Donna rounded the corner of the hallway just as an arm could be seen pulling shut a door. In the dim lighting, she could still see enough to incriminate. Plaid. Oh man. What should I do?
Madame X was with a client and therefore unavailable. Interrupting her at work could have disastrous consequences. But rule or no rule, she needed to let Eric know. "Eric," she hissed into the phone when she returned to the lobby, "I think he's here. The man in the plaid shirt."
"Open the front door for me," Eric replied. "I just got here."
"Now what?" she whispered. They stood in the semi-darkness, unsure of the best way to handle the situation, if there even was a situation. "He might have someone in there, Eric, someone we'd embarrass to no end. He might be someone completely innocent of anything but wearing a plaid shirt to an S & M club. We can't just burst in on him!"
"No, but we could wait for him to come out and then follow him, I guess. Discreetly. Maybe this is a stop on his way to… peeping. Or he's escalated. Tired of just watching through windows and ready to take it to another level. Maybe he's brought a victim here."
Donna snorted quietly. "You've been watching too much TV," she grumbled. Pause. "But that would be horrible."
They were still discussing their options when the silent club phone glowed red, signifying a call from someone on the premises. "Lemme grab this," Donna said quietly. She cleared her throat softly and assumed her friendly phone voice. "May I help you?"
It was a man. "I'm having a little difficulty with some of the equipment. I-I'm new at this, and there's some gizmo here that seems to be stuck. I was trying to fix it and the lights went off. Could someone take a look?" There was a low laugh. "I'm still decent."
Donna rolled her eyes and mouthed the word "repair" for Eric's benefit. "Of course. I'll be right there—what room are you in?"
Eric couldn't hear the voice at the other end, but even in the relative darkness, he recognized Donna's reaction for what it was—fear. She softly placed the receiver back in its cradle. "That was him. Plaid Man. What should I do? What do I say to him?"
Eric straightened his back. The man he had overheard in the diner was here. From what little he could make out, the man knew Donna. There had definitely been someone looking in their window from outside. He had mimed cameras. The man just feet away from him, he believed, intended to do her harm. But what proof was there? They could call the police, but what exactly could they tell the dispatcher? Could he risk ruining Madame X's club because of a feeling, a guess, a hunch?
"Give me the key," he whispered. "I'll go."
Breathing hard, Eric turned the key in the door; it opened into darkness. The door slammed shut and he heard the lock reengage.
The light went on again as a voice said, "Thank you for—oof!"
Eric's fist made contact with the man's jaw, pushing him hard into the door. He was indeed wearing a plaid shirt. It was indeed the man from the diner. "You're not exactly what I had in mind," he said calmly, rubbing his jaw. "But I don't mind getting rough if you don't."
Standing in the hallway, Donna could only guess what was taking place. The walls were soundproof. Her imagination was running wild. What is taking so long? After an agonizing amount of time, the door finally opened. Eric, bruised and bloody but smiling grimly, nodded for her to come inside. "Do you know this guy?"
Lance Glover, bound by both ankles and wrists, hung on a St. Andrew's cross. His nose appeared to have been broken; his shirt was torn. "Donnalet!" he cried out. "I think there's been a misunderstanding. This prick thinks I've come here to hurt you. Nothing could be further from the truth. Nothing! I want to make you famous."
"This is the guy from work!" Donna exclaimed. "The jerk! The photographer!" She stepped closer to him. "He grabbed me the other night when I worked late, and Lord only knows what he would've done if the guard hadn't come in—"
Eric embraced her. "He grabbed you? Why didn't you tell me? Never mind; we can deal with that later. So what do we do with him now?"
Donna crossed her arms. "I know what I'd like to do." She walked over to a little table and picked up a whip. "Were you planning to use this on me tonight, Lance?"
Lance shook his head as vehemently as the choke collar would permit. "I've done nothing wrong. I was going to do nothing wrong. I just wanted to take some photos. You weren't cooperative. There was an order for photos of a woman with curly blonde hair; that's all. Someone out there likes your 'type'. Of course, I agree with him. You could have—"
Eric's blow to Lance's stomach shut him up, but to his credit, the man recovered quickly. "That's it. I'm pressing charges. I'll have the club closed down and see you both in jail. I'm a member here. I have a right to be here. I paid to be here."
Just then, Donna noticed Lance's padded backpack in a corner. As she walked in its direction, she cooed, "So, there's nothing naughty on your camera?"
For the first time, the man on the cross looked frightened. His face drained of color, contorted in horror. "You can't do that; you can't see. That's my personal property. Stop! No!"
He continued to plead with her as she slowly, even coyly, removed the camera from the bag. "Ooh, look," she murmured. "A camera. Lance has a big, big camera. Now let me see. How does it turn on? Oh, there it is. Well, what do you know? Pictures of women taken through their windows! Hmm. I think the police will be quite happy to
