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  Her reasoning sounded to Michelle like a slogan from the Sixties but it turned out to be entirely true. She found Elena to be an extraordinary woman, both bold and gentle, playful and passionate. They were the same age. Both were turning twenty and they loved the same man but Michelle did not feel she could share him; not with Elena, not with anyone. She inevitably was falling for him and felt she was ruining the pact that had been created in the group. The uninhibited behavior on Rhodes, that summer, would not have been tolerated anywhere else, she thought, not even on Rhodes itself the rest of the year, but it was happening and it was fun and she hated to ruin a good party. Whatever it was driving the people to such behavior was certainly contagious and she had been caught in it too. During the two weeks she spent with Sam and the girls she soon misplaced her bikini and would never again use it or any other piece of cloth to cover her body on the beach. She no longer felt ill-at-ease with her own bare body, which quickly tanned to a glazing bronze and no longer stood out in its paleness, or with the naked males running loosely around. She explored the different beaches, drank beer and ouzo, smoked, danced, and partied to the wee hours of the morning and even had sex on two different occasions though that all seemed a blur. On one occasion, it was the South African who, like Sam, had walked into her shower. She had been drunk and quite horny following a beach party where she lost Sam and Elena sometime early morning, so she returned to her room and stumbled into the shower. The South African, also drunk, forgot he had exchanged rooms with her, and walked into the shower minutes later. Through a haze she noticed his erect penis, hard and craving, and suddenly felt a great urge. She took him in her hand and guided him into her, leaning her back against the shower wall. She climaxed almost as soon as he entered her then managed to pull him out before he came in spurts all over her thigh. It felt great at the time but to this day she felt embarrassed just thinking of it. Her other sexual encounter involved an extremely gracious and charming Greek man whose name she could never recall, introduced by Elena. Sam, who still slept with Elena on occasion, seemed quite nonchalant about Michelle becoming involved throughout their time together on Rhodes. But he became quite irritated with the man who was threatening to dethrone his male domination of their little group. Michelle, frustrated with Sam's indifference, had sex with the man for spite, making sure Sam was aware of it, and it was then that she decided to end the awkward relationship and leave Rhodes behind.

  They both cried at the airport as Michelle was getting ready to leave. Elena and the girls let them alone as boarding commenced and Sam became quite emotional, stating that he loved her and that he wanted to see her again. They hugged and kissed and he promised to call but she remained skeptical. She left for Skiathos, known as the Green Island, spent a week, then caught the ferry to Volos and from there a bus to Athens where she spent a few days touring ancient ruins before boarding a plane back to the States.

  Back home in Sunnyvale, she felt quite miserable for three weeks as she prepared for the fall semester, then Sam called from Los Angeles and everything fell into place.

  That all happened nine years ago, she marveled, thinking of their subsequent marriage and of little Sammy, knotting them so tightly together. She looked at a framed picture on their bedroom wall; “Rhodes, Summer of 76” it read, showing herself and Sam with Elena, Lota and Nilla, semi-nakedly toasting their favorite beach bar, bottles of beer in everyone’s hands.

  She studied the photo of the carefree Sam in his early twenties and thought of how little he had changed since that time. He was not an outstandingly handsome man on first impression; women were not likely to fall for him on looks alone. But he was disarming and had a way of charming people causing them to want to be part of his world, as had happened to her. He was slightly above average height and not very athletic, his body rather thin, even somewhat frail. He had long curly brown hair when she first met him, now still curly but fashionably trimmed. The features that most dominated his slender face were his high cheekbones and radiating green eyes, which conveyed assurance and quite self-confidence. He was full of conviction but courteous and patient with people, making them want to be his friend. She had once asked him what made him choose her, seeing the way he had with women. At first he joked and told her that since he could not have Elena, he had been looking for an American version and she fit the bill. Then he admitted that when she left Rhodes, she left such a void in the pit of his stomach that he knew he could not do without her. No other woman had ever left such a void in him, he had said, and he reasoned that to be love. She often thought about what resemblance she had to Elena, but could never quite see it.

  She moved to Los Angeles after the fall semester. Sam moved out of the dorms and together they rented an apartment in El Segundo where they spent the next four years completing their degrees at USC. They were married in the spring of 1981, and spend their honeymoon touring Australia and New Zealand. After those three months “down under” they went back to Los Angeles to work on their careers.

  They had invited Elena to their wedding but she cordially declined: “Unable to afford the trip,” she had reasoned. So they went back to Greece the following summer, spending their two week vacation with Elena and her husband on the island of Zakynthos in the Ionian Sea just off the Northern Peloponnese peninsula. Elena had never said a word so they were quite surprised to find her married and, as they later learned, two months pregnant. Her husband, Stavros Lyrakis, owned a dairy farm in Tanagra, a small town an hour’s drive from Athens. He was a tall, handsome man, who treated Elena with the utmost respect but to Michelle it seemed that his fussing around her tended only to irritate her. They stayed at a picturesque little guesthouse overlooking a magnificent secluded beach with glistening white sand and water in deep shades of green. But apart from the food, the language, and the beach, the outing resembled nothing of their time in Rhodes. They frequented the beach, bathed and snorkeled, dined out and even went to a party or two, but without the spirit that had swept them in Rhodes. The group profile had changed and they were all a little older with jobs and responsibilities and could not bring themselves to be as carefree as they once were. Elena was still beautiful but the attraction that had once existed between her and Sam was reduced to cordial gestures of opening the car door or offering a seat at a restaurant. Even Michelle, who had been a little wary of what would transpire when the two met, felt greatly disappointed at their restrained treatment of one another. She, too, had become close with Elena on Rhodes once over her initial suspicion of her personality, but she no longer felt she was able to reach her. At the beach they all wore bathing suits and talk revolved mostly around business and politics with only room for earnest endeavors.

  *****

  Michelle’s train of thought was suddenly disturbed as she heard a door squeak. She listened intently, her daydream of Greece utterly vanishing when suddenly a strange man appeared beside her in the mirror. She turned in panic. Another man appeared next to him. She made an instinctive effort to cover herself but instantly realized it was fruitless. The taller of the two, a muscled, tanned man with dirty blonde hair slicked closely backward, looked at her in astonishment; his skinny white partner snickered with lust.

  She could not utter a sound. She could not think. Then her parental instincts took over and she sprang for Sammy’s room, but they were quicker. They grabbed her and placed her between them in front of the mirror.

  They were wild with lust. Her slender figure, tender white skin and private parts drove them mad. They fondled her in front of the mirror grabbing her nipples and sticking their fingers in her. She tried to resist but they were too big and strong. They flung her on the bed, cuffing her to the metal bed frame above her head with a belt and continued violating her. She was helpless.

  Then, simultaneously, they both lowered their pants and jocks, shamelessly letting their erections spring free. She fought silently, afraid to scare little Sammy. The blonde tanned man positioned himself between her legs, spreading her, looking dire
ctly at her exposed sex. He then proceeded to violate her with his monstrous fingers. The skinny white man crouched above her, pinning her down, his erect penis rubbing against her face. The two produced animalistic sounds while communicating horrifying descriptions of what they were about to perform.

  She felt sickened as the tanned man penetrated her dryness with brutal force. Sharp pain shattered her body and soul. The skinny man above her growled with desire. With a cry, she raised her upper body and vomited all over herself. The tanned man climaxed inside her with a loud groan.

  She fainted. The two sat on the bed watching her float in and out of consciousness. Then they wiped her clean with one of her own towels and swapped places. It was the skinny man's turn to violate her. She became totally numb. Her eyes were open but she did not see.

  They took turns for another hour, after which the skinny man produced a handgun and the tanned man shot her twice in the head, muffing the blasts with a pillow, putting an end to her misery.

  PART ONE

  SANDSTORM

  CHAPTER ONE

  The sign above the entrance to The Center for Missing Children was a modest one, partially erased and aging from perpetual mistreatment by the vindictive New York City weather. Anyone not deliberately looking for it was unlikely to be aware of its presence, on the ground floor of a ten-storey brownstone in Lower East Side, Manhattan.

  Sam Baker heaved the stout begrudging oak door, as he did every morning, flinging it open with a bang. He swore under his breath, swearing to himself once again to harass the building maintenance person into fixing his padlock. He flicked on the lights, kicking the door shut with his heel and stepped into a tiny foyer that led to a narrow corridor accommodating several rooms positioned left and right. He stuffed his gloves and scarf in his coat pockets and hung his coat on a row of plastic hangers lined shoulder high on the foyer wall.

  Thankful for the heater holding up, he rubbed his hands together then put them to his mouth and blew, his warm breath helping defrost his nose and fingers. He stood a minute, adjusting to the dreary morning ambiance, appreciating the few moments of solitude he had, before the place filled up to become a chaotic chamber of conflict. He walked to the far end of the corridor taking the glass urn from the percolator and entered the WC, the European equivalent of a Restroom sign, long ago posted on their lone toilet door. Filling the pot with water to the brim, he went back to the coffee shelf, threw several scoops of filter coffee into a disposable paper filter, and poured the water into the percolator, leaving the coffee to brew.

  Then he approached his office, which loomed dark and threatening at the front end of the corridor. He dreaded entering his office at the dawn of a new day fearing what he might find in the way of faxes or phone messages; a hysterical parent missing a child; another child found dead on the street; or maybe a runaway or a kidnapping of the sort that had ravaged his own life.

  The dread never ceased. Not for one moment. The horror would forever be with him.

  He had found her on the bed. Little Sammy was gone. Then he barely made it to the phone. The doctors heavily sedated him for days and he had to be wheeled to the funeral.

  Sam flicked on the lights in his office and looked at her photo. The bedroom scene would never vacate his mind. In the photo she was beautiful and radiating, smiling at him with little Sammy on her lap. It was the only photo he kept at the office. He recalled exactly where it had been taken; at Sammy’s birthday party at the daycare center under the large tree by the yellow swings. He had taken it, but the photos were developed after Michelle died and little Sammy disappeared.

  That night he had reached his house past midnight and had gotten an uneasy feeling as he parked his car. The front door was partly ajar and the house was lit as in early evening. It puzzled him because on those rare occasions when he came home late, the front door would always be locked and he would find Michelle asleep, a book in her lap, with her bedside lamp and Sammy’s night stand the only active light sources in the house.

  As he climbed the stairs to their bedroom he felt a sense of dread creeping in on him, intensifying with every step. Michelle lay naked, spread eagled on the bed in a pool of blood and vomit that soaked through the covers and sheets. He tried to call to her but produced not a sound. Her face was covered with the bloodstained pillows but he would never get to see the hollow look and disfigured heap of flesh caused by the two bullets fired at point blank range. Feeling faint, he had hesitantly touched her bare leg and felt death, the coldness and hardening of limbs. He suddenly felt very heavy, unable to take another step, as if all the blood in his body was draining to his feet. Then another dread struck him and he gingerly stumbled to Sammy’s room, finding it empty and cold. He wobbled back to the bedroom and tried to look at his wife but flashes of light and floating dark spots was all that he could see. He lunged for the phone, his body shaking and out of control and managed to dial the emergency number and give his address before passing out.

  He came to in the ambulance but remained still. He just lay there staring into emptiness. Then he was up and lunging for the door, shouting his son’s name.

  The paramedics, caught unawares by this sudden surge, just managed to latch on to him as he threw open the back door of the streaking vehicle. The driver braked and they were thrown about to the front of the ambulance, knocking over medical equipment, IVs, scopes, and the like. Sam fought to get past them but they held on tight, quickly sedating him with a syringe prepared in advance, as Detective Black Jack had wisely suggested.

  As he slowly subsided under the substance Sam began to cry, begging to see his son. A while later, at the hospital, Detective Black Jack informed Sam that his son was not in the house nor anywhere else they had looked so far. He assured him there was nothing to point to Sammy being harmed in any way but that so far, Sammy was missing.

  Ten years had passed since that terrible day and Sammy was still missing, Sam agonized, as he scooped the pile of faxes off the machine and sat at his desk to scan them. He heard the door open, the street sounds suddenly becoming audible, and knew Black Jack had arrived.

  Detective Jack Preston, invariably known to all as Black Jack, was, as the name suggested, a black police detective, who in his youth loved card games, especially the game of blackjack which he excelled at. He was awarded his nickname before joining the police force but the name stuck when some of his colleagues at the police academy discovered that he spent significant sums of money pursuing this shady practice. He had been assigned to investigate the rape and murder of Michelle Baker and the kidnapping of little Sammy Baker, and would later be a pillar of strength in Sam’s road to recovery. He would become obsessed with the unresolved case and eventually leave the Los Angeles Police Department to form a special federal task force for finding missing children, a task force which would later accept Sam as a member but eventually be dismantled for lack of funds.

  Sam would privately go on to form the “Center for Missing Children”, a non-profit organization funded by philanthropists and various concerned businesses and organizations. Designed to assist children and parents in need, the Center would be sanctioned by the various law enforcement bureaux but would not be funded by them. Detective Black Jack Preston would eventually leave the force and join Sam’s Center for Missing Children as lead investigator.

  Black Jack fussed in the foyer with his attire then threaded his way through the crammed corridor, knocking over several stacks of files before poking his head through the door to wish Sam a good morning. He continued on to the brewing coffeepot and came back with two steaming Styrofoam cups filled to the brim with coffee, set them on the desk and slumped into a chair across from Sam.

  Such was their morning ritual when both were in town. They sat in silence for a while, sipping their coffee, scanning the faxes that had come through during the night. Soon they would begin to assess pending issues and examine ongoing events, preparing for the day ahead. Mainly they would try to assign a set of priorities to the numero
us tasks they had to perform, their troop clearly being undermanned with a staff of only six people, Black Jack and Sam included.