Fury kac-17 Read online

  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.