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JUSTICE FOR BOBBY By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2019 Warning: Horror. Author's Note: To the credit of its author, one story on FM disturbed me to the conclusion that, in order to sleep better at night, I needed to write a moral counterpoint to it. Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. RT FIND Stephanie Leski was in the kitchen savoring her freshly baked gingerbread cookies when she heard the firm knock at the front door. She wondered why people didn't ring the doorbell anymore. There was a doorbell there; why not use it? She went to the security system and looked at the screen. There were two fairly average looking men in business suits at the door. One had darker hair, the other lighter hair. Both seemed to be about six feet tall and fit. The darker-haired one had a neatly trimmed beard. She pressed the microphone button. "Yes, can I help you?" "Good afternoon, ma'am," the darker-haired one said. "We're from the county tax investigation bureau and are looking for Mrs. Stephanie Leski." "Could you please show me some identification? Please hold it up to the camera." Stephanie was reasonably cautious but not paranoid. Satisfied with the officious bronze badge and ID cards, she told them she would be there in a minute. She ate one hot cookie then went to the front door. "I'm Stephanie Leski. How can I help you?" Her smile was warm and welcoming. So were the two men's smiles. It was a typical friendly moment in a pleasant suburban neighbourhood. And the sun shone too. "Good afternoon, I'm officer Frank Williams," the darker-haired one said, "and this is my partner, officer John George. May we come in for a minute please?" They sat in the tasteful living room. Expensive couch. Plush leather chairs. An incredibly fine 105 raj Tabriz carpet. Mahogany table. Murano glass. Inuit sculptures. Chinese vases. Stephanie thought the d?cor exquisite. Frank and John didn't care about the d?cor. Their eyes darted all over the room and any visible, adjoining rooms and corridors. Frank assumed responsibility for the social preliminaries. While Stephanie focused on him, John slowly got up and walked around the room, looking, searching. Stephanie glanced curiously at him from time to time. "...And so it is that we need your assistance in figuring out what happened to the seventy-five dollars that the audit failed to clear. And we would deeply appreciate it if you were to accompany us to our office so that we can show you the video Moses made." Frank opened his hands in a pleading gesture. His voice was disarmingly kind. Stephanie had heard of this incident: Moses Lans had been caught with his hand in the daily cash float box, and the managing director had fired him. Stephanie had not heard of a formal investigation by the authorities but reasonably assumed that the managing director had called for one. Stephanie would have called the police. She had never improperly taken a dime from the company and had nothing to hide. And stealing was wrong. So, these were the two men the managing director harnessed and then unleashed to chase down Moses. But really: all this for just seventy-five dollars? "I'd love to help you, but I have pick up my two children in three hours." She was 27. She and her husband (Phil) had wanted to start a family as soon as possible after marriage (which had come right after university). Frank replied. "It won't take that long, Mrs. Leski. We would very much appreciate your assistance and deeply regret the inconvenience. And we can mention your positive assistance to your boss, Ms. Sinclair. And I assure you that we will re-unite you with your family soonest." His was a friendly smile. Reluctantly, Stephanie quickly packed the cookies, closed the house, locked the front door, and walked to the it's-so-obvious-it's-an- undercover-cop-car car. John held the back door open for her. "Sorry," he said as she squeezed into the caged back. In the driver's seat, Frank flicked a few buttons, started the car, flicked some more buttons, and drove. John sat serenely in the front seat. The car moved quickly and was soon on the highway heading out of town. "Where are we going?" Stephanie's question went unanswered. She opened her purse. "My cell phone doesn't work." No response from the front seat. "Alright. Please stop the car and let me out." Silence. The car continued on its way out of the city. Stephanie had a brief temper tantrum. There was the normal shouting and swearing and bashing and thrashing. Eventually, as is so often the case for anyone in the back of a police car, she calmed down resignedly and watched the scenery pass by, not knowing what her immediate future held. Or where she was. After driving down several forgettable, winding country roads, the car turned into a driveway and stopped at a gate. A 30'ish, fit man wearing jeans, a grey T-shirt, and a baseball cap came out and looked into the car. He opened the gate and the car went up to a fairly non-descript, large country house. The man closed the gate. The property was secluded and charmingly bucolic. FIX In contradiction to the house's first few rooms upon entering, the room in the interior of the ground floor of the house looked very much like a police interrogation room in the movies. No windows. One wall with a door at one end and the rest covered in what had to be a one-way mirror. The other three walls were light gray, blank. There was a table and three chairs, two on one side, the third opposite them. John and Frank sat on one side, Stephanie on the other. The room was otherwise empty. John spoke. "I apologize, Mrs. Leski. This all may seem somewhat unusual to you, but we do have our methods here. Please be patient and work with us through our problem. Okay?" John smiled and tilted his head. Stephanie evidenced some irritation but nodded her agreement. And so John began his long dance with Stephanie. "When were you born?" "Tell me about your parents." "Where did you live?" "How was school? What teachers did you have?" Question after question about her early life, her teens, her university years, her entrance into the business world, and her family life today. Stephanie glanced at her watch. "I have to pick up my kids in one hour." She started getting antsy. "I don't see how any of this concerns Moses whisking from the cash box at the office," she said with exasperation. "These questions, and your answers of course, they matter to us," John said in the same bland, dull, slow voice that he had asked all of the questions. His was a voice to lull one to sleep. "I have to go now to get my children," Stephanie replied. John answered in that flat voice, and his answer terrified Stephanie: "Please don't tell us about your children anymore. We know you don't have any." He amicably stared at her. Busted! Her eyes showed her fear. "What does that mean? You can't keep me here! I have rights you know! Now, let me go, officer!" John lifted a hand, made a signal of some sort to the mirror, and sat back. Two huge, gigantic men, 'heavies', entered the room and stood behind John and Frank. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands clasped, chin on hands. He stared at her. After a few minutes of mutual staring and silence, he continued. "Stephanie, I'm going to ask you my questions again. You lied to us about having kids. Please do not lie to us again. Now, there are some things that you can help clarify for me. Some details. Some better descriptions. You do want to help us, don't you?" Silence. "Please let me go." Stephanie began losing hope. John slowly said, "Let's start at the beginning again. Tell me about your first memories at kindergarten. Describe your childhood house again. Let's start there." He motioned the men out of the room. ----- 000 ----- Stephanie had no idea what time it was. She saw her watch no longer worked. She saw her cell phone no longer worked. She strained to resist going to the bathroom. She shifted her weight from one side to the other, to lessen the discomfort on her bum. She was fidgeting. Frank was standing behind her somewhere, wasn't he? Her mental acuity was getting worn down. It had to be late at night now. What would Phil be thinking right now? She was trying to play nice and answer all the questions. But there were so many! John never ceased. She answered one, and he asked another. He kept going back to what she had said the first, second, third, or fourth time she had recited her biography and 'life story'. She asked, "When can I see my husband?" She was not soothed by John's tranquil answer, "Don't worry about him." There was a knock at the mirror behind him. He got up, and then he and Frank left the room. She was alone in the locked, empty room for what seemed like hours. A third man sat down opposite her. He was older, larger, and crueler looking than John was. There was a deep scar running from his right tear duct to the middle of his jawline. He did not smile at all. He looked through several pages of documents in a folder he carried. His hands were thick and deeply calloused. He stopped on one page, read it, and looked up at her. "Tell me about your stepfather." A primal snarl. His voice was meaner than John's. Stephanie was tired, hungry, and thirsty. The water on the table had turned out to be salty. John had never tried it. Stephanie had. John had smiled when she had. The third man repeated his command. Stephanie, exhausted, answered once again. "Like I said before, mommy met him when I was about 14 years old. He had ---" The third man interrupted her, "Mummy? You mean 'Mumzie', right?" She nodded her agreement vigorously. "Yes, sorry, Mumzie, that's my name for her. Mumzie met him when I was about 14 and he owned an injection molding business, running some fancy plastic or rubber plant. You know those winter pads for your car to keep the carpet from getting slushy? They made those. He had money. He made mumzie happy. He seemed happy too. He was a nice man." "What was his name? What was his NAME?" the third man shouted, slamming the table with his fist. "Rob Wells, his name was Rob Wells!" she cried in fear. "I told you that before!" The third man stood up and leaned over the table. His face was red. His eyes blazed with hate. He smashed his two fists on the table time and time again. Stephanie was frightened. He shouted inches from her face, "What was his FULL name?" "Robert Wells!" she cried. "His FULL FUCKING NAME, you fucking cunt!" "Robert Jonathan Wells!" she cried. The questions were coming machinegun fast. The table almost fell apart under his last barrage of fists. "WHAT WAS HIS FULL FUCKING NAME?" "Robert Jonathan Wells, senior!" she cried. Her tears, saliva, and runny nose snot mingled on her face. Her mascara ran. He hair was, shall we say, askew... The third man grinned and suddenly left the room. Empty chairs, empty table, empty room. Except Stephanie, who was left alone in the silence and emptiness. Stephanie wanted to sleep so much. She had no idea what was happening here and what was happening to her. Suddenly, her spirits lifted: John, calm John, beautifully placid John, re-entered the room! She was glad to see him. Relieved in fact. John leisurely walked around the table, softly putting a finger briefly on Stephanie's head, but not stopping. He dragged his seat out, moved to its side, put an untitled folder on the table, and sat down. He adjusted himself. He looked at Stephanie. His face, she thought, was kind and caring, sympathetic. "Stephanie, please help me here." He nodded at her. She nodded back, instinctively, eagerly. "We can work together here. We can do questions and answers and get you re-united with your family fast. But you have to work with me, understand, Steph?" He nodded 'yes', and she agreeably nodded back. Please just make this stop, she thought, please just let me go home. "Me and Frank have been with you here. We like you. We don't want you to get in any undeserved trouble. But," he voiced took on a tinge of frustration, "if you don't work with us, then Marco has to come back again." He pointed his hand toward the door and the third man who was no longer in the room. "I do want to work with you. Anything. Please. Anything." John smiled and nodded. Stephanie nodded too. John said, "We like working with you too. I really want to work with you. But you've been holding back from us, haven't you?" Stephanie was tired, reeling from the entire day's events, and shook her head 'no'. Frank walked in, sat down, looked at John, and smirked. John turned and smiled at Stephanie. John's was a soothing voice, a tranquilizing voice, a voice to which lamb and wolf could blissfully dance together. John moved his hands across the table and gently grasped Stephanie's. She started to bawl. John said it was okay to cry, crying is good, crying can re-unite her with her family sooner. John looked at Stephanie's eyes. "Stephanie, you have not been truthful." Her eyes were wide open and red, her head shook, she mumbled, "Yes, I have. Yes, I have..." She mumbled these words repeatedly. "No, Stephanie, no, you have not." John bent his head forward and looked at her beseechingly. "I wish you would tell us the truth." "I did. I did, I swear I did," she cried. John went silent. Frank spoke: "Stephanie, please tell us about Robert Jonathan Wells, junior." She cried, "I did." Stephanie watched Frank get up and go to the door. He opened it, appeared to say something to someone (Marco?) outside the door, lifted his hand as though to indicate stop to that other person, closed the door, and returned to his seat. John looked at Frank, who leaned back and with his hand urged John to ask the questions. John's voice changed. It conveyed urgency and frustration, that time was almost up. "Last chance, Stephanie. Tell us about Robert Jonathan Wells, junior, your stepbrother, also known as Bobby." Upon hearing that name, Stephanie felt nauseous. A little dusty box of fun, laughable memories, long ago wrapped with a bow and put away in an attic and forgotten, sprung open and unleashed a wave of horror that filled her soul. This interview had nothing to do with Moses' supposed, petty embezzlement. Her body began to tremble. Her eyes rolled. And she fainted. ----- 000 ----- That Stephanie had endured seventeen hours so far was impressive. But everyone has a breaking point, and the only question is 'when?'. The smelling salts restarted the countdown toward Stephanie's breaking point. "I don't remember that much about him," she started. But Frank pursued. "You said Mumzie married when you were 15. Bobby would have been 13 then, right?" She nodded yes. "We've checked some records. You both lived at the same house, 42 Pleasant Street, went to the same school for five years, right?" She nodded yes. "Even a bit together in that house after your stepdad, his real, biological dad, died, when you were 18, right?" She nodded yes. "And Bobby was 16 then, right?" She nodded yes. "Tell me about those years. What was Bobby like? Who were his friends? Who were your friends? John and I want to know more about Bobby." Stephanie's mind was mush. Sleep deprivation. Lack of food and water. Constant mental exercising. Relentless questioning (polite of course). Reciting time and time again the same story line, knowing that, each time a slight discrepancy emerged, it would give rise to another line of questioning. No sense of time. Worry for her husband, her gingerbread cookies, her life. And now endless questions about Bobby. She tried and tried to skirt her way around those questions. Yet Frank and John invariably caught every single inconsistency, maneuvered the conversation (if that's what it was) to different topics, and then without notice, pounced back to each inconsistency and pounded her with questions about it: e.g. "Whoa: you said he wanted to go to university! So, why didn't he apply to any?" They had skillfully gotten Stephanie to draw a fulsome sketch of Bobby's life from age 13 to 18. She did in fact remember much about him. They observed her reluctance, avoidance, aversion, of anything after age 18. Therefore, they spruced the interview up. They increased the speed. They alternated questioning. They danced back and forth in the timeline, throwing her off again and again and again. John started, "You said you loved him. I'll rewind the tapes and show you saying that you loved him. Where is he now?" He then threw her off: "What was Christmas like that year? Did you send him a gift, a card? What was it?" Frank hit her mind with heavy ones: "If you love him, why didn't you care to find out where he went? Who reported his missing to the police? Is that a lie? You said Mumzie reported him missing earlier." John resumed with his detailing: "What happened to all the stuff in his room? Where did it go? Who took it away? Don't say you don't know; you were still living there!" Frank added more: "How much did his father bequeath to him? What lawyer had the Will? How much did you get from your stepdad? How did you and Phil buy your house?" And so on. Stephanie felt her entire world was collapsing in ruin upon her. She couldn't keep up. She felt physically weak, mentally ravaged, and completely depressed. A loud bang filled the room: Marco slammed open the door and stormed over to her. He glared at her and threw something on the table. It was a black leather biker hat. Marco then threw a surgical mask down next to it. And then a long black rubber apron. She stared at them. Her curiosity gave way to shock and then fear. Stephanie recognized the three articles before her. She knew them all too well, having worn them all so well. Long suppressed memories awoke and began to haunt her. The click of heels on the dark stairs down to the steel door in a sub-basement. Gargling, whimpering, gagging, and especially hissed, restricted breathing. The feel of rope against human skin. The burn in a bicep from tightening a leather strap. The sound of leather hitting a latex body suit. The smell of leather. The sound of a dildo getting lubed. The cold metal touch of the maternity/gyno examination table. The sloppy popping sound of a plug leaving an orifice. Stephanie's head shook back and forth as though seized by insane disbelief. John and Frank quietly got up and left, taking their folder with them. Marco moved around the table and sat down. Stephanie still had enough reasoning ability to realize that her pleasant little suburban world had evaporated and that her life would never be the same. Marco raised his hand above his head and snapped his fingers. Frank came back into the room and gave Marco a laptop and then left again. He spun it around to show Stephanie the screen. "Do you recognize this woman?" His was a low, menacing voice. The picture was of her longtime friend Carmen, standing next to Marco in this same interview room. Carmen's body displayed utter defeat and her face utter fear. Marco whispered to Stephanie, "Now is a very bad time to lie. I know who she is. Say her name." "It's Carmen," she whispered back. "Look at me. Has Carmen ever worn these things?" He waved his hand across the table. Stephanie answered with a nod: yes. Her tears splashed on the table. Marco nodded back. "Good girl," he said. "Keep it up and don't lie to me." He turned the laptop around and hit a few keys. He turned it back. "Here's another pic. Carmen says that this person in it is her. Do you agree?" He pointed to the second picture. Stephanie did not want to look at it. She dreaded what it might be. "Look at it. Do you agree it's her?" Marco snarled in her face. It was a screenshot from a video made a couple of years ago in a dark, hellish basement dungeon. The picture was of a room. The background was shiny and black. The floor was grey concrete. The lighting was dreary. In the right of the picture was a figure wearing a black leather biker hat, a surgical mask, a white gown of some kind, and, over the gown, a black rubber apron. The figure was sitting on the floor with one hand between their legs and the other hand under the apron, apparently caressing a breast. Women's running shoes and socks were visible. So were the figure's milk chocolate skin of her shins and calves. In the centre of the picture was a smaller figure on its knees. It was dressed entirely in black; no human flesh was visible. Its lower legs appeared to be held tightly together. Its toes were pointed straight back, undoubtedly painfully. Its upper legs and torso were perfectly straight, presumably because of the corset that seemed to be excruciatingly tight around the figure's waist. The figure's arms were together and behind the figure's head. The head itself was hooded. A black tube fell from the mouth area. Directly in front of the figure was a large size television screen, presumably filling the figure's entire field of vision. What looked like fellatio between some humanish forms was occurring on screen. The figure was facing to the right in the picture, and the screen to the left. Slightly off centre and to the left, dressed identically to the first figure (Carmen), a third figure stood behind the kneeling, restrained second figure. White flesh was visible below the hem of the white smock. The third figure's left hand held a rope that raised the second figure's bound arms. The right hand held a long straight rod that looked like a yardstick. "See the dark skin down there?" Marco said, pointing to the right side of the picture. "Carmen. Even Carmen says it's Carmen. Do you agree?" Stephanie nodded yes. Teary snot ran from her nose. Marco breathed deeply, "Who's this on the left, Stephanie?" Silence. He played with the laptop briefly and turned it back toward her. It again showed the picture of Marco and Carmen --- petrified, scared shitless --- in this same room. He flicked it to the dungeon picture. And back. And forth. Eventually, he stopped on the dungeon picture again. He pointed to the figure on the left. "Me," she whispered. "Louder," he answered. "Me, the person on the left is me, and Carmen is on the right," Stephanie cried. Marco stood up and walked until he was behind Stephanie's chair. He leaned over and directed her to look at the second figure, the kneeling one, the trapped one. "Say the name," he whispered in her ear. Stephanie sobbed. This was the day of reckoning that Mumzie had promised her would never, ever come. "Bobby," she said, breaking down. -----000----- Stephanie was drained. After her first confession that first, long day, she had been led to a windowless bedroom of sorts, with a bed, a small dresser, a mirror, a small closet, and a vanity washroom. A thirtyish woman a bit taller than her but visibly much stronger told her to change. Stephanie asked: "Into what?" The woman opened the closet. Stephanie was astonished to see her own nightgown, bathrobe, and slippers. And a couple of her dresses and some of her underwear, as well as a large suitcase and a small carryon! She looked around the room and saw other personal things from her home: makeup, hairbrush, shoes, and the such. All things one might take for a week-long vacation. She cried. The woman monitored her changing into the nightgown and then doing her ablutions. She then instructed Stephanie to sit. She gave Stephanie some cashew packets, much like one gets on an airplane, and a small can of Coke. She ordered Stephanie to eat. Stephanie complied; she was starving. She ordered Stephanie to swallow two large green pills. Stephanie looked at them and hesitated. The woman snapped her fingers. Marco walked into the room. Stephanie swallowed the Rohypnol. The woman ordered Stephanie into bed; she complied. The woman restrained Stephanie's wrists with straps by the side of the bed. Stephanie would not be able to get up while lying in bed. The woman covered Stephanie with a warm blanket and left. Marco pointed to the corners of the ceiling: "Cameras and microphones." He turned off the lights, exited the room, and shut the door. -----000----- Shortly after she awoke from her undisturbed sleep, Stephanie, under supervision, got unstrapped, cleaned, dressed, and fed. She had no idea where she was or what time of day, let alone which day, it was. Into her bedroom or into the interview room or briefly moving along some wood- paneled hallway joining the two rooms. Although she was generally disoriented, she was forced to be acutely focused on her actions of years ago towards Bobby. Several times over several days (or was it hours or perhaps a week?), she was taken into the interview room and asked to tell --- again and again and again --- her role in the treatment of Bobby. And Carmen's role. And Madame Chin's role. And Mistress Alice's role. And, of course, Mumzie's role. Time after time, she was asked to talk about her life with her stepfather Rob, her stepbrother Bobby, and her beloved Mumzie. Marco's sessions focused on the factual specifics of her evil acts in the basement. Stephanie had to describe her routines, the equipment she used, her techniques, the various protocols and checklists Mumzie had devised, among other things. Marco used videos from the dungeon to stir her memory. He insisted that she point out specifics in the pictures on the screen. She found her sessions with Marco to be the most grueling and humiliating. Frank's sessions invariably gravitated toward property, money, inheritances, expenditures, etc. Stephanie now hated talking about them and wanted none of them anymore. "But you did want it all once upon a time, didn't you? And so, you and Mumzie took it," Frank countered. Stephanie quickly gave up her efforts to justify let alone explain all of her wealth. She couldn't; quite a bit of it was properly, lawfully Bobby's. John asked her to consider how she would judge herself. She detested his line of sanctimonious questioning: "You helped destroy Bobby. Stephanie, what would be a reasonable punishment for you for your role?" She was reluctant to accept any responsibility. John kept leading her to questions of morality and humanity. He seemed to be asking her to determine whether she deserved to live. Or whether the world would be a better place without her. 'Saint John' seemed concerned about her soul but, disturbingly, not its fate. Stephanie downplayed her immorality because she hardly recognized it. The cumulative effects of these many sessions --- Marco's and Frank's and John's --- wore her down. She gave up hope of seeing her husband again, let alone her home, her neighbours, her tennis club, her car, her favourite restaurant. She began to doubt that she would ever see daylight again. The rooms and hallway felt like a tomb. The pittance of food fostered a constant feeling of hunger and added to her burdens. Remorse, repentance, and redemption: these teased her mind but could not get a foothold in it. They may well have been alien to her. Maybe she had lost whatever compassion she had once had when she had first treated another human being (her stepbrother at that) as an object to be tortured. Or maybe she had never had any compassion at all, ever. After many days (the number of which Stephanie knew not), she comprehensively admitted to Frank and John: 1) that Mumzie had dehumanized Bobby simply to keep control of his father's bequest to him; and 2) that she, Stephanie, knew about it, did nothing about it, didn't care one bit for Bobby, enjoyed helping Mumzie, and had directly benefited from it. She acknowledged that what she had done was wrongful. "I shouldn't have done it," she murmured. But as John --- and Frank, Marco, and the other team members whom Stephanie never saw --- observed, when reviewing the interview recordings afterward, she never explained the 'why': why her treatment of Bobby was wrong. It was as though Stephanie did not understand the issue. A mid-20s, university educated woman who had never had a single challenge of any significance in her life and who had had every opportunity to excel couldn't explain right from wrong. FINISH Stephanie was shocked when the woman entered her bedroom accompanied by Marco, John, and Frank. John said, "Big day, Stephanie. Family reunion day! No more interviews." The lingering effect of the Rohypnol caused Stephanie to not immediately grasp what was said. She shook her head to clear it. "What?" she asked. "Come on! Get up! You're not sleeping here anymore. The interviews are over. We have one final briefing and then you're on your way." John's words encouraged her. So did his smile. She moved with alacrity to get ready. She packed her suitcases. She avoided looking at Marco and that woman. Frank seemed bored, reading something. The woman drily told her to put the suitcase down: "We'll take it for you." The woman took it and left the room. "Come here," Frank blandly said. "Turn around and put your hands behind your back," Marco plainly said. His lack of emotion made her apprehensive. John stood in front of her, seemingly amused by the confusion on her face. "It has to be this way, Stephanie. So, just relax and let it happen." Calming John. Marco grabbed her upper arm and walked her down the familiar hallway to the interview room. Frank stood by the door, ready to open it. His expression was flat, grey; Stephanie had no idea what was going through his mind. Before opening the door, he asked Stephanie whether she was a good person. He had never asked her a question in that vein before. She nodded yes. He grunted in reply and opened the door. As fast as lightning, Marco dragged her into the room and sat her down in a chair. The table was gone. Stephanie noticed other people sitting in chairs: Mumzie, Carmen, Madame Chin, and Mistress Alice. All were handcuffed. All looked defeated. All looked scared. Each had a heavy standing behind. Each heavy kept his hands on his respective woman's shoulders to prevent her from moving. Marco moved behind Stephanie and similarly kept her down. The chairs were arranged in a semi-circle. John took a chair and plunked it centre stage. Frank closed the door and leaned against it. -----000----- John slouched and stretched out his legs, crossing his ankles. He looked casually relaxed. John took out a small black case with a panther on it. He took out a cigarillo and lit it. He drew on his cigarillo. "Just under a year ago, a very nice couple, a wealthy couple, asked us for help. It seems that their teenage boy had been kidnapped. He disappeared. These parents loved him very much and, after some discussions, asked us to bring him home. We here have certain skills that can be used in such cases. In fact, we're pretty good at it." He drew on his cigarillo. "We found him. His name doesn't matter to you. In the course of our search, we also found Bobby. That's a name that matters to you, right? Oh, my bad; it didn't." He paused to let that sink in. He drew on his cigarillo. "Anyway, Bobby had ended up in a depraved sadist's house along with this other boy we were looking for and three more boys who had been kidnapped. We got those three back to their homes. They are loved. Cared for. Happy endings there." He drew on his cigarillo. "There were some unexpected things in that loser's house but we felt we did a really good job for the boys' parents. They understood our efforts and appreciated them." He drew on his cigarillo. "Suffice it to say, we were --- how do I put this? --- we were shocked at Bobby's condition. Dehydrated. Starved down to 95 pounds. Incontinence. Multiple fractures. A bit of scurvy. Infections. Some of these things can be treated, fixed." He drew on his cigarillo. "Some can't be. Like his joints for instance. Your armbinder pretty much dislocated his shoulders forever. His arm nerves were shot. The neck thing collapsed his airways and ruined his neck muscles. He couldn't move without it because his neck would wobble over and he'd suffocate." He drew on his cigarillo. "He couldn't walk either. Madame Chin, I believe, gets credit for rendering his feet and ankles completely useless. Foot binding still works, I guess. But that disability probably started with Mumzie's idea of BDSM ballet boots." He drew on his cigarillo. "Bobby's knees were also shot. Fuck, I can't get mine more than past my butt. Now, your videos show him with his feet right behind his head. And his back gets that back-breaking arch. Lumbar and disc damage. Permanent. Everything. You know that pink, pudgy, bald, bean-bag doll that cancer patients often have? Spineless Chuck? It was like that. But living." He drew on his cigarillo. "Maybe that corset did him in. Regardless, you ladies pretty much made it impossible for him to move around like a normal human being. His guts were all screwed up too. He could hardly eat. After you, all of his subsequent owners worsened it. Yeah, we know about them. Sadistic bastard was last." He drew on his cigarillo. "Sorry, I apologize. I would be very remiss if I did not also mention Mistress Alice's castration of Bobby. That video was particularly horrific. No anesthetic, Alice? We saw that." He drew on his cigarillo. It went out. He dropped it on the floor, crushed it, and lit another. "I guess I'm getting off track. Anyway, so, we fulfill the contract with the kid's parents and then we're staring at Bobby. We're nice people. None of you have been beaten, right?" He drew on his second cigarillo. "We have a team pow-wow. We make good money doing what we do. It pays the bills and more. Not as much money as you ladies took from Bobby, but I digress. We have our pow-wow and decide to find who did this to Bobby." He drew on his second cigarillo. "Some of the guys on the team persuaded the sadist to be open and honest with us. That led to a name, a bit of work for us, and that next guy, bless his soul, then enthusiastically gave us another name, a bit more work for us, and so on and so on and then --- bingo! --- Madame Chin. It's so good to see you again, Elsie!" He looked at Madame Chin and laughed. He drew on his second cigarillo. "A pro-domme indeed. But you're not a pro-submissive, are you, Elsie? Right, Marco?" Marco laughed. John leisurely studied Elsie's face: she was completely broken. He drew on his second cigarillo. "Elsie, we would have found you anyway, sooner or later. Imagery facial recognition software is pretty good these days. That's how we found you, Alice. Or should I call you by your real name: Flora Smith, mother of three teenage girls, wife of a city councilman, president of the Benwabeth High School PTA." He drew on his second cigarillo. "Should've worn masks, ladies." He said it offhandedly, but the two pro- dommes --- wrong: former pro-dommes --- immediately noted that he, nor any of the other team members, wore masks. They shuddered at the implication. He drew on his second cigarillo. "That was one way. The other was, of course, DNA. We submitted Bobby's DNA to three different genealogy websites. Two came back with positive hits for a second cousin. I suppose your cousin Elmer, or whatever the fuck his name is, may still be looking for his long lost cousin Istvan Fuss from Camden, New Jersey." The other men snickered. He drew on his second cigarillo. It went out and he dropped it. He lit another and asked Frank to please get him a Coke. "Oh, that's so refreshing. Cold. Bubbly. You gals want some? Sorry, just joking. Back to it." He drew on his third cigarillo. "Lung cancer, buddy," Frank said. John lazily waved the remark away. "So, we move closer and closer to you all. We find you. We follow you. We study you. We learn you. We game-plan you. And then we decide to meet you. Here. Like this." He swigged his Coke and drew on his third cigarillo. He spat at the floor. "Frank, your turn." John got up and stood against the mirrored wall. -----000----- Frank started: "Mumzie, you may not know this, but I promised your daughter, Mrs. Stephanie Leski," he pointed his arm toward her, "that she'd be re-united her with her family soonest. Your ex-husband is dead so he can't make it. But you're here, and so is Steph. Now, I want Bobby to be in that chair," he pointed to John's chair, "so all of you can clearly see him. Time to get Bobby." And Frank left the room. Stephanie felt the man behind her dig his fingers deeper into her shoulders to encourage her to remain still. She dared not move. John's exposition had laid bare the fragility of Mumzie's plan. It would have worked but for the unexpected, here, the other boy's parents. She looked at the heavies holding them in their chairs. There was no way out. Mumzie's face was teary. She sat uncomfortably in her chair, her guard starting to shift on his feet. "Did you shit yourself?" he asked her. Mumzie nodded. It was surely a death shit, the kind one gets when they sense they are going to die and have no way to escape that fate. Mumzie's shit stank the room. The man pushed her down harder into her chair. Elsie Chin and Flora Smith stared at the floor. In their jobs, they came across many different types of people. Both of them recognized that these men were smart, pragmatic, and hard. Flora lost hope of ever snorkeling off the Guatemalan coast. Elsie was fairly convinced she was going to meet her maker. Carmen was hyperventilating. Stephanie momentarily felt bad for having invited her one day to help feed Bobby before going to a movie. Carmen, however, had later asked to become a full-fledged assistant and had performed her own barbarities upon Bobby. A small amount of blood dripped from Carmen's nose. And she started farting uncontrollably. Stephanie sensed a pleasant calm sweep over her. Bobby's presence would allow her the chance she had just recently begun to dream of, of asking him to forgive her. She would say 'sorry' and shift the blame toward Mumzie. Bobby knew how Mumzie was; perhaps Bobby might remember more the nice, little things he and Stephanie had done together in the early days of their parents' marriage and think less the bad, bigger things that followed later. She could promise Bobby anything. She and Phil could care for him for the rest of their lives. Her money? His money! He could have it all. Medical care? Done; just name it. She could be the very best sister a brother could dream of. She would atone. She would repent. Remorse? No problem: I'm so sorry for everything. Repent? I swear, I'll never do it again. Redemption? It will come. And Stephanie saw Frank return and put something on the empty chair. It was a funerary urn. EPILOGUE The other boy --- the one John, Frank, Marco, and the others, had been contracted to retrieve --- had died the day before the team took the house. He was buried with love by his devastated parents. They were terribly sad, but they drew comfort in being able to assist in the recovery of the other four boys. The parents were tremendously grateful to John and company and had asked if there was anything else they could do. There was one thing. John and Frank left Shrublands Health Clinic satisfied. Their meeting with its managing director, Dr. Barbara Priest, had gone very well. She seemed to be a genuinely caring person. They felt much better about Bobby's future. None of the team thought Bobby would survive more than a few years, Mentally, he was almost an automaton. Physically, he was wrecked, less human. Shrublands at least offered him nurture and nursing for as long as he might live. "It's for rest and recuperation, long term care and so on, mostly for the elderly, a last chance at clean living before starting on the end of the road, if you get my drift," the team's physiotherapist said. The deceased boy's parents established a generous trust to care for Bobby at Shrublands. And there was no one left to take it away from him this time. END By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2019