For this long of a flight, Brenda didn’t feel like sitting in a cramped coach seat, and she knew from bitter experience that Southern cramped them tighter than most. WNN got a pretty good rate, and it was no big deal to dip into the money she’d accumulated in four months overseas, so she upgraded it to first class.

It was just a little bit frustrating. After an adventurous overseas assignment, it was a letdown, to say the least, to be back in the states and heading out to do a routine environmental story and maybe a couple of pickups if something happened to turn up. But no, this plane was heading to Arizona. It didn’t even promise to be much of a story, but apparently Mannie felt she had to get her feet back on the ground.

She was halfway back among the first-class passengers boarding the plane. When she got to her third-row seat she found a tall, good-looking woman with full, well-groomed black hair putting a carry-on into the overhead rack. She stood back and watched for a moment, evaluating the woman who would be her seatmate for the next four hours: expensively and elegantly dressed, sophisticated but not flashy. Business executive looking expensive; at a guess, this woman had money that she earned, not inherited. The woman looked familiar, but she couldn’t quite put a face and a name together.

"Hi," the woman said, noticing her standing there. "I’ve got the aisle seat; I take it you’re at the window."

"I’ll switch if you like," Brenda replied. "It doesn’t matter to me."

"Me either," the woman smiled, stepping back so Brenda could get to the window seat.

Supermodel? Pretty enough, she thought, and has the poise, but not dressed like it. Damn it, she seemed familiar! "Thanks," Brenda replied, stepping in front of the woman to get to her seat. "I like looking out the window. It’s nice to watch the country go by."

"I know," the woman replied in a friendly voice. "I’m a pilot myself, it’s always fascinating."

Pilot? Brenda thought as she sat down. Not an airline pilot, she’s dressed too expensively, doesn’t have the look. This gal is bigger bucks than that. But let’s find out. "Airline pilot?" she asked casually.

"No, I own an air charter service," the woman said as she sat down beside her. "Don’t I know you?" she added. "You look familiar, but I can’t quite pull up a name."

"I’m on TV some," she replied, sticking out her hand. "Brenda Hodunk, of World News Network."

"Oh, yes!" the woman said with interest. "I saw that piece you did about the way women were treated in Afghanistan. Very well done, very sensitive. I’ve had a taste of what it’s like to live as a third-class citizen in a lockdown, but those women have it ten times worse."

"Unfortunately, while there are exceptions, most of them are going to be a long time throwing it off," Brenda replied. "I mean generations. There’s a mindset there that just isn’t going to be easy to overcome. It’s changing now, but what happens when there aren’t American soldiers with rifles to keep things from backsliding?"

"Changing attitudes never comes easily," the woman nodded. "Believe me, I know."

Brenda frowned. She still had no hint of who this woman was, but she seemed familiar. What’s more, she seemed intelligent and informed, so this could be an interesting conversation to keep the dullness out of a long flight. But who the hell is she? I know I’ve seen her somewhere!

"I’ve had a few adventures along that line myself," she said noncommittally.

She was just about ready to break down and ask the woman her name, when the plane’s captain stepped up, a tall, middle-aged man with four stripes on his sleeve. "I saw your name on the manifest, Miss Swift," he said. "I’m Captain Phil Spector, and I’d like to welcome you aboard and offer my personal thanks."

"You’re quite welcome, Captain Spector," the woman smiled graciously. "How are you doing?"

"There’s a scar on my neck, but under the circumstances, I can’t complain," he replied. "Larry’s back flying too, but he’s not with us today. Incidentally while this is the same plane, I’m not supposed to say, but we have two sky marshals on board and an armored cockpit door, so with luck we won’t need your services today. But, I certainly thank you for saving my life last February."

Holy Shit! Brenda thought, the pieces coming together with a crash. It’s Jennlynn Swift!

Given the name, the facts fell into place immediately: the woman who landed – my God, this very plane – in Mississippi after the attempted hijacking was broken up. Easily the most famous prostitute in the country! For months, just about every media outlet in the nation would have killed to get a decent interview with her. She’d been pleasant when the subject stayed on the hijacking, but to even hint at anything about her being a prostitute brought on an instant ice age. Yet, there was no denying it; there had been lots of investigative stories that probed her background lightly, but the people who knew her at all had been just about as reticent as she’d been herself. Worse. She remembered an unaired film clip of a local TV reporter knocking on her parents’ door and being greeted with a double-barreled shotgun pointed at his belly. He did not get an interview.

"It had to be done," Jennlynn told the captain. "Without some luck it could have been a lot worse, very easily."

The scuttlebutt around the business was that there was an NBC reporter with a serious reputation as a cocksman, who had tried to short-circuit the interview process by going out to that place in Nevada where she worked and wound up spending $5000 for two hours. He didn’t get any serious information, but the story going around was that he hadn’t hit on any woman since, saying, "When you’ve had the very best, it’s hard to settle for less."

Be cool, Brenda, her professional sense warned her. Be very, very, very cool.

"Yes, it could," Captain Spector replied. "It came very close for me. But I hope you have a pleasant flight today."

"I hope so too," she replied. "I’m just a little nervous. I suppose that’s logical, since this is the first time I’ve been on an airliner since. I’d have taken the Learjet, but it’s being annualled."

"I can understand," he said. "I had a hard time getting back in the cockpit myself, and I envy you your Learjet. I flew a 24 for a charter service years ago. That’s a magnificent airplane for as old as it is."

"My chief pilot and I are looking at adding on another one," she replied. "We were looking at a 35ER not long ago, since we’re getting more call for the transoceanic capability. It’s not a critical need yet but it’s showing signs."

"Not a bad bird," the captain said. "It might do very well for you. You have a good flight, Miss Swift, and we’ll do our best to see that it will be an uneventful one."

"The best of luck to you, Captain Spector," she replied warmly. "And I’m sorry we had to meet the first time under such unhappy circumstances."

"I am too, but it was well met. Thank you again, Miss Swift."

As the captain turned to go, Brenda looked at her seatmate and said quietly, "Jennlynn Swift, right?"

"I’m afraid so," she sighed.

"I don’t know what it’s worth," Brenda said. "But I’d like to apologize the best I can for the really asinine behavior some of my colleagues have displayed toward you. Many of them are true assholes anyway, so it’s not a long reach. I understand there are topics you are sensitive about, and I don’t want to talk about them if you don’t want to." Like hell, she thought, but I’ve got to spend four hours next to her, too.

"Thank you," Jennlynn nodded. "You’re right, there are some real assholes out there."

"Miss Swift, I try to do my job in an honorable manner, and I have an Aherns Award and part of a Pulitzer that prove it can be done that way. I take pride in my ethics, and I realize that’s a little on the rare side in a business where most people consider reporters to be somewhat lower life forms than used car salesmen. In all too many cases they are right."

"I’ll go along with you there," she sighed. "But as soon as you figured out who I was, I’ll bet your first thought was about my being a prostitute."

"Actually, Miss Swift, it wasn’t. It was that I was sitting next to a modern-day American heroine who most people don’t understand, myself included."

"Are you sure?" she frowned. "Most people are curious about my being a prostitute."

"I plead guilty to intense curiosity, Miss Swift," Brenda said. "But that said, if you are uncomfortable talking about it with me, I do not want to talk about it."

"At least you’re honest, and I appreciate the thought," she replied. "And please, call me Jennlynn. I can take being called Miss Swift by someone Captain Spector’s age, but it makes me feel uncomfortable to have someone like you calling me that."

"I can do that, Jennlynn," Brenda replied, realizing that she’d pushed the door open a little. "It makes me feel a little uncomfortable to be called that, too, but I understand it’s a term of respect."

"I suppose I do too," Jennlynn nodded. "But I have special reasons to be nervous about it. I’m never too sure how people are going to react when they find out who I am. But you say you’re curious about me. What makes you curious?"

"Bearing in mind that I’ve been out of the country the past four months, and I don’t have recent news," Brenda said. "My first thought when I saw the feed from Keesler last February, was that I can understand why a woman who’s down on her luck or on drugs or something would turn to prostitution. But it’s a mystery to me – and to most people – why a brilliant, rich, well-educated woman who’s a pilot and owns her own Learjet, a highly-regarded business executive, and has a doctorate would be one. I don’t blame people for being curious about it, because I’m intensely curious about it."

"At least you’re honest about it," she replied. "I’ve been asked that many times, and I always say that it’s because I want to."

"Jennlynn," Brenda sighed, "My very best friend in the world wore handcuffs for six years straight, 24-7-365. The first time I asked her why she was doing it, she gave me the same answer. And when I wore handcuffs for two months straight, trying to understand what things were like for her and how it affected her, that’s the answer I gave."

By the time Brenda finished her statement, Jennlynn’s jaw was hanging a little slack. "Oh, you’re that Brenda Hodunk!" she replied brightly. "I read that book! I hadn’t realized you were the same person."

"Then you’ll understand," Brenda smiled, knowing that her foot was solidly in the door now. "And, I hope I don’t sound rude, but I know from experience there has to be more to it than that."

"You’re right," Jennlynn sighed, shaking her head. "I cannot imagine how someone would want to wear handcuffs voluntarily for even hours, let alone months or years, so I suppose it’s reasonable that people would wonder about me."

"I couldn’t imagine it myself until I did it," Brenda said. "Part of it came from being around Carole. She actually had a good reason: she was nuts, and she admits it now. When her sister Wendy was injured and became a quadriplegic, the handcuffs were a way that Carole could make herself handicapped, to identify with her sister’s pain. Over time, she literally became addicted to wearing them. I started wearing handcuffs because it seemed like a good idea at the time. I wanted to understand Carole a little better, and I wanted to identify with Wendy a little better. It was not until the handcuffs were removed that I realized I was getting addicted to them too. People still consider me a little nuts for doing it, but it was possibly the most valuable learning experience I’ve had in my life."

"It’s been a couple years since I read the book, but I picked up a lot of what you just said."

"If you read the book, then you’ll realize I didn’t write it. Wendy did. A lot of what I learned was just too personal for me to be able to write it, and as close a friend with Wendy and Carole as I am, I still can’t share some of those things with them. Believe me, Jennlynn, our experiences are very different. I can’t imagine what it would be like to be a prostitute in any way, shape or form, let alone one with what your motives must be. In fact, I’ll be up front enough to tell you that I’m a virgin, so we don’t even share that much experience. But in a sense, you and I share common ground, in that the rest of the world doesn’t understand us, either."

"All right, you’ve got a point," Jennlynn smiled. "This isn’t an interview, right?"

Brenda held up her hands. "No notes," she said. "I’m just curious." That wasn’t quite a lie; one of the things that had made her such a successful reporter was that she had an excellent short-term memory, at least for understanding, although she wouldn’t trust her memory for quotes unless they were quite memorable. But the minute she got off the plane in Phoenix, she was going to sit down at the first table she came to, boot up her laptop and type furiously – she was still a print reporter at heart and about the fastest typist she knew. Whether she used the notes for anything was another story. "I won’t try to take you someplace you don’t want to go," she continued. "If after a while, you feel comfortable with the idea, I may ask you about an on-camera interview. Or, I may not. If I ask and you agree, I still promise to not go any place you don’t want to."

Jennlynn looked at her for a moment, while the last of the coach class passengers were still filing aboard. "Nothing sensationalistic?" she asked after a moment.

"Only if you want it to be."

"All right," she sighed. "The truth is, I first became a prostitute because I was down on my luck . . . "

* * *

Five hours later, the phone rang on the news director’s desk in the WNN Washington Office. "Mannie, this is Brenda," she said, without preliminaries. "I need a cameraman out here soonist, like yesterday. It has to be someone who can do what he’s told and can keep his mouth shut, because it’s very sensitive, and it’s still not totally a done deal."

"What’s up, Brenda?" he asked.

"I have an interview set up with Jennlynn Swift, most likely on location at the Redlite Ranch Bordello, although that’s not a done deal yet, either."

"Holy shit, Brenda! There are people who would kill for that! How’d you manage it?"

"By being honest, upfront, in the right place at the right time, and waiting for the story to come to me."

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