Chapter Three

It was several weeks later, on a balmy Friday late afternoon, when the Turk’s patience bore fruit. Cheryl had left work, strolled her way downtown, and shopped for a few morsels to make up her dinner. Having zipped up the elevator to her apartment on the 10th floor, she pressed her key into her door and waltzed in. She was dressed in the type of casual formality proper to a business office in New York. Slacks, high heels, not too high though, and a pleasant white blouse with small lace fringes on the bottom of the sleeves and on its hem. It had been a sunny, warm day and Cheryl felt upbeat as she laid her pocketbook on the chair near the doorway and kicked off her shoes. She tossed the mail she had collected as she entered the building on a little table in the foyer and glided into the kitchen to put down the small bag of groceries she had bought.

“Time to get out of these clothes,” she thought. “Have a glass of wine.”

Cheryl was not a big drinker, but she wasn’t a schoolgirl either. When younger, she had walked a bit on the wild side, as a small tattoo on her left ankle demonstrated. Growing up in a small Pennsylvania town was no comparison for the fast city life she knew now, but there had been a few boyfriends, a few one-night stands, here and there. Two years of community college had been enough and, when she had earned enough waitressing at the local burger and beer joint, she had left for her grand adventure in the Big Apple.

Life had been tough at 21 in the city. Her bankroll didn’t go as far as she thought it would. Her first three jobs had been dead enders. But she had hung in there and now was secure, a real New Yorker. She was proud of her three room digs. No more roommates, no more scrounging. Her pay was good, her prospects improving.

When she first arrived, she was quickly picked out as the naïve small town girl that she was. She had learned a few difficult lessons from those hardened city boys. But there was no boyfriend now. She had friends and they had friends. She was naïve no longer and carefully weighed her physical encounters. Only now was she becoming confident enough to consider “involvement.” Consider it, yes, but she had not come to New York to saddle herself with any man who would rein her in. She liked her independence and the adventure of new relationships and encounters, on her own terms of course.

But here it was, the beginning of the weekend, and who knows what can happen on a Friday night in New York. It had been some time since she had raised her heels for anyone and she was just a little bit itchy to get some loving. Of the right type, of course. No drunken sloppy fucks. Those days were over. But someone nice, manly, someone who would appreciate the gift of her sexual favors. Someone who might call the next day.

Cheryl’s evening plans didn’t get very far. The Turk had done his homework well. As far as getting into the apartment was concerned, the deadbolt and other security precautions, the standard two deadbolts and a door handle key, were easily overcome, no match for his expertise. Standing quietly in Cheryl’s bedroom doorway, he listened for her key. He knew she would be there at about 6:25. He had clocked her several times. He knew that she never worked out at the gym on a Friday night, but rather, came straight home and either stayed in, or left an hour or two later to join her friends. He waited patiently.

As Cheryl’s keys clicked in the locks, he retreated to the bedroom closet. He heard her open the door and heard her keys jingle as they were dropped back into her purse. He heard the soft thud of her shoes as they hit the carpet in the foyer, heard the rustling in the kitchen, the opening and closing of the refrigerator door and the distinctive clink of a glass and bottle as Cheryl poured herself some wine.

He was well equipped for his endeavor. Bindings of several sorts, the accouterments of submission: a gag, handcuffs, a blindfold, and a very large knife. No firearms. They were noisy and attracted too much attention. If things went awry, a simple slit across the throat was more than enough. And there was nothing like the feel of a well honed blade across the throat to instill the most sincere acquiescence.

The young woman made her way to the bedroom to effect her wardrobe change. “A nice skirt,” she thought, “not too short, that new designer blouse, my sandals. Maybe a shower first.” It was a little after 6:30 and she had told her friends that she would meet them at 8 over at Armondo’s Café. Not a promise really, just a possibility. When she had talked to Julie earlier she had not been sure whether she would go out tonight. Julie and her other friends, Carly and Sue, would wait until nine or so and then, if Cheryl didn’t show, move on to other entertainment. There was always a great jazz band at Morton’s or maybe the comedy club tonight. They always played it by ear. So no one was counting on her presence, and, if she wanted to join the crew out alley-catting tonight, she couldn’t dilly-dally.

Moving into the bedroom, Cheryl set her wine glass down on the dresser and began to unbutton her blouse. Tossing the blouse on the wide double bed, she circled to her closet to find what she needed. She paused before opening the louvered double doors and scooted out of her slacks. They joined their companion on the bed behind her. Just when Cheryl was about to turn and open the closet door, she had the surprise of her life.