Fury

14

Saturday, December 18

Ted Vanders reached for the breast of the naked woman in the bed lying next to him, only to have a finger bent back nearly to his wrist. "Jesus Christ!" he cried out. "What did you do that for?"

"Because I didn't want you to touch me," the woman replied. "When I want you to touch me, I'll tell you. Until then, keep your fucking hands to yourself."

Sarah Ryder stretched like a cat and then rose quickly from the bed and stood in front of the full-length mirror, turning this way and that. By and large, she was pleased with the response from men she got to the breast augmentation surgery she'd had a year earlier, changing her from a 34C to a 36DD. However, of late she'd been wondering if more was better and she should revisit her plastic surgeon and pump up the volume, so to speak. The bigger the bait, the richer the tiger, she thought.

"What do you think, Ted," she said, turning sideways. "Should I get bigger tits?

"I think they're perfect just the way they are, my love," Vanders said with a pout. "That's why I wanted to touch them…at least until you almost broke my finger."

Ryder rolled her eyes. "Fuck, why would I ask you," she sneered. "You'd think an old water balloon was a turn-on. And if I'd wanted to break your finger, I would have. Now quit with the fucking 'my love' shit, it makes me want to throw up."

Having just screwed Ted Vanders didn't mean she liked Ted Vanders. In fact, she pretty much detested Ted Vanders-from his skinny, sunken white chest and muscleless arms to his crooked teeth and myopic eyes. However, it was his imperfection that made him perfect for her plan. After all, who would believe that a hottie like Sarah Lynn Ryder, who had a body and face that real men fought over, would have anything to do with a faggy little English major like Ted?

Ted, on the other hand, was hopelessly in love with her. He actually thought that she was attracted to his stupid poetry and romanticism. My love, blech. Oh yes, she'd giggled like a virginal schoolgirl when she picked him out at the student union on the NYU campus, but she'd nearly regretted it the first time she let him have sex with her. He was so excited that it hardly lasted thirty seconds and that was if you included his amateurish attempts at foreplay. It was all she could do to keep from gagging when she told him it was all right and that "a few minutes of perfection is better than hours with another man."

After that he was hooked, and she treated him pretty much like dirt. He would do anything to have sex with her, which she kept to a minimum both because it sickened her and because she wanted him desperate. As she figured, he became so enraptured that he'd even agreed to go along with her plan to exact revenge on her professor of Russian poetry, Alexis Michalik. Of course, she'd framed it in a way-the man had used her and cast her aside-to appeal to both his jealousy and romantic nature…the bull (albeit a skinny, nearsighted bull) who sees another bull in the paddock with the heifer in heat.

Twenty-five-year-old Sarah Ryder had known for more than half her life that men found her attractive-especially when, as her spinster aunt back home in Iowa said, she'd "blossomed early." The first such man was a friend of her parents who'd come over with his wife every Friday night for a friendly game of canasta and insisted on tucking "little Sarah" into bed. He'd gone from fondling her "naughty places" to more painful exercises, all the time warning her not to tell her parents or she'd be punished. Two years later, after she figured out that he was the one who should be worried, she told him that she didn't mind the sex, but if he didn't do what she wanted him to do-including giving her a rather large allowance-she'd not only tell her parents, she'd tell the cops.

Sex was a means to an end. She soon learned that she didn't even have to have sex to use it as a weapon. When she was fifteen, her parents divorced, and her mother remarried a year later. Her stepfather was a good man who would never have touched her, but when he tried to lay down the law on her curfew, she called the police and said he'd raped her. She was smart enough to know that the police wouldn't just take her word for it, so she'd had sex with one of the neighborhood boys before calling the police.

Based on her report and the initial examination at the hospital, her stepfather was arrested, a fact that was reported in the hometown newspaper. However, she'd been naive and hadn't thought to make the boy wear a condom, so when the DNA tests came back negative for her stepfather six weeks later, she'd been confronted and she confessed. The Department of Social Services had sent her to a counselor, who'd lectured her about the harmful aspects of lying, pointing out that her stepfather's reputation in the town had been badly damaged.

Ryder had been so contrite, promising with many tears that she'd learned her lesson, that the counselor considered her a triumph of modern talk-therapy and recommended that she be allowed to go back to her family. However, her stepfather, who'd received dozens of pieces of hate mail and had even been accosted on the street, moved out and shortly thereafter left town.

"Good riddance," she told her mom when the divorce papers arrived a month later. "Even if he didn't, he wanted to and would have sooner or later." Her mother had just looked at her funny, then fled into her bedroom, where she sobbed all day. Sarah had rolled her eyes then, too. Ryder had moved to New York hoping to become a Broadway star. When leading roles, or any roles for that matter, weren't immediately forthcoming, she enrolled at NYU as a theater major, while hostessing at a Steak Sizzler on Times Square.

Life got better when she started dating a member of the New York Rangers hockey club. Dmitri Federov was stunningly good-looking, rich, and had a great accent. He was also generous-putting her up in a small flat in the Village and even buying her a five-carat diamond ring for Christmas. He didn't exactly call it an engagement ring or ask her to marry him, but she took it as a fait accompli. She thought they made the perfect couple and even took Russian lessons throughout that year so that she'd be able to converse with his family someday.

After a year of seeing him when he felt like it, she suggested that they get married. But he just laughed and said, "But what would I tell my wife in Moscow?"

Ryder reacted first by threatening to tell his wife and/or the police. However, he'd pointed to a small camera hidden in a corner of the ceiling of his bedroom where they were talking-a camera he admitted he'd used to film their lovemaking. "It's still on." He smiled. "Now, shall I take that to the police and tell them you are trying to blackmail me?"

"Ha ha, just teasing," she'd said. "I don't want to get married."

"Get out," he replied. "I don't want to ever see you again. And by the way, your breasts are too small."

With her face burning, Ryder stormed off to the bathroom-"to get my things"-where she promptly swallowed a bottle of Ambien sleeping pills. She figured she'd either almost die and make him see how much she loved him and then he'd take her back, or cause him enough embarrassment in the press to flee the country. Maybe he'll even lose his work visa, she thought as she drifted off to sleep.

However, Federov soon discovered her and called an ambulance. His agent then paid off the right people to keep it out of the newspapers and have Ryder committed to Bellevue for observation "as a danger to herself and others." By the time she got out, Dmitri's lawyers had obtained a restraining order preventing her from calling, writing, or coming within one hundred yards of their client. She also discovered that he must have removed the diamond ring from her finger while waiting for the ambulance and cleaned out and closed the bank account he'd set up for her "expenses."

Ryder had returned to her classes at NYU much poorer but also wiser. She was determined that the next time some guy fucked with her, he'd pay one way or the other. She was still trying to figure out her best option-turn her charms on one of the rich old men who hung out in TriBeCa looking for trophy wives ("But with my luck, they'd live to be a hundred and be as horny as a goat," she complained to one of her few friends), or try for a rich young man "except they're all married, gay, or allergic to commitment."

In the meantime, there were bills to pay and things she wanted. A brief affair with a married plastic surgeon got her the new boobs; another with the married owner of a BMW car dealership in New Jersey the new 320i; and yet another with a married real estate developer entitled her to a small but tasteful flat in the East Village in exchange for the occasional dalliance when his wife was out of town. She knew the score with those men and wanted nothing more from them than she got; they were simply her means to an end.

She was in her last semester at NYU and had decided to go on and get her master's-mostly because she didn't know what else to do, and a horny married banker was willing to pay tuition-when she took a class in Russian poetry from newly arrived Alexis Michalik. He was maybe just a shade or two less handsome but his maturity made him more distinguished than Dmitri, with that same killer accent, and he was certainly more intelligent.

Ryder began hanging around after class and volunteering to help him with such things as making copies of poetry for the rest of the class and fetching him coffee, then lunch. Then she asked if she could work as a sort of unofficial intern, assisting him with his efforts to translate his work into English. She'd continued her Russian language studies-she figured that somewhere, somehow they would come in handy.

After graduation, with Michalik's help, she entered the master's program in Russian literature with an emphasis on poetry. She'd also convinced herself that she was in love with him and that they were meant to be together. She figured he probably made six figures, maybe more, because he was a popular speaker at poetry events around the country, and she could imagine herself the good wife, playing hostess for all the intellectuals who would visit their home, and helping promote his career.

There were only two problems: he was married, and he wasn't in love with her. While it was obvious that Alexis enjoyed her company and even a little harmless flirting, he made no attempt to take it any further. She'd all but spread-eagled herself on his desk, but he treated her like a schoolgirl with a crush, telling her, "You need to find a young man and not waste all that energy and beauty on what cannot be."

At home, Ryder fumed over the rejection. But her history had taught her to have a Plan B ready. So if she couldn't have him as her husband willingly, she would blackmail him into becoming her husband unwillingly, though he would of course learn to love her. Plan C was simply to blackmail him into letting her get away without having to write her "stupid" master's thesis and then getting her into the doctoral program. She was pretty sure that once she had her doctorate and, with his help, got onto the faculty at NYU, he'd realize that she really was the best life partner for him.

When her plans had been laid, she'd called him and asked to see him in his office that evening. "I'd like to talk to you about my thesis when there're not so many interruptions like there are during the day," she said. She then pretended there was a problem with her telephone and couldn't hear his response. "Would you call me back, please?"

A few seconds later, her telephone rang. "Thanks," she said. "I don't know what the problem was. Anyway, could you spare your poor, dedicated, infatuated student a few minutes this evening?" She detected a sigh-he was way behind on the translation-but he was also too dedicated a teacher to turn her down. "Sure, come on over, Sarah."

She loved the way he said Sarah. It sounded so exotic. She then called Ted Vanders. "Okay, Ted. Tonight's the night. I'll be over about twelve." She couldn't help but compare Michalik's unenthusiastic response to Ted's, who'd been without her favors for nearly three weeks and sounded like he'd wet his pants when she called.

Ryder dressed quickly. She'd already spent some time thinking about what to wear and had chosen a baby-pink thong but decided against a bra. These puppies don't give an inch when I walk, she thought, as she pulled an almost see-through silk shirt over her surgically enhanced chest. It only came down to just above her belly, which she thought was one of her best (natural) assets, especially when emphasized by a pair of skintight, low-rider jeans that only just covered…my naughty parts, she thought, and giggled.

Flouncing her hair into what she called her "just fucked look," she then checked her mascara and applied a shade of lipstick to match her thong. She stepped back with a skeptical look. Hmmm, maybe it's time for a little collagen in the lips. She pouted, then used the tip of her tongue to trace her upper lip seductively. Nah, you've still got it, baby.

Satisfied with the look, she opened the medicine cabinet, took out a pill bottle, and glanced at the label to make sure it was the correct one. Hello, roofies. She opened the bottle and took out three, then closed it and put it in her purse. As she was closing the purse, she saw the steel glint of the surgical scissors in the bottom. She thought about removing them but let them remain where they were. A girl can't be too careful these days, she thought with a smile.

It's a use-me, use-you world, she thought as she closed her purse to go to Michalik's office that night. She put the three pills on a plate and smashed them with a spoon until they were powder; she wondered if three was too many, then figured she'd lost some in the crushing and poured it into a small piece of folded paper. She then walked out to the kitchen, took a small cooler from the refrigerator, and left her apartment.

When she arrived at Michalik's office, she waltzed in, plopped the cooler on his desk, and took out two bottles of beer and two glasses.

"Not me," he said, waving them off. "Beer will put me to sleep."

"Come on, professor, all work and no play will make Alexis Michalik a dull boy," she teased. "Besides, I'd just like to have a beer with my favorite professor, relax, and talk him into approving my master's thesis."

"You have to turn in a thesis to have it approved," he said, shaking his finger at her. "And no work and even a little play for Alexis Michalik, and he will lose his book contract." He laughed as he spoke, and she was happy to see that his eyes kept straying to the twin points that protruded from her shirt. She poked her bare tummy toward him, knowing the effect that usually had on men whose eyes measured the distance between the top of her jeans and her belly button, then did the math.

Ryder cajoled and flirted until he relented. She opened one of the beers and was opening the second when her hand slipped and knocked the beer over just enough to splash some on his papers before righting it. He jumped up and ran to the bathroom to get a paper towel to wipe it up.

When his back was turned, Ryder quickly dumped the contents of the folded piece of paper in one of the glasses and then poured a beer in on top. He returned and mopped up the spill, then accepted the glass she handed to him.

"Mazdorovya," she said raising her glass.

"Mazdorovya," he replied, taking a sip. "You are a bad influence, Sarah Ryder."

They sat back down and for the next ten minutes talked about her master's thesis, or lack thereof. She couldn't have cared less about the conversation; she didn't plan on writing a thesis. She was just watching and waiting for the drugs to kick in.

"Whoa," he said suddenly, placing his hand on his desk as if to steady himself. "That's some beer to get a Russian drunk on just one."

"You're just tired, darling," she said, rising from her seat and walking around the desk until she was standing in front of him with her hips inches from his face.

Michalik fastened his eyes on her crotch, then shook his head and smiled weakly. "Yes. I am tired. I…" He suddenly stopped talking as she knelt in front of him and started fumbling at his belt. He tried pushing her away, "Sarah, please, you must not." But she just laughed and kept at it until she had his pants unzipped and his manhood in her hands.

"Sarah, you are very beautiful and any man would want you, but I must insist." His protestations stopped when she took him in her mouth. Under her expertise, it didn't take long. "Oh, God," he groaned in both pleasure and remorse.

Ryder spit in her hand, then wiped it on her shirt.

"I am so…so sorry," he said. "I am ashamed."

"Don't be silly, Alexis," she said. "I love you. You needed the relief, and it was my pleasure to…to please you. I'd like to do more if you'd let me."

"No, you don't understand," he said. "I am sorry for my wife…"

Ryder froze. She'd just given him the best blow job of his life, then offered her perfect body, and he was feeling guilty about his wife? Bastard. You need to stick with the plan. Plan A isn't going to work; obviously the clown's in love with his wife. So it's on to Plan B, and if necessary, Plan C. She figured that where she'd gone wrong in the past was a lack of options.

Alexis's head flopped forward and he began snoring. She left him there with his pants to his knees and picked up his nearly empty beer glass. She made sure to leave her fingerprints clearly on the glass and gently placed her lips at several places around the rim, leaving little pink smudges. Satisfied, she placed the glass on the bookcase, slightly behind a trophy he'd been awarded at some international poetry event, where it wouldn't be noticed…at least not right away.

With regret for the loss of perfection, Ryder looked in the bathroom mirror and mussed up her hair, then wiped the back of a hand across her lips, leaving a pink smear on her right cheek. She ripped the top button from her shirt and adjusted it as if she'd been in a struggle. She sighed, regarding the mess she'd created, but she wanted to look the part if she ran into the janitor, another student, or a professor. Pausing at the door to the office, she worked up a few tears and sniffles…just in case.

Ryder was a little disappointed that she didn't see anybody on her way out of the building. But, she reminded herself, it doesn't matter, because I have an alternate plan. She stepped out into the night and, seeing no one, practically skipped to the bottom of the stairs and even allowed herself a pirouette and a giggle at the bottom, before composing herself in case she ran into anybody.

Ryder drove immediately to Vanders's apartment, where she rushed past him when he opened the door and ordered him to "undress and get in bed, you little idiot. I'm about to make you a very happy little worm." He'd almost squeaked with excitement and ran into his bedroom and promptly fell flat on his face while trying to remove his pants and socks at the same time.

In the meantime, Ryder walked to the bathroom where she took the pill bottle out of her purse, removed another roofie, and swallowed it. Gonna need that puppy in the ol' bloodstream tomorrow, she thought. And it might be the only way I can stomach having sex with Ted.

Waiting for the drug to kick in, she placed the bottle back in Vanders's medicine cabinet. Can't have the cops finding that in my place. She didn't know if they'd search, but her plan was foolproof as long as she stayed true to the details.

Reluctantly, Ryder walked into Vanders's bedroom, only to be grossed out at the sight of him lying on the silk sheets he bought "for us." He was stretched out in what he must have thought was a seductive pose. He patted the place next to him, but she ignored him.

Instead, she took a piece of clothesline out of a bag she'd left in the closet, placed a loop around her wrist, and then violently sawed it back and forth to give herself a rope burn. "Christ, that hurts," she said, mostly to herself.

"Want me to kiss it and make it better, my love?" Vanders said, making kissing expressions.

"Shut the fuck up, you idiot," she snarled and placed a loop of rope over her other wrist and sawed it back and forth, although not quite as enthusiastically. She also avoided swearing so she wouldn't have to hear Vanders's sympathy.

When she was done, she undressed, placing each piece of clothing she'd been wearing in a plastic bag, taking extra care with the moist spot on her blouse. Then she got down on her elbows and knees.

"I want you to fuck me as hard as you can," she told Vanders, who could hardly believe what he had just heard and hopped off the bed. This was the stuff other guys wrote letters to Penthouse magazine about. But when he attempted foreplay, she angrily shoved his hand away. "You idiot, I told you I need this to look like I was raped," she said. "Are you wearing a condom?"

"Yes."

"Then tear me a new one…both holes, you faggot, and if you stop before I tell you, I'll rip your dick off and shove it up your ass."

Vanders did as he was told, but fortunately the roofie kicked in full speed about then, and she hardly felt him hammering away. Just a faraway burning that reminded her of her childhood, accompanied by the sound of Vanders grunting and trying to talk dirty. The more things change, she thought idly, the more things stay the same.

Seven hours later, the morning arrived with her brain throbbing against the interior of her skull. It was sort of how her feet felt after a night of wearing that five-hundred-dollar pair of Manolo sling-backs she bought a half-size too small out of conceit.

She was in Vanders's bed but didn't know how she got there and was suspicious of a dream she'd had of him "doing it" again that morning while she was still out of it. He was still sleeping next to her but woke with a start when she sat up. He smiled and attempted to stroke her arm. She hissed and clawed at his face, drawing blood, which made him cry out. "What did you do that for?" he complained.

"Unauthorized fucking," she replied. "Did you use a condom every time you had sex with me?"

"I think so," he said, playing dumb. She raised her hand to claw his eyes out. "Yes! Yes!" he shrieked. "Jeez, no sense of humor."

Ryder got out of bed and looked at her wrists, happy to see the ugly red marks looked worse than they had the night before. No pain, no gain. She shrugged.

Vanders rubbed at his wounded cheek and sniffled on the bed, hoping she'd come back and make up for hurting him. But she didn't even look his way as she strode over to the closet and dressed in the outfit she'd picked out for that day and left there. She'd chosen a knee-length beige skirt and a high-necked white blouse, both of which showed off her figure but in a modest way.

Part of her still hoped that Michalik would come to his senses-Plan B-and this whole thing could be handled much more easily and pleasantly. They'd begin their affair, he'd leave his wife, she'd get her doctorate, they'd get married, maybe even have babies. So long as we have enough money to have a nanny, she thought. And there'll be no nursing on these tits. It was all she could do to look troubled as she walked through the building, past students and professors, and the protesting secretary outside of Michalik's office.

The fantasy lasted until she walked in and shut the door behind her. She'd hoped that he'd look up from his papers, his eyes teary with love. Instead, he looked up from where he'd been holding his head in his hands, bleary- not teary-eyed…and angry. "What did you put in my beer?" he demanded.

"What do you mean?" Ryder replied. She saw that he was wearing the same clothes and hadn't shaved. Good, she thought, he'll have a hard time explaining that to the little woman. Her eyes had already drifted over to the bookcase and she saw that the lipstick-smudged beer glass was still in place. "You know very well that I came to you last night for help on my thesis and you raped me." She raised her voice a little at the end and hoped the secretary at least caught the word rape.

"I did no such thing," he said. "You, you…put something in my drink and then did that…like a cheap whore."

"Oh, please, Alexis, it was you who put what's commonly called a roofie in my drink and then had your way with me," she said. "I am still sore, you animal you. At least, that's what I'll be telling the administration and, I dare say, the cops before the day is over, unless you do what I say."

"You are a liar," he said and started to rise from his seat but the pain in his head forced him back down. "I did none of these things."

"Maybe you don't remember," she said and shrugged. "But believe me, dear Alexis, I can prove that you did." She pulled up the sleeve of her shirt and showed him the rope burn. "See how you tied me up, Alexis, so I could not resist you."

He stared at her wrist dumbfounded. "Proves nothing," he scowled, but a worried look occupied his face.

"Ah, yes, wondering how your wife is going to react to all of this?" she said. "I guess she's used to you not coming home at night. Or is she? And how is she regarding young women claiming you raped them on nights when you didn't make it home? Hmmm?"

With a supreme effort, Alexis rose out of his chair. "You lie! I will tell the truth and you will be exposed!"

"Fine," Ryder said. "We'll both tell our sides of the story, but believe me, I'll win. However, there is a way out of this for both of us."

"Out of this? How? Is it money you want?"

What she wanted at the moment was to laugh. Such a look of hope had briefly crossed his face. He thinks he might buy his way out of this. It was clear Plan B wasn't an option; the idiot really did love his wife. So on to Plan C. "No, not money. But you'll, of course, give me exceedingly high marks on my thesis paper that I gave you last night," she said.

"Paper? You didn't give me a paper."

"Alexis, listen, don't be dense if you can possibly help it," she said. "You will give me high marks for my thesis. Then you will sponsor me before the doctoral committee which, with you putting in a good word, will make my appointment a done deal."

Michalik looked at her so long and hard without saying anything that she wondered if the drugs were still affecting him. But then he shook his head. "I will not," he said, "give in to your blackmail. I could never live with myself."

The anger went out of Michalik's eyes, and he hung his head. "Please, I ask you not to do this thing. My wife does not deserve this pain, but I cannot do as you say, my honor will not allow it."

"Fuck the honor, Alexis," Ryder sneered. "You're going to lose poor little Helena, and your baby, if I remember correctly, and lose your job. Hell, after they let you out of prison in a dozen years or so, they'll probably kick your pathetic poetic ass back to Moscow."

She sighed as if he was forcing her to make a difficult decision. But she'd pretty much expected the reaction-all part of the plan-from having listened to his lectures for the past two years and knowing what a romantic fool he was. He was bound to make his choice based on his self-image rather than practical consideration.

"Well, if that's how you feel," she said. "You know, it's really too bad, Alexis. You could have had it all. Me. Your life. But now it's all going to go away."

Sarah smiled. It was good to have a plan. Initially, there wouldn't be much in it for her except the publicity, and it never hurt an aspiring actress to have her photograph and resume in the newspapers and on television. But as soon as the criminal trial was over, she planned a civil suit to wipe him out.

Most of all, she'd have her revenge. Revenge on every man who had ever taken liberties with her since childhood. They'd all told her they loved her, fucked her, then left her. She was going to get even for every man who had required sex for her to get the things she wanted-no, deserved-in life. And for every man who had ever stood between her and those things Alexis Michalik would pay the price.

"I would never want to be with a woman like you," he said quietly, looking up. "A whore. An evil person. If I gave an evil person what they wanted, I would be evil myself…so no matter what the cost, you can go to hell."

Ryder listened to the statement with a smile on her face. "Oh, Alex, that really hurts," she said, then sniffed. "But thanks, I'll use it to get into character." She promptly burst into tears and ran over to the door, which she flung open, nearly scaring the secretary out of her seat.

"Miss, are you all right?" the secretary asked.

Ryder wiped a tear from her eye and swiped at her nose. "Ask him," she wailed and pointed back into the inner office. "Ask your boss, Mr. Michalik." She sobbed once more and then ran from the office.

A few minutes later, Ryder appeared in the office of the university vice president of student affairs where she promptly burst into tears. "I…I…was raped," she gasped. "Alexis Michalik. I asked for his help on my master's thesis…but he raped me." The male vice president of student affairs listened to her story and immediately sent a campus security officer to escort Michalik from his office.

"Tell him to go home and remain there until he is contacted by this administration or the New York Police Department," the vice president said. He was rewarded for his swift, decisive action with a smile from Sarah's beautiful, trembling lips.

A female police detective arrived and took her initial statement. Sarah had gone to Michalik's office to get help with her thesis. He'd been coming on to her a lot lately, but she thought it was just harmless flirting. Saying she needed to relax, he'd given her a beer. "Suddenly I couldn't think straight," she said. "It was as if I was in one of those dreams where you want to wake up, but you can't." The next thing she knew, her jeans and panties had been removed and her wrists were tied to the office couch.

Ryder paused, as if gathering herself for the stretch run. She burst into tears. "And then he raped me," she cried. "I think he was wearing a condom. But when he was finished, he still wiped himself on my blouse."

The detective reached for her hand. "That's okay," she consoled. "It wasn't your fault. These things aren't about sex; it's about power and control. These guys are predators."

Ryder grew impatient waiting for the detective to ask the right questions. "You know," she volunteered, "there was this guy…I was coming out of the building after…after…I was attacked. I was still groggy so I don't remember everything, but I think I told him that I'd been raped. He seemed concerned, but I don't remember what happened from there."

The detective scribbled furiously in her notebook. "A witness, that's great," she said. "Did you know this guy? Ever seen him before or know how we can contact him?"

Ryder shook her head. "No, I'm certain about that," she said. "I didn't know him from Adam."

"That's okay, he may still come forward," the detective said. In the meantime, they needed to go to the hospital for a rape examination.

"Oh, that reminds me," Ryder said. "I have all of my clothes from last night in this bag." She handed the bag to the detective. "I read a story in Cosmo once that rape victims shouldn't bathe or wash the clothes in case there is some DNA evidence."

"Well done, young lady," the detective said, patting her on the back. "That's using your head. A tough thing to do under these circumstances."

At the hospital, everything went as planned, except that she had to remind the crime lab photographer to take pictures of the marks on her wrists. Sloppy police work, she thought, no wonder criminals own the streets. She also felt she shouldn't have had to mention for a second time that shortly after she drank the beer, she felt drugged.

"Well then, we'll certainly need to take a blood sample," the examining physician said. "He may have slipped something in your drink."

No shit, Sherlock, she thought but said, "Do you really think so? I wondered about that but I just couldn't imagine someone famous like him doing something like that to one of his students."

A few minutes later, the doctor who examined Ryder came out and talked privately to the detective, who then walked over and relayed the information. "He said the preliminary examination shows trauma to your vaginal area as well as your anus consistent with sexual assault. Apparently you were torn up pretty good. They're going to send the vaginal and anal swabs to a lab for DNA testing-"

"I told you he wore a condom," Ryder reminded her.

"Yes, I know, but they check anyway so that the defense attorneys don't come up with some surprise attack. Don't sweat it." The detective hesitated as if embarrassed to ask the next question. "You said that you haven't had sex with anyone else within the past twenty-four hours?"

"What do you mean by that?" Ryder snapped.

"Nothing, we'd just have to explain evidence of other sexual activity, that's all," the detective said. "Sometimes these things come up and we want to be prepared."

Ryder thought about Vanders and the condoms. It would be just like him to forget, she thought. But she'd checked his bathroom trash can before leaving and there were two used rubbers lying on top of the tissue.

"No, I wasn't having sex with anyone else," she told the detective, willing a few more tears for sympathy's sake. "I know this sounds weird in this day and age, but I'm not into casual sex; I'm pretty celibate unless I'm in a strong, committed relationship. And, well, you know, I just haven't found the right guy."

"That's okay, sweetie," the detective said, handing her a tissue and taking one herself. "I know what you mean. Hell, I'm forty-five and I still haven't found Mr. Right, though I've met more than my share of Mr. Wrongs. I'm just sorry this happened to a nice girl like you. But I think we have enough to get a warrant for Michalik's arrest. Would you like me to drop you off at your apartment on my way back to the precinct house?"

Ryder agreed. "You will call and tell me when he's been arrested," she said when the detective pulled up in front of her building. "I'm afraid…afraid of him. He's awfully clever."

"Well, he wasn't smart enough to keep his pants zipped, now was he?" the detective replied. "Just try to get some rest. I'll call when we get him."

A few hours later, Ryder thanked the detective profusely when she called to announce the arrest of Alexis Michalik. "He'll probably make bail, but we'll let him know that under no circumstance is he to make contact with you or I'll be on him like white on rice," the detective said. "And we're still looking for your mystery witness. He'll pretty much drive a nail in this one."

Later, Ryder met with an assistant district attorney and a victim's advocate. The ADA interviewed her and seemed satisfied with her responses. "Before I leave, I want to explain a little about how this works," the young female attorney said. "Just because the police arrested Mr. Michalik doesn't mean the district attorney's office will charge him right away. We want to do this right, so that when we do go after him-and I think that I can say between me, you, and the wall, that we will be going after this creep-we nail his ass to the wall. The process can take a little while, but just stay patient and justice will prevail here."

That evening, Ryder reluctantly but graciously accepted telephone calls from reporters with the New York Post and the New York Times. It seemed that some anonymous caller had tipped them off to Michalik's arrest. "I've been told not to say anything at this time," she said. "But thank you for your concern."

"I understand you can't talk about the case, Miss Ryder," both reporters had said, using virtually the same language, "but can you tell my readers a little about yourself."

"Well…I suppose that's all right," she said. "I'm from Iowa and like every little girl from Iowa, I came to New York hoping to make it on Broadway…"

The next day, the news hit the stands. RUSSIAN CASANOVA RAPES ACTRESS, screamed the headline on the front of the Post. The Times was somewhat more reserved, putting the story below the fold under the headline "Internationally Acclaimed Poet Accused of Raping Student Actress."

She was reasonably happy with both stories, although she thought more could have been done with the small list of acting credits she'd provided-several television spots, a Card Girl appearance at a boxing match in the Garden, and as the dead nude woman in the off-off-Broadway production of Son of Sam, I Am, which had required her to remain absolutely still for ten minutes while the antihero gave his longest monologue as a knockoff of a Dr. Seuss poem. But the newspaper coverage was a start.

Stamping her feet with glee, she read and reread the part about the university suspending Michalik "pending further investigation" and the outcome of the criminal case. "We want to make it clear that NYU will not in any way tolerate any behavior from its faculty and staff that compromises the physical safety and emotional well-being of our students," President Helen Coffman was quoted. "We point out that Mr. Michalik is innocent until proven guilty and will receive due process under the American justice system; however, we feel that there is sufficient grounds to warrant taking this measure to protect our students."

The Post had even dredged up a file photograph of Michalik reading at one of his poetry presentations shortly after his arrival in the United States. Ryder was pleased to see they'd chosen one in which he looked just like a wild-eyed Russian of the sort who'd rape innocent young American girls. Ryder had declined to allow herself to be photographed. "Not at this time. Please understand, I don't want to jeopardize the work of the police department." But she'd handed out black-and-white prints of a glamour shot she'd had made a year earlier for her portfolio.

All day she'd fielded calls. Some from her former lovers, several of whom seemed to find the whole thing about her being raped sort of sexually exciting; of course, they didn't say that flat out, but they wanted to see her "when you feel up to it." She was disappointed that Dmitri wasn't among the callers, but the plastic surgeon had been so titillated by the whole thing-"The newspaper story said he tied you up?"-that she was sure she could get a lip job out of him. The few friends she had-other would-be actresses and models, none of them the sort you'd trust with your life-also called, trying to be associated with the girl in the papers.

There was even a call from the producer of Son of Sam, I Am, who wanted to know her availability in February for a new play he was considering called The Sky Is Falling, "based on a fictional account of people trapped in the World Trade Center on 9/11; they all die." She was polite and said she'd definitely be interested in reading for a part, just in case, but she was hoping for bigger offers than that.

The best call was from Harvey Schmellmann, a lawyer. "You need representation, my girl," he'd said. "And Schmellmann, Fiorino and Campbell is the best in the business. We'd protect your interests in the criminal proceedings-I'm sure you're aware of what happened to the victim in the Kobe Bryant case-as well as any civil litigation we might consider. Not to be insensitive to the trauma inflicted upon you by that monster, but I dare say that a woman of your obvious beauty and strength of character will soon be receiving a lot of calls-if you haven't already. Have you?-from a lot of shysters in the entertainment business trying to lock up your options…I'm talking books, movies, television, and speaking engagements, which can be very lucrative. You don't want to wander into that quagmire without effective counsel, and my partner Gino Fiorino is the very best there is at protecting those rights."

Schmellmann even sent a limousine to pick her up and deliver her to his office "for a first consultation, absolutely free and no strings attached." By the time she left, she'd signed the necessary papers to be his client-"one-third of any profits from lawsuits, plus expenses; 15 percent of any artistic or literary recompense…but don't worry, sister, there'll be plenty to go around by the time we get through with these schmucks. You know, I think we have a good case against that freakin' university for not monitoring this perverted Ruskie."

Then the limo whisked her back home in time to meet the first of three television crews, whose producers had called her after reading the morning newspapers. "Should have called us first," they'd said. But they'd all sent over crews and eager reporters who breathlessly told their stories.

Ryder was proud of the performances she'd given: understated yet powerful, the serious student of Russian literature who'd been preyed upon by a man she'd trusted. "But I really can't go into the details," she said. The only reason she'd agreed to the interviews was "to empower other young women who find themselves in my position." If this had been the stage, I'd win a Tony, she thought. Oh, well, next year.

The story only picked up speed the day after it broke, when Ted Vanders went to the police and said he'd entered the building that night and nearly bumped into a disheveled young woman. "She was crying," he'd said in his statement. "Said she'd been attacked by some professor. But she didn't want to call the police and then took off."

The detective read Sarah the transcript of the interview with Vanders. "He came forward after he saw you on television. So I guess the media did its job. Anyway, he said he'd never met you before that night, didn't even know your name. He'll make a great witness. Pretty much a slam dunk case. You just relax and keep your head up, kid."

The detective hung up feeling good about her job. She hadn't bothered to tell Ryder that this character Vanders-a funny little guy, artsy-fartsy type-had a couple of scratches on his cheek she found interesting. She'd worked in the sex assault division for ten years and had seen a lot of fingernail marks on the faces of perps.

"What happened to your face?" the detective had asked him.

Vanders's hand had gone up to his cheek and his face turned red. "My cat scratched me."

Mighty big cat, the detective thought.

Later that evening, Ryder went over to Vanders's apartment and gave him a mercy screw. "You were a good boy today, Ted," she said. "Keep it up, and I'll keep you up…get it?" Vanders reacted like a puppy who'd been praised by its owner; in fact, she wondered if he was going to pee on himself.

But that was weeks ago, and Michalik still hadn't been charged. At first she'd been happy when the top dog in the district attorney's rape bureau, Rachel Rachman, personally took over the case. The woman had paced back in forth behind her desk when they first met, giving a little speech about how men in positions of authority had used sexual violence against women from the beginning of time. She'd also noted that the police had found plenty of corroborating evidence, "including a beer glass on a bookshelf that he apparently didn't see, with your fingerprints and lipstick on it and traces of rohypnol."

"What's that?" Ryder asked innocently.

"Sometimes called roofies, or the date rape drug…essentially takes away your ability to resist," Rachman said, flashing in anger. "It's the latest thing. Drop it in a drink at the bar, offer to give her a ride home, and then rape her when she's defenseless. Happens to a lot more women than we know about."

Rachman had called Monday saying she was going into some meeting with the district attorney, Karp, and expected to file charges later that day. She was excited because the lab reports were back. "There are traces of rohypnol in your blood," she said. "Even better, your blouse tested positive for semen, and it's a match for Michalik. In other words, he's toast… Um, I was thinking about calling a press conference today to announce the charges-the media has been hounding me about this one. Okay with you?"

"Whatever you think is best, Rachel," she'd replied.

But instead of calling later with the happy news that Alexis was about to be charged, Rachman said there was going to be a slight delay. Karp and some troll of an assistant DA named Kipman apparently had some sort of problem with the case. "They want me to cross a few more t's and dot some i's. It's no big deal. We'll file next week."

"I don't understand," Ryder complained, trying not to sound hysterical. This wasn't the way the plan was supposed to go. "You promised."

"Don't worry," Rachman assured her. "We have him by the balls. Karp and Kipman are like all men; they just don't want to believe that sexual assault is at epidemic levels in this country, much of it acquaintance rape, such as in your case. So I have to go twice as far just to get them to budge. But I'll get them there."

"What if Alexis…I mean Michalik, comes after me?" Ryder said. "You know he said he was going to hurt me."

"He contacted you?" Rachman asked.

"Yes…no…I mean, this was after he did it. He said if I went to the police, he was going to find me and hurt me," Ryder said.

"Was that in the police report?" Rachman said. "I don't remember the threat, although I suppose the nature of the crime implies that there is a threat of retaliation later."

Ryder cursed herself. She didn't want to make Rachman suspicious. "I thought I told the first officers. Maybe I forgot to tell the detective. I still don't remember everything clearly or who I told what… I think there's some lingering effect of the drugs."

"Sure, sure, completely understandable," Rachman said. "We just are going to have to be patient. Maybe conduct, or reconduct, a few interviews to make sure there are no holes for a defense attorney to exploit."

Ryder had said she understood and hung up. On Friday night, when there was still no word from Rachman, she'd decided to go see Vanders and make sure he got his story straight. After he'd repeated it verbatim a half-dozen times without a glitch, she'd gone to bed with him after taking another roofie, which had made the experience bearable.

In the morning, however, she woke up in a foul mood. She felt fat, bloated, and got out of bed to look at herself in the mirror. Not seeing the imperfections she had imagined, she smiled…until Vanders came up from behind and wrapped his arms around her while he pressed his groin against her backside.

"Ted, what did I just tell you about taking liberties," she said, looking at him in the mirror. She expected him to back off.

However, Ted's lust had emboldened him. He figured she owed him big and that it was time he had a little more say in their relationship. After all, he'd done everything she'd said, to the letter-well, except the part about screwing her again in the morning while she was still passed out. He'd had to reuse one of the rubbers, but it had been worth it. And it didn't matter; he could expose her plans.

"Maybe you should be a little more cooperative if you want me to keep being a good boy. Sometimes you aren't very nice to me," he said, pouting.

Ryder, who'd tensed when he touched her, relaxed and let his hands continue to roam over her body. She reached behind and started to fondle him. He groaned…and then screamed when she pulled his balls as hard as she could. She'd whirled around with her scissors in her hand and placed them as if she intended to turn him into a eunuch.

Vanders cried again when he felt the pinch of the blades as they cut into his skin. "I didn't mean it. I didn't mean it. You're nice. Please, don't," he begged. He felt like passing out but was afraid of what she'd do if he did.

"You little piece of shit," she snarled. "You ever threaten me again and I'll cut your fucking balls off and cram them down your throat." She squeezed the scissors a bit more. "We clear?"

"Yes, yes, yes, yes," he yipped, nodding his head rapidly. "Please, let go."

"Well, okay then, Teddy," she said, smiling sweetly as she eased up on the scissors. "Just remember, not only would I find a way to get to you and your little nuts if you went to the police, but do you think they're not going to care that you lied to them just so you could get laid? They'll put you in prison where you'll get laid every night by some big, hairy hillbilly."

Ryder withdrew the scissors, which she waved in front of one of his weepy eyeballs. She had a sudden urge to plunge it in but figured that might be tough to explain.

"There, there, Teddy," she said, lifting his trembling chin with the point of the scissors. "Just be a good boy…no more threats…and I might even throw you a bone from time to time."

Five minutes later, she walked out of the apartment. Stopping to fix her makeup, she noticed a shadow move away from behind the door across the hall. Nosy neighbors, she thought. I'm going to have to be more careful and disguise my face when I visit Ted the Idiot.

Just thinking about him and his threat as she walked out to her car pissed her off. Just another guy trying to fuck her over. Well, someday Ted Vanders and his balls might have a fatal meeting with a certain pair of scissors. She laughed at the thought of Ted's face as she dangled his nut sack in front of his eyes. Now that would be funny.

Ted wasn't laughing, however, as he inspected his wounded nut sack with a mirror in the bathroom. Jeez, he thought, I better never tell her about the condom breaking or she really will cut them off.