Stolen (16 page)

W
ith five hours to go before Uretsky’s deadline, I found myself at a bar, my guts twisted and my pretended calm threatening to come undone. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t drink—I needed to keep a clear head—but after overhearing Ruby’s conversation with a man neither of us knew, I’d either order a whiskey or throttle the bastard.

It hurt me desperately, the worst kind of ache, the remorseful kind, every time I looked at Ruby. I could think only of what she was going through and of all the pain I had caused her, distress piled on top of distress. Sure, I had stolen Uretsky’s identity with the very best of intentions, but that excuse rang particularly hollow when it was Ruby who had to complete this repulsive task, not me.

Even so, I could not crumble under the oppressive weight of regret. Climbing had taught me to do the exact opposite, and those instincts are difficult to suppress. Up on the mountain, when a rope system fails or a seemingly steady rock is found to be dangerously unstable, I didn’t anguish over my predicament. Instead I acted, immediately and decisively, to ameliorate the threat. My life depended on it. The time for self-reflection came after the climbing was done. So until Ruby was safe and Winnie free, until Uretsky was no longer our black cloud, I was going to keep climbing and fighting to stay alive, and Ruby, who had never climbed a day in her life, would have to do the same.

We didn’t sleep a wink after hearing Uretsky’s demands. We were too busy putting together a contingency plan.

“What if I can’t go through with it?” Ruby asked, a thin band of tears lining the bottoms of her eyes.

I told her it was all right. I’d already come up with a way she wouldn’t have to.

We contemplated abandoning Plan A (Ruby sleeps with stranger) for my Plan B, but Ruby decided—for her mother’s sake—that she would have to bow to Uretsky’s will. The decision had to be hers and hers alone. Hadn’t my intervention already dropped enough misery on our family?

But every dangerous climb required a contingency plan, so I spent the hours before our deadline arrived putting the pieces in place for Plan B.

Just in case.

Oh, how I hoped we would use it.

We spent some time searching for an outfit Ruby could wear, only to discover the cancer had sucked so much life from her body that nothing she owned fit anymore. She sat on the floor of the closet, clothes tossed all about in a pile, crying, sobbing, really.

“You take care of this,” she said, but only when the tears allowed her to speak. “It’s so repulsive I can’t even think about it. Get me something I can wear. Just get this fucking over with!”

I went to the Gap down the street and bought her a steel-gray satin sheath dress for about eighty bucks. In fact, I bought two, and for good reason. We would need two dresses for Plan B to work. Ruby put the dress on, looked at herself in the mirror, and said, “I’m going to burn it after this is done.”

“We’ll make a pile,” I said, in reference to the clothes from the robbery that we had yet to dispose of.

She gave me a forlorn look. We left the house and went to the bar.

Though her body was full of sickness, and her heart filled with dread, Ruby still managed to turn every head in the Red Bell Lounge, Uretsky’s chosen watering hole for this crime. I walked close by, keeping a protective and vigilant watch over my wife, even though we had agreed to act like strangers. Ruby shot me a look that forced me to back away.

“Don’t blow this,” her eyes were saying.

Every surface of the lounge, including the front of the bar, was draped in rich red velvet, the color of blood. The lounge was crowded with an eclectic clientele, which made it easy to discreetly work the room.

Ruby saw a lonely-looking guy sitting at the bar. She broke away from me and approached him with a surprising confidence. She got maybe five feet from him, stopped, and turned to look at me. Her mascara painted several black lines down her cheeks because her tears wouldn’t stop flowing.

While Ruby raced off to the bathroom to reapply her makeup, I searched the bar for anyone who might be paying extra close attention to us. Perhaps that person would be Uretsky, watching. Maybe that was why he insisted we find our “john” at the Red Bell, or maybe it was for our convenience, because this place was so close to the hotel. Then again, I had already figured out how Uretsky would verify that Ruby had gone through with it. I had figured out his plan and crafted a plan of my own.

Plan B.

Ruby came back from the bathroom, looking poised and ready to try again. Twice more she attempted to solicit a man for sex, but with each attempt she broke down. Ruby’s body simply wouldn’t allow her to betray her heart. Consensual or not, what Uretsky demanded of her made it rape by proxy. It was a knife wound to both our souls.

Instead of attracting prospects, Ruby’s tears became the ultimate repellant, an uncontrollable act of self-preservation. After the second prospect dashed out of the bar, she said, “We’ve got to go through with your plan.”

I said a silent prayer of thanks.

A
n hour later we were ready to try again. Our new mark was in his late thirties, but I put his body age a good ten years older than that. In this dimly lit watering hole everything about him looked dark, from his short hair, groomed in a Clooney way, to the rings around his sunken eyes, to the stubble dotting his “I’m the man” face. He looked like a guy who enjoyed taking whatever he wanted. Perfect.

Take my bait, you jackass
.

He wore a pin-striped blue suit, the kind that graced many a corner office.

Our plan required a modestly impaired individual, but this guy exceeded our needs by at least three cocktails. I picked him after he swallowed down a Dewar’s and soda like he was doing a Jell-O shot. We waited long enough to make sure he’d come alone, and it was obvious to us both that he was a regular. I checked his finger for a wedding band. I didn’t want to be responsible for any marital disharmony. After all, he was going to pay for sex tonight, just not with my wife.

Ruby, who had been sitting at the far end of the bar, got up and sat on the stool next to our guy. Her eyes, though haunted, were at least dry. It appeared as though Plan B gave Ruby the strength to take things to the next level. The guy might have been talking to the bartender, but almost immediately his eyes were communicating only with Ruby. He would drink, glance over at her, sip, glance again, wet his lips, and again he’d glance. He reminded me of an animal on the hunt. He wasn’t just undressing Ruby with his eyes; he was consuming her.

I moved as well, putting myself close enough to eavesdrop on their conversation. I didn’t know what was going to happen, but I sure as hell was going to know what was said. In hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have listened at all.

“Is your name Princess?” the man asked.

That was when I ordered the whiskey.

Ruby hesitated. Plan B required she use a specific name, and I worried that maybe she had forgotten. “Actually, it’s Jenna,” Ruby eventually said. I heard her swallow away the flutter in her voice, but I was pretty sure Mr. Dewar’s and soda didn’t pick up on her evident nervousness. He was too focused on other things, like imagining my wife naked.

“Can I buy you a drink, Jenna?” the guy asked.

Ruby swiveled to face him, uncrossing and crossing her legs. “I’ll have a Chardonnay,” she said.

He ordered the wine with a cat-who-ate-the-canary grin.

“What’s your name?” Ruby asked.

“Andrew,” he said, slurring. “Anndrjrew,” it sounded like. “Jenna’s a pretty name,” Andrew said. “You’re a pretty girl.”

“Thank you,” Ruby said. She avoided Andrew’s probing gaze, as though looking at him was like trying to stare directly into the sun. Andrew didn’t seem to care.

Ruby’s Chardonnay arrived, and she pretended to take a sip. Their conversation continued, with Andrew doing all the talking and Ruby doing a lot of listening and head nodding and forced smiling. It wasn’t hard to overhear what was said. Drunken Drew liked to talk loudly.

Here’s what I learned: he was single and a stockbroker and an asshole. He bragged about his money and connections—the Beamer he drove, the vacation property he owned, the restaurants where he didn’t need a reservation, the clubs that would let him cut the line. This went on for some time, and with each passing minute, Andrew positioned himself closer and closer to Ruby.

I watched his hand maneuver with the subtlety of a predator on the prowl, inching through the tall grass, getting closer to Ruby’s leg, until it came to rest on her thigh. The actress Ruby disappeared in a blink, and the real Ruby took her place. Her body stiffened at his touch—recoiled, really—but Andrew kept his hand on her thigh. Either he didn’t take notice of her discomfort or he didn’t care. What he did seem to care about was talking, which he did whether Ruby appeared interested or not.

I finished my whiskey in two healthy swallows, got up from my stool, and walked behind them. I was pretending to stretch my legs, but really I wanted Ruby to see my face. The pain in her eyes filled me with profound sorrow, but I tried not to let it show. I mouthed the words, “You can do it.” That seemed to give her a little jolt of confidence.

Ruby leaned in close. I cringed because her lips nearly brushed Drunken Drew’s ear. I couldn’t hear what she whispered, but she talked for a good long while and I saw Drunken Drew nodding vigorously as she spoke. Though her exact words were not audible, I knew what she was telling him.

“I have a massage business,” she was saying. “I’d love to give you a massage. Would you like that? I know I would. I have a hotel room just around the corner, too. We could go there now, if you’d like.”

Andrew’s next move didn’t surprise me any. He asked for the check, and impatiently. My heart sank. I closed my eyes tightly when they got up together and headed for the door.

Andrew stumbled once on his way out of the bar. He was laughing, a sloppy drunk—the most detestable kind. Keeping close behind them, I emerged into the warm night air feeling more than a modicum of gratitude that our plan appeared to be working. Thanks to Uretsky’s arrangements, I wouldn’t have to endure the sight of Andrew groping my wife for long. The hotel room at the Holiday Inn was a five-minute walk from the bar.

Walking behind what others would assume to be a happy—but inebriated—couple, I had no choice but to watch everything Andrew did to Ruby. Drew, staggering and unsteady on his feet, put his arm around Ruby’s slender waist and then pulled her in close to his body. I saw him slide his hand down to her butt first, giving it a hard squeeze and next a rub. It took every bit of self-restraint not to rush him. I wanted to throw him to the ground. Honestly, I wanted to kick him in the head. It was like a burst of road rage, only we were three pedestrians.

Rather than charge, I took a calming breath. My machismo wasn’t going to help us.

Ruby slapped Drunk Drew’s hand away, and they stopped walking. An exchange took place, with Andrew saying something and not looking happy about it, and Ruby saying something and looking equally displeased. Then Andrew grabbed Ruby’s cheeks and kissed her hard on the mouth—a slobbery, disgustingly wet kiss. He forced their faces together, trying to push his tongue inside her mouth, as Ruby tried unsuccessfully to pull away.

I had to stand there and watch, unable to help.

Ruby pushed Andrew, more forcefully this time, while somehow managing a smile. I heard her say, “Wait till we get to the hotel room.” Again, Drunk Drew nodded. He started walking faster, too. I kept my distance, following them.

Inside the lobby, Ruby took the elevator to the third floor. I opted for the stairs. I could see the hotel room Uretsky had rented for Ruby to use—room 324—from the stairwell exit. I waited in the stairwell until Ruby had her key card inserted and the door to room 324 opened.

I was on the move before the door clicked shut. This was the first moment Ruby had been out of my sight, and anxiety squeezed my throat. I took out a key card of my own.

It opened room 325.

A
woman watching television, splayed out on the king-size bed of room 325, propped herself up on her elbows and smiled warmly as I entered the room. She lay on top of the covers with the steel-gray satin sheath dress I’d bought at the Gap bunched up around her waist.

“Oh, good. You’re here,” she said, her accent unmistakably Boston. “I’ve been dying for a friggin’ smoke.”

“No time,” I said. I had stipulated no smoking until after her job was done, but I guess she’d forgotten.

She shrugged away my denial. “So what now?” she asked.

“Hang on,” I said.

I took out my phone, tried to slow my breathing, and texted Ruby next door. I worried Andrew might get aggressive before Ruby had a chance to get him to take a shower. If she didn’t text me back right away, the plan was for me to go barging in, fists at the ready. The act might cost Winnie her life, but there was no way I was going to sit in the room next door while a drunk from the neighborhood bar raped my wife.

Me to Ruby: What’s going on?

Ruby: He won’t take a shower.

I breathed a heavy sigh that the situation—at least for now—was under control.

Me: Tell him he gets nothing if he doesn’t.

Ruby: I did.

Me: Make him do it. You can do it. Text me back.

The woman on the bed asked me, “So? Are we ready?”

“Almost, Jenna,” I said. “Almost.”

Although I’d seen Jenna once before—just hours ago, when I let her into the hotel room—her resemblance to Ruby still struck me. Her legs and arms were long, waist narrow, hair the same length and color of my wife’s. Of course there were differences. Jenna’s face was a bit more angular and ragged, having lost some of its natural beauty from a combination of smoking, drinking, and a hard-living lifestyle.

Her ad in the Boston
Phoenix
read:
Gorgeous girl next door Jenna redhead, all natural, including bush. Sensuous, kind, & patient. Photos online. Ask about my specials!
I checked out the photos and confirmed that I had picked the right girl for the job.

Escorts don’t advertise fees for sex. That would be illegal, but I counted on convincing her that I wasn’t a cop. As it turned out, that “convincing” required my agreement to pay her four times her usual fee to “socialize.” The unplanned expense would drain our bank account to dangerously low levels, but I could offset that some by selling more equipment. Because of her grand payday, Jenna didn’t mind being sequestered for a couple hours in a hotel while Ruby and I searched out a suitable mark.

Jenna and I discussed my special needs when we spoke by phone. I told her that my wife and I were into kinky sex and role-playing games. I explained that it was our anniversary, and my wife wanted to play out a fantasy whereby she pretended to be an escort. She was going to seduce a man and bring him back to a hotel room, but she didn’t want to have sex with him. We wanted a real “pro” to do that for us, but we wanted to watch. I told her we had placed a hidden camera in the armoire at the foot of the bed. This was all true—a camera was hidden there—only Uretsky had set it up, not me. I’d found the camera when I went into room 324 to search for such recording devices, knowing Uretsky would need some way to verify Ruby had done the deed. It was early afternoon so the camera’s red record light wasn’t on. I figured Uretsky wasn’t expecting Ruby until sometime after dark. He had no need to waste battery life filming an empty room. I searched the entire hotel room but found only the one camera.

I came up with Plan B—a flash of inspiration—after I saw the hotel rooms had interior doors that opened up to the adjacent rooms. The doors were locked, of course, but could be unlocked if both parties wanted. I guess Jenna could have done our bait-and-switch routine by going through the hallway entrance while Andrew took his shower, but that presented an additional risk. The camera might pick up a slight change of light from the hallway that could arouse Uretsky’s suspicions. I would have risked it, but it was a moot point when I learned that room 325 was unoccupied. It didn’t stay unoccupied for long. I rented it for the night.

I met up with Jenna at the Holiday Inn shortly after my shopping stint at the Gap, and we did a walk-through of my plan. I unlocked the interior doors and showed her the camera stashed inside the armoire. I told her she could walk in front of the armoire, because the camera wouldn’t show her face, but on the bed, when she was having sex with a man I didn’t know who would be named Andrew, she had to keep her back to that piece of furniture at all times. If we saw her face in the recording, I explained, it would ruin the fantasy for us.

Did I feel horrible lying to Jenna?

Well, yes, I did. But I rationalized it, too.

Jenna was a sex worker, and we were paying her handsomely. Naturally, I was concerned about bringing anybody near Uretsky’s web, but not overly so, not to the point where I wouldn’t go through with it. “Keep your back to the camera, and everything will be just fine,” I kept telling Jenna.

I reminded myself that Jenna wasn’t our first choice. She was Plan B. Ruby had tried to seduce a man on her own—more than tried. She did everything in her power to save her mother, but her body simply wouldn’t allow it. Now Jenna had Winnie’s life in her hands, and she’d save it, too, as long as she kept her back to the camera.

My phone buzzed. I looked down to see a text from Ruby.

He’s in the shower.

I texted back: Okay. We’re ready. Make sure the lights are off.

I suspected Uretsky’s camera was optimized for low-light recording, but a dark room would provide more cover than a well-lit one.

“Okay,” I said to Jenna. “It’s time.”

Jenna got up from the bed and adjusted her dress. She looked at me with eyes a little teary.

“Are you okay?” I asked her. For a moment, I was completely distraught. What if she got cold feet?

She touched my face and smiled. “Of course I’m okay,” she said. “I’m looking forward to this.”

“What’s wrong, then?” I asked.

“It’s just that you’re so sweet to do all this for your wife,” she said. “My asshole boyfriend won’t even buy me a flower.”