CHAPTER 1

 

7:48 p.m., Thursday, March 16, 2002

Wriggling impatiently in his narrow tourist class seat, George Spiros gripped the armrest fearfully and fought against an almost overpowering impulse to scream. The huge DC10 airliner was being buffeted wildly about as if it were nothing more than a leaf in the wind. Below the plane, bright electrical flashes exploded spectacularly like miniature nuclear devices. An enormous line of thunderclouds had spread its ugly tentacles over the entire eastern seaboard. As a consequence, the American Airlines flight from California had been diverted from its direct route—LAX to JFK—along a more northerly path into New York City. The captain announced that they would be coming in over Jamestown, then into the sprawling metropolitan facility. Despite the change of route, the airliner had still caught the edge of the storm.

 

The man straddled Melina Spiros’ naked, spread-eagled body, and began to methodically rape the thirty-four-year old housewife. Her face was battered beyond recognition. Her right cheekbone was shattered; her nose was broken, and crusted blood filled both nostrils. She had a split lip, and there were angry red welts that covered both breasts.

Occasionally, the man would raise his face upward, his lips moving in a kind of silent prayer, almost as if pleading—to whatever entity he called his god—for some sort of divine intervention. None came. Beneath him, Melina drifted in and out of consciousness. Each time she showed signs of awakening, the man pummeled her unmercifully, until she drifted off again to that state between life and death that now held her in its grip.

 

The forty-seven-year old Greek immigrant had a deathly fear of flying, and the storm had come as a disconcerting addition to an already unpleasant trip. Lately, these sales trips had become a necessary part of life. He owned a small wrought-iron furniture-manufacturing firm, and as such, wore many hats. He not only designed and supervised the construction of the furniture, but was also the company’s sole representative. The sales trips, though irksome, were the price he had to pay for the gains he hoped to make. The West Coast trip had been a huge success, and he couldn’t wait to get home and tell Melina the good news.

After knocking Melina unconscious, the attacker had stuffed a sock roughly into her mouth to insure that she couldn’t yell for help. Her legs were anchored to the posts of the footboard by stockings tied to her feet; and her hands were tethered to the headboard—one with her bra, and the other with her panties. When she was awake, Melina’s terror was as palpable as her pulse, which beat like a trip hammer within the cavity of her heaving chest. This must be the way a mouse felt, she thought, caught between the claws of a playful, but deadly, cat.

 

Outside the plane, the storm had intensified. Huge claps of thunder accentuated each flash of lightning, like the orchestral score of a gothic film. Inside the cabin, lights flickered on and off, and passengers shifted anxiously in their seats. Beads of perspiration poured down George’s face. His newly acquired, three-piece Brooks Brothers suit was already stained beneath the armpits. He made a note to remember to have it cleaned. A violent mechanical shudder, accompanied by dimming lights, caused him to tremble. Packages and baggage stored in the overhead compartments shifted and bumped noisily as the craft was tossed about in the increasing turbulence. Women shrieked in alarm, and men coughed nervously. Thoughts of his wife raced through George’s mind. He began praying silently, imagining the worst. Fortunately, his imagination was not sufficient to the task.

 

The man she had arranged to meet this evening was someone she had met several weeks ago in an Internet chat room, called “Manhattan Singles.” He had intrigued her from the start, and when he had invited her to meet him for a drink, she had been pleasantly surprised, accepting immediately. Privacy was important, so they had agreed upon a small tavern, just out of the neighborhood, where no one would know either of them, especially her. Inviting him back to her apartment had been a risk, but she never intended to do anything more than talk, so she had taken it.

Hoping not to offend him, she explained that she liked him, but wasn’t interested in anything other than a platonic relationship.

Immediately, he had accused her of teasing him. She protested, but he grew more agitated, persisting with his allegations. The more she tried to placate him, the angrier he grew. Finally he grabbed her by the shoulders and shouted in her face, “You goddamn cock-teaser, I’ll teach you to fuck with me.” The first punch had broken her jaw. Mercifully, the next one had knocked her unconscious.

Now, awake again and helpless on the bed, she reflected upon her predicament. It was George’s fault she rationalized, for always being away on business. After all, a woman has needs too! Never mind the fact that he was killing himself, working in an effort to get them out of the small apartment in the crowded Chelsea neighborhood that they called home.

At the same moment that her husband was praying to live, Melina Spiros was wishing she would die.