IN HIS KEEPING: CLAIMED

Sylvie sat on the veranda and looked out over the turquoise blue waters of the Caribbean.  It was steamy hot today, quite a change from the icy, cold weather in New York.  They’d left in a snow storm which had delayed flights and snarled air traffic all across the northeast.  She’d never heard of Ambergris Caye in Belize before Connor told her that was where they were going.  They’d boarded several corporate jets three days after their Christmas celebration and flown into Belize City on the mainland.  From there they were ferried by helicopter to the north end of the island.  Connor had rented an expansive beachfront estate and four nearby homes.  Actually Warren had arranged it all…Connor was just paying the bills.

She and Connor lived in the grand, white stone building with its soaring arches, broad terraces, and urn-topped balustrades.  Estelle Cosgrove, Tom Brady, and eight of their biggest and best security people were staying there too.  As well as a contingent of permanent live-in staff.  The other homes housed their entourage.  One, a shrimp-colored villa, with balconies overlooking the water and ornate curving staircases leading down to the sand, was currently occupied by Jack Barnett, Connor’s OB/GYN golf buddy from Saranac and his family.  They had a full complement of household staff to wait on them hand and foot, all expenses paid.  The doctor would also be compensated for services rendered.  All he had to do was check on Sylvie every morning and be on call should something happen.  For that he was being paid the sum of $20,000 to make up for the income he’d lose by dropping everything to come to Connor’s aid.  Barnett balked at accepting the money, but Connor insisted he take it.

After a long conversation with Sylvie, Barnett agreed to implant another IUD in her.  Doctors had removed the old one when they’d repaired the injuries to her vagina and cervix caused by the assault.  Connor had been reluctant to have the procedure done now, but Barnett assured him she was completely healed.  Sylvie hoped that once Connor was sure she wouldn’t get pregnant, he’d stop procrastinating and make love to her.  She was sick of waiting.  He climbed into bed with her every night, fondled her a little, gave her an orgasm and then…left!  What was that about?  Though thankfully, unlike New York, he didn’t go far.

Last night was the first time he’d used his tongue instead of his fingers to make her come.  When he spread her legs, she winced.  He immediately overreacted and freaked out!  Her hip was still a little stiff and sore.  He’d been so worried he was causing her pain, that he tried to pull away.  He would have if she hadn’t grabbed his head and kept it where it was.  Forcing him to finish what he’d started.  Her actions shocked both him and her.  But sometimes…a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do!  Take matters into her own two hands…so to speak!

He was stingy when it came to doling out orgasms lately.  He was limiting her to one a day…at bedtime, to help her sleep.  Bummer!  She’d tried to entice him into her bed in the afternoon at naptime, but he flat out refused.  He used the excuse that he was working on his new book.  It was coming out June 1st and the final draft had to be finished by March 15th.  Every time she saw him now he was typing or talking to his laptop.  She was downright jealous of the damn thing.

Trying to get him naked was like pulling teeth.  She was so horny she was going crazy…crazy with lust!  She loved his tongue and his fingers.  He was now inserting two at a time.  She supposed that was progress of a sort.  But as far as she was concerned, it was just foreplay.  Sylvie craved the real thing!  She wanted him to fill her.  Drive his luscious spike in to the hilt.  Wanted his sweat-soaked skin rubbing against hers.  Yearned to feel the friction, the searing heat of his cock pistoning in and out of her.  Relentlessly pounding and thrusting until she melted in his arms.  She needed to feel his heart thumping against her breast.  Hear him groaning and gasping for air as he finally spent himself inside her.  Kisses and foreplay didn’t cut it!  She wanted more!  It wasn’t like he wasn’t turned on.  He left her bed with a raging hard-on every night and woke up with one every morning.  Every time she sat on his lap, every time he held her, she could feel it poking into her.  With every day that passed, it was becoming more and more apparent that they needed to have sex, fuck each other’s brains out—for both their sakes!  But Connor was behaving like a monk.  She was worried: his stiffy never went away; it was becoming a chronic condition, a permanent fixture.  She could fix it if only he’d let her!  But he wouldn’t even let her touch it, let alone put her mouth on it.  He told her one thing would lead to another, so it was best to not go there.  Not go there?  Was he serious?  That was the whole point!  She wanted to get laid!  What part of that didn’t he understand?  Dr. Jack had warned her that the first time they made love it might hurt, but that the more they did it, the more the discomfort would ease.  She was game!  Why wasn’t he?  She appreciated and loved him for not wanting to cause her pain, but really…enough already!

The Barnetts had been here seven days already.  In three days, when they left, the house would be occupied by another doctor, this time a retiree from Florida, who was a good friend of Warren’s.

Three nurses and two physical therapists recruited from Philadelphia were staying in a picturesque, tropical-looking home.  Made of clapboard, it was reminiscent of homes you might see in old Key West with a covered front porch and louvered window shutters to keep the sun out and let cool breezes in.  Connor had let go all the Long Island people he’d hired, fearing that once the killer learned where Sylvie had been living, he’d be able to find out who worked there and where they were now.  It was hard to keep secrets.  Connor was sure that if he’d brought any of the Long Island staffers here, they would have let slip to a friend or relative where they were, putting Sylvie at risk.  He couldn’t chance it, so he recruited new employees, giving those he’d abruptly dismissed a generous severance.  They’d only been temps, so they made out very well.  He’d done the same with the additional household staff he’d employed.

She liked the new medical team.  The nurses were laissez-faire about waking her up to take her vitals in the middle of the night.  As long as her temperature and blood pressure were normal in the morning, and then again when she went to bed, and her breathing and lungs sounded clear, they let her sleep and didn’t bother her.  Except for administering meds and giving her the required nebulizer treatments, and making sure she did her breathing exercises with the spirometer every couple of hours, Sylvie was pretty much on her own during the day.  The nurses wore shorts instead of uniforms and spent a good part of their day in bikinis, sunning themselves on the beach.

Little by little Sylvie was being weaned off the drugs she’d been taking.  She was off the painkillers, which was good because the constipation they caused was godawful.  No constipation meant she could skip taking the disgusting laxatives they gave her.  And Connor would cease threatening to shove golf ball-sized suppositories up her butt or give her an enema to clean out her pipes..  They’d stopped giving her sleeping pills and antidepressants; and, lo and behold, three days ago the fog lifted and her head started to clear.  She felt stronger and less fatigued.  It was amazing!  She was taken off the antibiotics and most of the other  meds.  Every day she was taking fewer and fewer pills.  That was fine with her.  For the most part, they’d made her sick to her stomach.  What was worse, she had no idea what they were or why she was even taking them.  She was still on oral bronchodilators and anti-inflammatory corticosteroids for her lungs, but the nurses said it wouldn’t be long before she was off them too.  What her lungs needed, they informed her, was to breathe clean fresh air.  So every day they parked her on the veranda for a couple of hours to let her lungs get their fill.  As for all the ointments, creams, oils, and lotions that were applied to her various and sundry scars every day?  They weren’t going anywhere.  She’d be needing them for a long time to come.

Sylvie loved the new physical therapists, Donna and Raelynn.  She suspected they were a couple, but was afraid to ask.  Donna ran a tight ship.  She issued orders and Raelynn followed them.  Donna didn’t take any guff from anyone; not even Connor.  She maintained that Sylvie needed exercise, needed to walk.  She thought bedrest was the worst thing in the world for her.  Donna brought along a rolling walker for Sylvie to use on their twice daily walks through the interior of the lavish residence and then around the grounds and gardens of the estate.  She’d even made Sylvie navigate the shifting sands of the narrow beach with only Raelynn’s hand to steady her.  And then with Donna on one side and Raelynn on the other, they helped her walk through the shallow surf, saying the resistance of the water would strengthen the muscles in her legs, which had atrophied from disuse.  They were slave drivers when it came to her hand exercises.  They had her squeezing balls and stretching her fingers and picking up small items to improve her fine motor skills until they ached.  Connor would huff and puff that Sylvie wasn’t getting enough rest and that they were working her too hard.  But even he had to give them credit.  The improvement in Sylvie was nothing short of astonishing.  She was barely limping now.  Between the ice and compression bandages, her knee and ankle were hardly swollen any more.  And all the exercise had a beneficial effect on her breathing, as well as her strength and stamina.  She was now able to manipulate utensils well enough to cut her own food and could hold a can or bottle of soda without dropping it.

The remaining two buildings, mini-estate-type cement and stucco vacation homes, were jammed to the rafters with security staff.  They had at least 30 guards stationed on land.  And another eight on two small boats moored just offshore.  Their job was to make sure no one approached the compound by water.

Warren and Lettie left Montauk the day before Sylvie and Connor.  They’d flown directly to Florida and had sailed his 90-foot yacht from Boca Raton to Ambergris.  It was anchored in the deep water beyond the breakers, ready to whisk Sylvie away to safety should any danger arise.  It was sweet of Warren to offer to do this for Connor, but Sylvie thought it was overkill!  Especially since there was a helicopter parked on the front lawn.  Couldn’t she escape in that?  Regardless of the chopper, Connor and Warren decided they needed a backup plan to get her off the island ‘just in case.’  She was beginning to realize that Connor and Warren were like two peas in a pod.  Both were take-charge, alpha male types.  Words were lost on them.  They were going to do what they wanted, no matter what she or anyone else said.  Appealing to Lettie about it was useless.  Whatever ‘War’ said was fine with her.  Talk about being besotted!  Lettie was head over heels in love with the dashing old man.  He could do no wrong in her book.  The sun, moon, and stars, rose and set all because of him.  The feeling was mutual, Warren was equally infatuated with her.  Must be nice to be that in love with someone and have them love you back!

They’d arrived in Belize with not only scads of people, but medical equipment as well.  How many times did she have to tell that thickheaded, overbearing pain in the butt that she was on the road to recovery and didn’t require those things anymore.  But he refused to remove them from their room.  Here they were in this romantic, palm-treed paradise and all he was fixated on was oxygen, heart monitors, and the like.

Sylvie felt guilty.  All those poor women dead.  She could hardly believe it when Connor told her.  The killer had been murdering women all over the country for years.  How was that even possible?  She should be doing something to help catch him.  He’d struck again since they’d arrived.  He’d killed a private detective named John Caputo in Brooklyn the day after they left Long Island.  The authorities had located the Rochester detective who’d been surveilling her Dad.  There weren’t that many detectives in all of Monroe County, so he was fairly easy to track down.  The fellow’s name was Jimmy Farrell.  He thought he was working on a deadbeat dad case.  He’d been hired to stake out the Jenkins farm and told that Lucas would likely try to visit his no-good son who’d left his pregnant wife with two kids and no money while he ran off to live with his rich, heiress mistress.  He’d been hired the first week in December by a Brooklyn private investigator named Lou Battista.  Battista had been the one who trailed her relatives from the airport to the Montauk estate.  He’d been told the same story he’d relayed to Farrell.  He believed he was helping a pregnant woman and her kids get child and spousal support.

Battista had no idea what was really going on.  He’d been hired by Caputo.  According to what she and Connor were told, Caputo was a lowlife who’d do just about anything if the price was right.  And, as it turns out, he had.  Or so the cops thought.  They were almost certain he was the one who’d murdered Ernestine Shaw in Riverside Park; who slit her throat and stabbed her 40 times.  They’d found the murder weapon, a fish knife, in his ransacked office.  One side was sharp, the other saw-toothed for scaling.  Though it had been washed clean, they found minute traces of blood in the carvings on the hilt.  The DNA proved the blood came from Shaw.  The cops were equally sure, however, that Caputo wasn’t the serial killer they were looking for.  They believed he’d been hired to murder Shaw and keep track of Sylvie.  He’d been surveilling her since the last week in September.  They’d found pictures of her leaving the Park Ave. building on several occasions.  Going in and out of Hudson Publishing.  Entering and exiting parties around the city.  But most importantly, leaving the Park Ave. building and entering a car in the wee hours of the morning on November 23rd.  They’d contacted the Uber driver and he recalled a car that followed them to the Bronx.  But all he really remembered was the headlights in his rearview mirror and not the make or model or what the driver looked like.  There was also a picture of the cottage on Peekamoose Rd.  He’d told the killer where she was!

The cops weren’t sure of the exact scenario, but figured that after the police questioned Farrell in Rochester, he’d angrily called Battista in New York, demanding to know what Battista had gotten him into and telling him the police were investigating a murder plot to kill the daughter of the man he’d been hired to tail.  Sometime before the cops came to talk to Battista, he called Caputo in a rage, confronting him about the police inquiry and accusing him of being involved in the murder plot.  They quarreled, Caputo telling Battista he was overreacting, that they’d done nothing wrong.  Investigators assume that Caputo then called the killer in a panic, told him the cops were asking questions, and demanded money to keep his mouth shut.  His mouth was certainly shut now!  The cops said it appeared as though the killer overpowered Caputo, who they described as a short slender man, and broke his neck.  The killer had then taken the time to go through the files and drawers looking for anything that could incriminate him.  They hadn’t found the nine missing pages from Shaw’s notebook, Caputo’s cellphone, or his computer’s hard drive.  The killer was tying up loose ends!

The cops might believe Caputo was responsible for Shaw’s murder, but Sylvie wasn’t buying it.  The police said there weren’t any prints on the knife.  That didn’t make sense.  Why would Caputo take the time to wipe the prints off the knife, but keep the weapon in his office where it might be discovered?  Wouldn’t he have gotten rid of it by now?  It connected him to a murder!  And what was he doing with a fishing knife in the first place?  Your average city dweller doesn’t know from fish knives.  They don’t go around gutting or scaling fish as a rule.  A butcher or carving knife would be more to their liking.  Besides, a fishing knife sounded like something a man who fancied himself an outdoorsman would have.  Sylvie wondered if they were checking the knife against the other victims’ wounds.  She’d bet money it matched.

Whatever was on the nine missing pages must have pointed the finger directly at the killer.  Only Ernestine Shaw didn’t realize it.  The killer may be a fucking psycho, but he’s no fool.  He’s smart and cunning.  Would he really let something that could link him to a series of brutal murders fall into the hands of someone shifty and calculating, someone who might decide to use the information to blackmail him later on?  She didn’t think so!  Seedy P.I.s weren’t known for their scruples.  Caputo was a shady, small-time gumshoe.  He might tail people; do a little breaking and entering for a client; even steal or plant evidence.  But murder?  Unless the killer was clairvoyant, there was no way for him to know what those nine pages contained unless he’d actually seen them.  The killer murdered Shaw.  There was no other explanation.  Caputo was just a patsy.  He was being set up.  The knife was a plant to throw the police off, stop them from asking questions about where people were on the night of August 16th.

Sylvie had finally located her new laptop.  It was in the suitcase containing piles of cotton nightgowns with matching robes and slippers.  All with the tags still on them.  Somebody must have braved the ice and snow and gone on a shopping expedition prior to their leaving Long Island, because just about everything she’d owned in Montauk had been flannel.  Since she was out of bed every day now, Sylvie was wearing shorts like everyone else.  There was a large, all-inclusive resort a few miles down the road that had shops which stocked shorts and tops, bathing suits, and an assortment of casually elegant tropical dresses.  Estelle had picked up a bunch of warm weather clothing for her, including three one piece, maillot-type bathing suits.  They covered all her scars; but made her look flat chested.  It didn’t matter, her boobs were a lost cause anyway.  Short of breast implants, she was doomed!  Estelle also got her four dresses.  Made of a thin, gauze-like, cotton fabric,  they were loose fitting and billowy, decorated with either crochet, wide cotton lace, or wooden beads.  She hadn’t had occasion to wear one yet.  There’s no reason to dress up in evening wear when you’re put to bed at 8 o’clock!

Sylvie was pleasantly surprised to learn that they had broadband.  From what she could see from the helicopter ride over, they were out in the middle of nowhere.  Her new phone worked here too.  She’d been chatting with her family almost every day, always after she was supposed to be in bed asleep.  If Connor caught her, there’d be hell to pay; but she was tired of him treating her like a brainless child.  She was beginning to think he’d been secretly reading age-play romances.  They’d morphed from being a dom and his sub to a Papa and his little one.  She wasn’t comfortable with either scenario.  But every time she broached the subject of bedtime or naptime with him and told him she was feeling better, he told her the reason she was better was precisely because she was going to bed early and getting plenty of rest and that he had no plans to change her routine.  She’d continue going to bed at 8 pm and that…was that!.  She couldn’t win!  So she’d decided to bend his stupid rules.  At 25 she was a bit old to be such a sneak.  Hold it!  She just remembered…she wasn’t 25 anymore!  She was 26!  She’d had a birthday December 8th.  No one even mentioned it.  No cake!  No candles!  No presents!  That sucked!  She got robbed!  On the other hand, there was so much going on and she was so out of it, there wasn’t much reason to celebrate.  Still, it would have been nice if someone remembered.

One piece of good news: when she checked her Amazon sales reports she discovered her ebooks were selling like hotcakes!  The same was true at Barnes and Noble, iTunes, and Smashwords.  The most fantastic thing though was that Intimate Pleasures was ranked in the top 100 romances at Amazon.  Not too shabby!  She was actually a real writer now!  She couldn’t wait to see the look on Connor’s face when she told him.  English major, writer wannabe…my ass!  At some point in time she’d have to come clean with Connor about what she’d done.  But not just yet.  He’d probably be really pissed.  And Connor being pissed didn’t bode well for her ass.

Sylvie was looking at the bookmarks bar on her homepage when she suddenly realized she hadn’t paid any bills in over two months!  She was worried about her student loans, credit card, insurance on the house and car, the electric, gas, and telephone bills, and even the stupid dial-up service.  It was February.  She’d hadn’t paid the December, January, or February student loan payments which came due on the 1st of every month, nor any of her other bills.  Shit!  She’d have to pay them online, but first she had to get in touch with Pearly and find out about the Ulster County bank accounts.  All the checkbooks, savings accounts, and certificates of deposits, everything he’d given her about the various accounts he’d set up or transferred over to her had been at Tiz’s.  God knows what happened to them?  She didn’t even remember what banks the accounts were in.  The only bank name she remembered was the one where she had her checking account.  Where her paychecks from work and her royalty payments were direct deposited.  There must be some money in that account.  Her last paycheck, and maybe a couple of royalty checks.  Hopefully enough to cover her overdue student loan payments and maybe the minimum payment on the credit card.  She’d gone nuts at Walmart’s and charged a lot of stuff.  She had no idea what the minimum payment might be.  Before she tried to email Pearly or call her father to see if he still had the lawyer’s home phone number, she should check to see what she had in the bank.  Knowing Pearly, he’d probably taken care of the bills that had to do with the cottage.  She’d been told the cottage had burned.  So maybe she didn’t have to pay any electric, telephone, or gas bills, but that didn’t get her off the hook for the  insurances and taxes.  Hell, when did the taxes come due?  She was sure Pearly said the school taxes had been paid in October, but remembered him telling her something about the property taxes being due sometime in January.  Yikes!

Sylvie was having difficulty accessing her bank account.  She couldn’t recall her password at first.  Then it came to her…alliteration2014.  Nothing like being a nerd!  She was shocked when she saw the current balance.  There was over $43,000 in the account.  She was flabbergasted!  Her paychecks had never stopped coming.  And there were what appeared to be two bonuses: a $10,000 deposit made on December 1st, which probably had something to do with bringing the second book in on time; and another for $8,000, which she assumed was some kind of corporate Christmas bonus.  She couldn’t accept the money.  After all, she’d quit.  The last paycheck yes; and possibly the second book bonus, though it was way too generous.  But the rest, she had to give back.  She carried the laptop over to where Connor was working on a wrought iron and glass table.

He looked up when she came over.  ‘I need to talk to you.  There’s been some mistake.  I was never taken off the payroll,’ she told him, putting her laptop down in front of him so he could see.  ‘All I was owed was my last paycheck.’

Connor quickly scanned the page and something, several somethings, caught his eye.  In addition to the Hudson Publishing deposits, there were several small deposits from what he thought were Amazon stores in the US, Great Britain, Canada, Australia, France, and Denmark.  There were also two deposits from Barnes and Noble.  ‘Nonsense.  It looks perfectly fine to me.  You were paid both your bonuses and your regular paychecks right?  So what’s the problem?’

‘I resigned.  That’s the problem.  I can’t accept this money.  I didn’t do anything to earn it.  I was in the hospital.  Remember.  I wasn’t working.’

‘Yes.  You’re right.  You did resign.  But you see, I never accepted your resignation.  So you’re still my employee.  Here,’ he said, removing one of the mini thumb drives from the port in his laptop and handing it to her.  ‘Earn your salary.’

‘What’s this?’

‘It’s the new book.  I don’t want you to go crazy trying to edit it.  I’m serious about you needing your rest.  I just want you to read it and tell me what you think.  And if you happen to find a few typos, or feel I’m being redundant, or disagree with my sentence structure, punctuation, or paragraphing, by all means point it out.  But what I really need is your honest opinion.

‘Sure!  But the money Connor.  I…’

‘I don’t want to hear anything more about it.  You wouldn’t have been in that hospital bed if not for me.  I’m very aware of that fact.  So I owe you every cent that’s in there and more…much more.’

‘But…’

‘No buts Sylvie.  End of discussion!’

She frowned, but there was no use arguing.  He’d made up his mind.

‘And for future reference, just so you know, you will never work for Jameson Bryant.  The man is a consummate prick and a super-sized sleazeball.  I don’t trust that creep any farther than I can throw him.  There’s something off about him.  I don’t want you anywhere near him.  Have I made myself clear?’

‘Perfectly!’