Chapter 1: From College to the Big Apple

Eli embarrassed her by calling her a 'wet dream come true' with his friends, but it secretly pleased her, just the way her sorority sisters did when they told her their boyfriends referred to her as 'the blonde knockout with the dee cup tits.'

Sheila was fortunate during the last semester to have a rep from a new East Coast publisher interview the journalism students. He was visiting his alma mater for a class reunion, but he made it a hybrid business-pleasure trip by interviewing kids from her class. So, luckily for Sheila, hers was the only college he visited during that trip to the midwest.

The offer from New York thrilled her--it seemed that her hope was going to be fulfilled. A hick girl from the insignificant little town of Rantoul, Illinois was going to the Big Apple to take a dreamy job!

Perhaps the reason for the offer from his publisher were her grades. But (she later learned) the rep had a reputation for being partial to attractive girls, so she wasn't sure. Since she was prettier and was endowed with a much better figure than any of the other female journalism majors, those qualties could just as likely have been his motive.

The publishers were launching a new magazine, a tabloid version of '60 Minutes'. It featured in each issue at least one prime muckraking article. The rep probably was exaggerating when he told her that she would 'in time, get to be an investigative reporter'. He probably caught her vibes about that job; to Sheila it was the plum of the journalism profession.

Eli was crushed when she told him she'd be leaving the midwest. He had accepted a job in Chicago; so it didn't look like they'd see each other much after they graduated.

If ever. Poor Eli. Well, he's a hunk; he'll get over me.

She felt more regretful for him than for herself. He was a turn-on for any girl, with his taut muscular body (the runner-up guard on the basketball team, and he worked out hard every day). But he wasn't the dreamboat that she would go to the ends of the earth for.

Eli was really down that last day; so much so that Sheila tried to contain her excitement for fear he'd feel even worse. That night, with her roommate Sally gone, she arranged a love-fest in her room. Later, after they'd dozed for a couple of hours, she had to go pee. When she got back in bed, she topped their last night with a blow job. She prolonged it, and kept him on the edge as long as her jaws would take it. At the end, she jerked him off with her fist the way he liked, with her mouth wide open and the head on her stuck-out tongue so he could watch it shoot in. Eli told her it was the best he'd ever had.

So, they headed in different directions, Eli in his car to the Windy City, and she (he was going to drop her off at the Peoria airport before heading north) in a commuter two jetter to O'Hare followed by a 747 to JFK.

As it turned out, her position when she began was something of a gopher, but that didn't bother her. Being fresh out of school, she expected to start at the bottom.

She was thrilled with her job, with her co-workers, who were all helpful (and awfully smart!). Her grades in college didn't mean beans among the people she was working with. Even though they knew so much more than she, no one talked down to her.

She liked the city. The crime she'd read about wasn't as bad as she'd feared. She took sensible precautions: She put a "No Radio" sign on her old car's dashboard, was careful to double-bolt the door to the apartment she shared with Wendy (who'd advertised for "somebody to share the expenses"); and was careful about where she went after dark.

The big problem in the beginning was finances. New York was so expensive! Max arranged for her to get an advance, which she really needed. She slapped down a huge chunk to hold the apartment. She had to buy clothes: The women on the staff came dressed to kill. Most of them. It seemed like a competition.

Sheila's hours were crazy--but so were everyone's. Typically, unless she had a special assignment, she worked until all the proofreading--which boring though it was, she always left for last--was done. Then she went home, took a hot bath, napped, and went out with a friend to dinner.

As for finding those friends, pas de probl, me! Just the first week she had guys--as well as a few of the older women--asking her out. And, not just from the publishing house. Most of the staff usually ate lunch in a nearby deli with tables. She met one guy there. After a month she began going to a workout gym with two other girls on the Zine. She met guys there, too. That's where she first saw Edgar. A real hunk, but kind of old for her; she guessed he was at least thirty.

Dates were a case of, "who do I turn down? And, "when do I sleep?"

She'd been working for a little over a year when the big break came.

Max, the Editor-in-Chief, called her into his office one morning, along with that guy she saw in the workout gym, Edgar--with an Irish surname that she could never remember. About all she knew about him was that he had one of the plum jobs she was hoping for, that of roving reporter. He always wore a suit or sport jacket, which was a bit weird at the Zine. Despite the snazzy women's couture, all of the men, except for him, dressed casually. What made him seem even more out of place was his build, which seemed suited to a roustabout, a construction worker, or some other manual laborer.

He was stocky and, as she'd seen him on the Nautilus machines, muscular, with black hair. His features, on the other hand, were fine. Old Irish, they told her. He had one of those Bostonian accents that sounded put-on. But, she should talk, guys in the press room bugged her by imitating her midwestern twang.

Max handed her a manila envelope, with a "Look these over, Sheila."

The contents were a bunch of photos, each one of a girl or young woman, six in all.

"What do you make of them?"

She wondered what he intended that she should come up with after his Holmesian query. But, this was something big, so she did her best.

"Well," she said; "They're all of women--young ones. Two of them I would term 'girls', uh, these two. They look sixteen or so. And..." She shuffled through them, "every one is very attractive. Are they models?"

"For high couture?"

"Oh, no! Their figures are too good. I mean, models for something like Playboy, or the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition."

He smiled. He leaned back and unrolled a cigar, but didn't light it.

"Not bad. Not a bad guess.

"The brunette in the... uh, photo number two, has modeled for men's magazines. She's the oldest of the six--twenty right now. The year she was missing she was seventeen. The others... the blonde... " he glanced at the folder, "in photo four, is seventeen. She went missing at fifteen. Gone for two whole years. She, and other four--who disappeared just over a year ago--turned up a month ago.

"None of them will say much about their experiences. We were still able to obtain some information about their disappearances. Enough to make it a big story. Very big."

"What do the police say? They must have interviewed the girls. It could be some cult that they got into and then couldn't get out of."

"Yes, our city's finest talked to them, but only with the girls' lawyers present. The girls didn't reveal anything. They didn't have to. The police think, but can't prove, that a crime was committed. Unless one of them reveals that they were kidnapped forcibly or that some other felony was committed, the police can't do a thing. And won't. About all the police can do is be pissed off at all the work they did searching for the girls when they went missing."

"You think they were kidnapped?" she asked, putting the photos back on Max's desk...

"We think so. But as of now each one is just a missing persons case. A closed one. There were no ransom notes. We have a few other sources, including high school and youngish college kids who freelance articles for us when we need a story on youth. Through them, we got a little more information about the girls. The older girl, the model, came back pregnant. She wouldn't say anything, but two of the younger ones told our contacts that they were taken to some island, a tropical one, where they were used in a sex racket. White slavery of some modern sort."

"So the girls were sexually abused."

"Yes, but we couldn't get details. All of them were compelled to do things that they wouldn't describe. Moreover, they're all concerned that if they say very much, what they did will become known.

"During their time on the island, they were videotaped. The girls were told before they were freed that any publicity about the island would mean tapes would be sent to their employers, friends, family, and so on."

"Blackmail, of course," Edgar said.

"In a manner of speaking. They aren't compelled to provide money, or anything that's usually involved in blackmail. If they keep silent, the tapes won't be used. What makes it particularly difficult for the police is that no one seems to have an idea where the island is. It's probably privately owned. Lots of islands are owned by the wealthy. Brando owns one in the South Pacific. That slave island can't be far off, but it's unlikely to be in an American area of the world. If it isn't our police have no jurisdiction."