Mystery: Satan's Road - Suspense Thriller Mystery (Mystery, Suspense, Thriller, Suspense Crime Thriller) Read Online Free
light-headed. How long had he waited to be rewarded for all those years of working long into the night, all those trips, the thousands of backs slapped while holding that fixed corporate smile? So, he had made a stupid mistake a few years ago. A simple buying trip to Germany and far too much to drink; a few demons unlocked; a visit with a darker side he hadn't known before . Don't they call that self-discovery?
He had worked far too hard those last few months of 2002. He was unwinding that December, but like the good executive, doing it away from home, away from prying eyes. He had heard about the shops and the clubs in Hamburg where anything goes – live sex, orgies, young girls and boys. They fascinated him, perhaps more than he liked to admit, and all the pressure of the foreign purchase they had just made with a German auto-parts manufacturer was rolling off of him now and he felt a little giddy with success. He was looking for a release.
Claude never had any intention of showing up at a club called the Raskeller, but his German guide, a tall boneless agent for a German auto dealer, drove him there sometime after three in the morning, his mouth droning on constantly about German superiority. Claude's head was spinning, his stomach churning, but more important, he was horny. Impossibly turned on by the wild life in the streets and the garish club fronts and his remoteness from any kind of civilization he recognized. It was like waking in an erotic dream.
He recalled, sitting there in the back seat of the stretch Benz, an experience he had in University– his one and only brush with homosexuality. Of course, he told himself later, it was closer to a bi-sexual encounter. That sounded more like self-discovery, didn't it?
He still got it up over a woman. That hadn't changed. In fact, it was right around this time that he had met Maureen, and there was a lot of sex there. Good sex, he liked to tell himself, feeling better already. Then, everything in his life returned to normal. But now that he was trolling the Oranienburger Strasse his German business-aide smirking at the smorgasbord of delights available on the street, his mind numbed by too much Russian Vodka, so he just said fuck it, and let himself go.
Before he knew it, he was locked in a small paneled room with a person of indistinguishable gender who expertly complied with his slurred wishes. All he really remembered after were the eyes, what he saw of them. And some other body parts that made up a fleeting inventory of forbidden images. O.K. He had to admit it to himself later on the plane, nursing an enormous hangover; he had had sex with a young male. It was a stupid thing to do and unforgivable. He had escaped from Germany like a man possessed knowing that the incident, all ten minutes of it, was volatile enough to blow up his marriage, his career, his family and likely alienate him from most of his friends for life. It haunted him for months after, but all it became was a huge error in judgment whose danger seemed to recede with time. He hadn't even thought about it, even remotely, for at least a year. And now here it was. On his computer monitor in his den in their home in the Muskokas, a million miles from a dingy club that must have seemed colorful and exciting once when seen through senses jangling with alcohol and a handful of uppers.
His sons were older now. They might even understand what the pictures meant. His wife would be devastated, especially by the visual evidence.
Just like mourning, he thought. I've moved past denial now. I am into the resistance mode and sliding quickly towards acceptance. The instant he called up the icon for his spreadsheet program, a small blue square appeared in the middle of his screen. It flashed a message "E-mail received". Claude felt his balance go. A wave of nausea hit him hard. Was this just his imagination after all? Guilt working at him, like something out of a Twilight Zone episode? He moved the pointer to
He had worked far too hard those last few months of 2002. He was unwinding that December, but like the good executive, doing it away from home, away from prying eyes. He had heard about the shops and the clubs in Hamburg where anything goes – live sex, orgies, young girls and boys. They fascinated him, perhaps more than he liked to admit, and all the pressure of the foreign purchase they had just made with a German auto-parts manufacturer was rolling off of him now and he felt a little giddy with success. He was looking for a release.
Claude never had any intention of showing up at a club called the Raskeller, but his German guide, a tall boneless agent for a German auto dealer, drove him there sometime after three in the morning, his mouth droning on constantly about German superiority. Claude's head was spinning, his stomach churning, but more important, he was horny. Impossibly turned on by the wild life in the streets and the garish club fronts and his remoteness from any kind of civilization he recognized. It was like waking in an erotic dream.
He recalled, sitting there in the back seat of the stretch Benz, an experience he had in University– his one and only brush with homosexuality. Of course, he told himself later, it was closer to a bi-sexual encounter. That sounded more like self-discovery, didn't it?
He still got it up over a woman. That hadn't changed. In fact, it was right around this time that he had met Maureen, and there was a lot of sex there. Good sex, he liked to tell himself, feeling better already. Then, everything in his life returned to normal. But now that he was trolling the Oranienburger Strasse his German business-aide smirking at the smorgasbord of delights available on the street, his mind numbed by too much Russian Vodka, so he just said fuck it, and let himself go.
Before he knew it, he was locked in a small paneled room with a person of indistinguishable gender who expertly complied with his slurred wishes. All he really remembered after were the eyes, what he saw of them. And some other body parts that made up a fleeting inventory of forbidden images. O.K. He had to admit it to himself later on the plane, nursing an enormous hangover; he had had sex with a young male. It was a stupid thing to do and unforgivable. He had escaped from Germany like a man possessed knowing that the incident, all ten minutes of it, was volatile enough to blow up his marriage, his career, his family and likely alienate him from most of his friends for life. It haunted him for months after, but all it became was a huge error in judgment whose danger seemed to recede with time. He hadn't even thought about it, even remotely, for at least a year. And now here it was. On his computer monitor in his den in their home in the Muskokas, a million miles from a dingy club that must have seemed colorful and exciting once when seen through senses jangling with alcohol and a handful of uppers.
His sons were older now. They might even understand what the pictures meant. His wife would be devastated, especially by the visual evidence.
Just like mourning, he thought. I've moved past denial now. I am into the resistance mode and sliding quickly towards acceptance. The instant he called up the icon for his spreadsheet program, a small blue square appeared in the middle of his screen. It flashed a message "E-mail received". Claude felt his balance go. A wave of nausea hit him hard. Was this just his imagination after all? Guilt working at him, like something out of a Twilight Zone episode? He moved the pointer to
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