The Cam Man

A short story

When Michael Forbes saw Vivian’s photograph on Apple News, his hand jerked sideways, causing him to spill hot Starbucks coffee on his legs. He yelped and then looked at his phone again, convinced he saw a mirage.

But it was Vivian, the cam girl with whom he’d spent dozens of hours over the past months.

“You okay, hun?” Beth blotted Michael’s legs with a napkin. “Does that hurt? Do you want some ice?” 

“No. I’m okay.” Michael continued to read the article, oblivious to the hubbub of coffee shop chatter, his mind trapped by the startling words. “Twenty-two-year-old Lucinda Wells—”

Lucinda, so that’s her real name. Her Best Cams profile said she was eighteen. 

“—was kidnapped today from her East Dulwich flat, which she shared with two roommates. Wells, an assistant manager at Granger Department Store in Brent Cross—”

Vivian told me she was born in the UK but lived in Dublin and worked as a veterinarian’s assistant when she wasn’t performing online. 

“—was reported missing by her roommates when they found their flat in disarray, with furniture upturned and broken dishes on the floor, signs of a struggle. Police discovered a rag containing traces of chloroform, as well. Wells’ roommates told police their front door was open when they returned around nine p.m. Nearby security cameras captured two men in their thirties wearing leather jackets, leading police to speculate that they followed Wells to her apartment, abducting her after she went inside.”

That’s awful! Poor Vivian.

Michael’s hands shook, but his entire body trembled when he read, “Police believe Wells was abducted by a Russian sex trafficking network.”

Jesus. 

I need to think. Michael eyed the long line for coffee and downed the rest of his cup in a single gulp, wincing from the liquid that burned his lips and tongue. He asked Beth, “Could you get me another coffee?” Michael gave no reason why his wife should get him a coffee but hoped that she’d say “yes,” which she did.

Discrete prepaid credit cards, his browser’s incognito mode, and Beth’s long volunteer sessions at their daughter’s elementary school allowed Michael to spend time with his cam girls. At first, there were many—blondes, redheads, brunettes—of all sizes and shapes and colors and from many nations, but after camming for a month, Michael settled on Vivian as his favorite. 

She had the perfect balance of looks, laughter, patience, and timing. Michael drank her sexuality like a dog at its water bowl on a hot summer’s day. 

When Michael entered her online room, her face lit with a beautiful smile, a look no one could fake. She liked Michael. 

Michael pressed his finger to Vivian’s photograph. Same dimple on her left cheek. Same brown eyes. Same shoulder-length brunette hair. Same small, turned-up nose. Same Vivian. 

Lucinda was Vivian. 

Michael recalled a private session from the week before. At the time, he thought Vivian was making a big deal out of nothing when she told him about two guys at the pub who sidled beside her, asking personal questions without even offering to buy her a drink. One guy called himself Leonid, the other Marat. She had described the two men to Michael in detail—much better than the grainy security camera photo in the online article. Vivian said Leonid was big and bulky, like a wrestler, with acne-scarred cheeks and a black crew cut, while Marat was wiry, blond, and missing part of his left hand’s middle finger.

Even better than her description was the photograph Vivian had discretely taken of the two when they diverted their attention to the pretty bartender. Though their faces were shot from a steep angle—Vivian must have taken the photo with her phone in her lap—it was clear enough to identify the two men. 

Michael had recorded that cam session with the Russians’ photo. 

The article concluded, “Police say that Wells is probably still in-country, but will likely be exfiltrated within seventy-two hours, after which her recovery will be impossible. Anyone with information about Wells’ whereabouts should call….”

Oh, God. I have to call. 

Michael glanced at his watch and did quick arithmetic. Three o’clock here, which means it’s nine in the evening in the UK. Too late to call? The article didn’t say whether this was a twenty-four-hour number. 

I need to try, and if nobody answers, I’ll call back during work hours. 

What if they want my number? If Beth notices an overseas call on my phone—that’s going to lead to uncomfortable questions. Or worse, she might see the caller ID reporting, Metropolitan Police Service. What if they get a US warrant and find the video of me and Vivian? No, no, no.

Michael made a note to delete that and the other videos he’d saved. 

Maybe I should wipe my entire hard drive. Calling is a bad idea. I know! I can email the police the photo of the Russians. 

Michael reread the article, but there was no contact email.

Damn it! What do I do? Okay, think. That’s why you sent Beth to the counter, for time to think. A woman’s life is at stake. 

Michael tried and failed to pause the swirl of escalating dread that spun faster in his mind. 

This isn’t my problem. There’s nothing I can do. These things happen. Vivian chose this life and must have been aware she’d draw the attention of sex traffickers. 

If they know about her, would they also know about me? 

No, Michael was confident they wouldn’t find out and blackmail him. He’s used a screen name, untraceable prepaid cards, and a VPN. 

Nobody knows about me. I hope.

He gripped the table to slow the spinning room.

Starbucks was a blur, the people and chairs and tables and counter out-of-focus objects, whose colors transmuted into gray. 

Michael felt as if he were trying to breathe underwater. His ears rang.

Beth returned and rested the cup in front of Michael. 

“Cortland texted,” Michael blurted.

“Who’s Cortland?”

“My college roommate, who lives in London. He’s getting married and asked me to visit.”

“Before the wedding?”

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you just see him at the wedding?”

“Sure, but the wedding’s going to be a busy, crowded affair, and he wanted us to hang out while he still could. You know, just like in college.” Michael’s tongue tasted metallic. 

“You’re asking me if you can go to England?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow. It’s a spur-of-the-moment thing.”

Beth scrunched her eyes. 

“May I?”

“I don’t know about you, babe. You’re impulsive. That doesn’t always work out, does it?”

Michael frowned. Their basement was a litter of objects he thought he wanted to collect and bought multiples of—pool balls, vintage radios, shot glasses—and then ignored. Beth never let Michael forget about the time he bought two airline tickets to Indianapolis to watch the filming of an episode of their favorite television drama, only there was no filming. 

“Please.”

Beth responded with silence. 

“This is important. I haven’t seen Cortland in eons and we share a lot of memories.”

Beth sighed. “Yeah, go. Have a good time. That’s one of the perks of working for yourself—you can take off when you want. Bring back something British for me other than a t-shirt.”

“Thank you. It’s only for two nights, then I’m home lickety-split.” 

Although the last-minute ticket to London cost more than any other flight he’d purchased, Michael was relieved he didn’t have to hide the charge from Beth. 

Going to the UK is crazy, but somehow this is safer than calling? Yes, it is. Keep it all out of the US. 

He wanted to help, and felt secure knowing nothing about Vivian would blow back his way. 

I’ll copy a single frame of the two Russians to a thumb drive. That’s all I need to do, deliver an image. 

Two whiskeys later, his seat reclined as far as it would go, surrounded by the cabin’s dim, yellow lights, Michael floated between sleep and cogent thought, in the realm where dreams and reality are indistinguishable. Would the police do anything? Would they care? Vivian was just a cam girl, nobody special, except to him. Maybe they’d display faux concern, but in the end, shrug and move on. How many abducted women are recovered, even within the seventy-two-hour window?

But there was more Michael could do. Yes, much more. He could track down the Russians himself. First, find the pub, their source. If he showed the pub’s picture to enough people in East Dulwich, somebody would recognize it. 

Then I’ll…I’ll what—? 

He downed another whiskey to loosen the thinking process.

—I’ll…capture them? Torture them until they reveal where they’ve stashed Vivian?

That’s stupid. I’m not Jack Ryan. 

Wait! I’ll follow them. I can do that. Follow them from the pub to wherever they’re holding Vivian and likely other women. They won’t suspect that—and as a short, bespeckled forties guy with thinning hair, I’m practically invisible. I’ll tell the police exactly where the Russians are. With the photo and their location, the police will have to act.

That’s the plan. Locate, follow, and report. Easy, sound, and safe.

With that scheme tucked securely in his mind, Michael tumbled into slumber, where he stayed for the rest of the flight.

Michael slid his passport under the thick, plastic shield between him and the Heathrow immigration officer. He smiled like many international arriving passengers do—lips awkwardly curled to prove he was a harmless tourist. 

His blood chilled and his bones ached. He was sure the immigration officer was using telepathy and knew Michael’s plans. But following somebody wasn’t illegal. And saving a life was a noble cause. 

“How long will you be in the United Kingdom?” the immigration officer demanded. 

“Two nights. I’m celebrating my best friend’s engagement.”

Two lies in one sentence.

The immigration officer narrowed his eyes, studying Michael for a second that felt like sixty. He then turned his attention to his monitor, tapped on the keyboard, and flipped through the pages of Michael’s passport. 

Michael tried to remember where he’d traveled. Canada? Was that stamped on this passport, and did it matter? Jamaica—a family trip over New Year’s two years ago. Were there any red flags? It was all fine, no country like Yemen or Venezuela. 

The immigration officer passed Michael’s passport back to him. “Welcome to the United Kingdom.”

Michael pulled his carry-on bag, wheels clicking as they rolled along the laminate floor, marveling at the clever British advertisements, glancing out the window at the planes, his pace first fast and deliberate, then slower as he neared the long walkway’s terminus. His heart thumped discordantly, and his brain fogged. His legs were both lead and rubber. 

As he approached the airport exit, he visualized his plan as if drafted on paper, marked in red by an omniscient commentator: sentences circled, paragraphs crossed out, comments in tiny letters because there were so many corrections, every idea of Michael’s a potential point of failure. What if Vivian had already told the Russians about him? What if they spotted him? What if the police wanted Michael to return to London for a trial? What if he was shot? What if Beth slipped a tracker in his luggage and knew precisely where he went? What if it was all a mistake? 

Michael spun to the corridor to the left, hurried to the British Airways counter, moving so fast his bag levitated and his friction heated the surrounding air, and bought a return ticket for the next flight home.

It would take time, but he’d meet somebody just like Vivian. 

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If you enjoyed The Cam Man, I think you’ll also like my story, The Dating Editor.

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