Chapter 6

Charles Edward Tarrington III drummed his manicured fingernails on the heavy mahogany of the policeman's desk, his mouth twisted scornfully at the Dutch gibberish rumbling from John Jorgerson's mustached mouth, contemptuous that he could not understand this message two days in coming. He tried to calm himself, staring out the window at the Leidsplein Square directly across the street where unkempt young people with long scraggly hair, dungarees tucked into high boots and hash pipes hanging out of their mouths sauntered in and out of the Milky Way, Amsterdam's well known drug bar, where buying hash was as common as buying a beer. Crime right under the nose of the police. What did they do about it? Did they crack down? No! Absolutely not. No wonder it had taken them two days to locate Janice.

A little laugh rumbled from Jorgerson's huge belly and he set the receiver back on its cradle, his merry blue eyes reflecting none of the gut-tearing anxiety Charles had suffered the last two nights suspecting the worst. That angered Charles. He leaned over the desk, his cheeks pale with lack of sleep and nourisliment. "So tell me, have you heard?"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Tarrington. But it's not the best news," apologized the uniformed policeman in an unconcerned tone that Charles didn't take kindly to. Ineptitude infuriated him.

"Well, for God's sake, tell me what you've heard!" snapped Charles between his angrily clenched teeth.

"Well.. . " Jorgerson leaned his hulkish body over the edge of the desk, resting his elbows on it sluggishly. "We know, sir, that she's been kidnapped by a gang of heroin smugglers. The high jackers have disconnected the sleeping car that your. . . " he spread his hands expansively and grinned, "lady friend, shall we say, was sleeping in."

"That's great. Just great," snarled Charles. "And how do you know it's Janice? My God, how do I know she's not murdered somewhere?"

"They've sent her clothes, sir . . . and her passport."

Charles' hand trembled violently, and he lowered his head and cradled it on his arms which were across the top of Jorgerson's desk. Two blackened, sleep weary eyes glared out over the brown tweed of his sports coat sleeve. "And just what clothes do you have?"

Jorgerson cleared his throat and stiffened. "We have a navy blue dress, a yellow robe, and . . . and a brassiere, sir."

There came a stifled cry from Charles . . . then a groan of heartfelt despair.

"Sir, could I get you something?" Jorgerson's heavy eyebrows knitted with sympathy. "A cup of coffee . . . pastry, perhaps? Or how about a cognac to soothe your nerves?"

He got up from his squeaking chair, and Charles forced himself to sit up, his hand to his forehead, eyes closed. Janice's robe and bra. That meant that Janice was running around naked. No, he thought. God, no! Not Janice, decent Janice!

Maybe she's pulled a sheet or towel around her, he thought. Yes. He gripped the arms of the chair, his nails clawing into it. So she's pulled a towel around her. He closed his eyes, imagining what his voluptuous future wife looked like.

The towel would just cover her lovely, large breasts, and the slim swell of her belly, would be slung low in back, almost, but not quite, to the bottom of her cheeks of her firmly rounded buttocks. They wouldn't be able to see between them to the pucker of her anus, but they would be staring. God, would they stare! In no time at all the guy's prick would jerk and lurch inside his pants, hardening until it ached unbearably.

It wouldn't take long, then, before the guy had his pants open, and his grubby hand yanked out his stiff cock and maneuvered it out into the open, stroked it, drew the foreskin back and forth while drops of thick fluid oozed from the tip as his lust mounted. And moments later, his other hand would be on one of Janice's breasts, taking one small budding nipple between his finger, rolling and squeezing it, manipulating it into a hard point, while Janice squirmed under the ever increasing pressure, finally screaming in pain . . . and possibly pleasure, too.

She would, too, Charles knew. She would find pleasure in something as obscene and filthy as that. Oh, she'd fight it. He had to give her credit for that. She'd be shocked and horrified-she was a sheltered girl. Later, after she'd been forced back onto the bed, as she lay there stripped completely naked with her legs open and the thin, hair-lined slit of her cunt exposed to his evil grin, the plundering fingers of this drug crazed rapist would rip through her quivering pussy.

My God! As he got on top of her, entering her, his thick cock plowing into her narrow unused vaginal passage, already drenched, already steaming and hot, Janice would begin to moan and mewl, thrashing about under his heaving, bucking body, rising to meet his fucking thrusts, falling back, rising abain . . . responding . . . willingly. And then . . .

Charles closed his eyes and put his hand to his forehead. It was drenched with sweat, and he wiped away the perspiration with the back of one hand, wishing he could wipe away his nightmare as well. He wiped it again, and gasped for breath. Oh, God! Janice would submit! She would resist at first, but Janice-his lovely, beautiful, charming, intelligent Janice-would submit like a common whore, begging if they wanted her to. And then, God help her, she would lose herself in wild abandon, spreading her legs wider in welcome, coming to a climax with screams of joy.

Charles wiped his forehead again and looked over his shoulder to see John Jorgerson standing beside him, a glass of cognac in his hand. Charles took the glass between his trembling fingers. He held it to his lips, and a drop sloshed over the side, dribbling down his chin. He set the glass down, took out an embroidered handkerchief and wiped away the cognac, then mopped the beads of perspiration from his brow. He drained the glass.

Jorgerson patted him on the shoulder. "Control yourself, sir," he said quietly.

Charles stared moodily into space. Control.. . ? That's precisely what Janice lacked, not he. Janice had never been able to control herself, he thought. He remembered the embarrassing way she had almost offered herself to him on the train on that last day in the Rotterdam station. Her mother . . . his mother would never have done such a thing. There was an unexplainable strain of the tramp in Janice, he was forced to admit. He'd hoped that marriage to him would somehow wipe this lascivious spark out of her . . . the otherwise lovely woman he wished to marry. That would make her an asset to his career.

Sex, he thought, between a husband and wife was normal and even desirable. But Janice, he reflected, was given to indulgence. And now there she was alone with those sex fiends! But to think of Janice enjoying it! OH, God, that was hell! What would happen to her mind if she were exposed to raw animal sex? Nothing, Charles thought blankly. Nothing at all! He sat still and pale with shock, staring blankly into space until John Jorgerson's voice filtered through the void.

"The problem here is a complicated one," began the chief of police, sipping at his own cognac which he'd poured into a coffee cup. He smacked his liverish lips and leaned back in his chair, its springs complaining of the weight. His jowls jounced as he spoke. "We've been trailing this band of smugglers for some time now. You see, the problem with drugs in Amsterdam is getting harder to crack because of the syndicate-run by a bunch of Chinese. Now we know . . . " he sat forward and pressed his fingertips together in thought, "if Ti Wong, the kingpin of this smuggling operation, were to get hold of these people before we do . . . poof!" He threw up his pudgy hands. "No evidence. Nothing to jail his ass. So we need to get those smugglers alive so they'll talk to us. We don't want to shoot our way into that train car . . . unless, of course, they start shooting first, and then your Miss Quincy's life will be endangered. But.. . " he hastened to add. "They're not going to want to add to their prison sentences with her murder, so my guess is they'll take good care of her."

"Wh-wha . . . ? Shooting . . . ? Oh, my God, sir!. . . Please, no . . . !

Jorgerson held up his hand to hush him. "Please understand our predicament, Mr. Tarrington. Miss Quincy is the only thing they have to negotiate. None of them are stupid enough to rat on Ti Wong--he'll have them killed no matter if they're behind bars or not. We're playing with a double-edged sword. On one hand, we have your fiancee's life to worry about. . . and then we have a precedent to set, otherwise high-jacking and kidnapping is going to be an open invitation to crime. Do you understand, Mr. Tarrington?"

Had Charles been in his own country, one phone call would have taken care of this mess. "Y-yes, I suppose so," choked the law student, feeling like an impotent child instead of the inheritor of the multi-million dollar Tarrington estate. His head lifted and his spirits, too, for an aborted moment. "Money.. . if it's money they want.. . I . . . "

Jorgerson shook his fat head. "Not money, sir. Freedom."

Charles sat back in his chair, feeling weak and dizzy from cognac, no sleep, and plenty of worry. He gazed out the window pf that filthy bunch of humanity gathering across the street from the police station.

Drugs! Filthy, rotten drugs. He ground his jaws together, gnashing his teeth with a tight squeak, his eyes narrowing into slits. That's what Janice's kidnappers were-a bunch of socially diseased drug pushers . . . the same breed as those vile people he'd witnessed at the court hearing in law school. He then shuddered, a cool chill winding all down his spine.

"So are you saying, sir, that a precedent is as important as Janice?" He withered as Jorgerson nodded the affirmative.