hadn’t been awake this late in years, but I had a feeling this night was far from over.
    I sneaked around behind the building in the opposite direction of the van. Crouching down in the parking lot, I ran over to my car to wait for them. As quietly as I could, I opened the door and slid in behind the wheel. I was sweating, but my skin was cold and my mouth had gone dry. This was more than just fear of night driving. This was complete terror.
    The van finally pulled around the corner of the club, toward the exit of the parking lot. At that moment my hands felt like lead on the steering wheel.
    I was back on the battleground in my head. I wanted to keep going—to follow that van—but my entire body was tensed up against me, and my thoughts were garbled. It was as if I could hear the sixteen-year-old Jennifer whispering in my ear, Stay away, go home, go back to your fortress . But the part of me that was searching, that knew this was the only way, countered that the young Jennifer would never have been able to understand the stakes here. She wouldn’t have understood how I needed to find her now. That if I was ever going to get past it, I had to put her memory, and my memories, to rest.
    Bracing myself, I took a deep breath and started the engine.
    As I sat there, hesitating, two latex-clad men exited the club, one calling the other “master” as he followed dutifully behind on his leash. I waited for them to settle into their sedan, the master driving, the submissive one slumping in the backseat; then I carefully maneuvered my car behind theirs toward the exit. The van was ahead of us both as we pulled out onto the road. I pursued them at a safe distance, four car lengths behind.
    Baby steps, I thought to myself. Right now I’m just driving in a car on a public road. The doors are locked. My tank is three-quarters full. I have a cell phone and good reception. My bag contains bothmace and pepper spray. I can turn around and go back to the hotel at any moment. I am in control.
    About ten miles down the road, the other car turned off. There was an SUV behind me. I let it pass, putting it between the van and my car. With one hand on the wheel, I groped around in my bag for my notebook and pen. Giving up on that after a couple of seconds, I took my phone from the inside pocket of the leather vest and dialed all but the last digit of my home number in New York, peering out into the darkness ahead. I was too far away to read the license plate number, so I threw my phone toward the seat beside me. I heard it miss and clatter to the floorboard.
    “Damn,” I muttered. After another twenty minutes or so, the van turned left onto a dirt road that was almost entirely hidden by trees. I drove past it about a hundred feet, turned off my lights, and made an illegal U-turn.
    I followed the van slowly up a hill, as I reached down to the floorboard for my phone. Shit. The battery had fallen out when it hit the floor. I fumbled around in the dark, searching for it futilely.
    I stopped the car halfway up that drive, feeling the old familiar dizziness rising up in my head. Cycling through every cognitive therapy trick in the book, I visualized the fear, imagining it as a ball that was separate and distinct from me.
    It wasn’t working. I knew that, in fact, right now, my anxiety was very real and entirely justified. Eventually I calmed myself just enough to keep from hyperventilating, but my intestines were squeezing up on me. I dug my pepper spray and mace out of my bag, placing both canisters carefully on the seat beside me. I looked at the photo of Jennifer I’d fixed to the dashboard, gathering what strength I could from it. I had to keep going.
    I inched the car a little farther down the road, until I got to a clearing in the woods. I was