Held Page 12

  “If you were a law-abiding citizen you wouldn’t get into desperate situations in the first place,” I pointed out.

  He paused, then said, “It’s just beyond belief, what power does to some people. It acts as a sort of drug. The stupider the person, the more likely it is that having power will corrupt them.”

  “I saw that happen once,” I said. “I never thought of it that way, I never thought of it as a power thing. But I used to be in the student council at school, and one time this shy, friendly girl got to chair a meeting. We were trying to give everyone a chance to chair, and it was her turn. We couldn’t believe the personality transformation … she turned into an army general, putting everyone down, bossing people in this totally inappropriate way—it was weird. I guess that’s what it was—power. She really did act like she was on something.”

  He wasn’t listening to me. He was thinking about something else, something that happened a long time ago. I could tell by the faraway look in his eyes.

  The man who’d hurt me seemed human to me for the first time. It was safe to think of him as human now that he was dead. Now that I didn’t have to be afraid of him.

  “The writer Emile Zola thought guilt haunts you, but he was wrong. Have you read him?”

  I shook my head.

  “He has this woman and her lover killing the woman’s sickly, selfish husband,” he said. “After they do it, they’re haunted by guilt and by the horror of it, and it destroys their lives. But it’s not like that. You’re sick the first few days, and then it fades.”

  “Yeah, that writer is way off,” I said. “Sociopaths never feel guilty at all. This girl who used to go to my school, Rik—every day she had a few people in tears, otherwise her life just wasn’t worth living. I’m sure she’ll never feel guilt. She loved who she was.”

  He seemed to be considering what he could and couldn’t say. He didn’t usually come across as undecided, but for once I could sense his uncertainty.

  “Can you open the door, please?” I asked.

  “You can open it yourself,” he said, and I saw that the door wasn’t locked. I stepped out into the dark and my hostage-taker followed me. It was a hot, moonless night and I could see millions of stars against the vast black sky.

  I looked up at the starry sky and said, “Good-bye, messed-up person. If there’s an afterlife, I hope you get a second chance there. Also, I guess I forgive you, even though you hurt me a lot. And tried to make me feel like I was a person who deserved to be hated, or like no person at all. Anyway, I forgive you. And my hostage-taker forgives you too, though it’s hard for him to say it now.”

  My hostage-taker placed his arm around my shoulders. It was so unexpected and comforting that I didn’t dare breathe.

  “How do you keep people off the property?” I asked.

  “I won’t have to. You’re going to be moving to another location.”

  “When?” I asked.

  “In a few hours. I’m just waiting for the vehicle.”

  “Another warehouse?”

  “No, a room. Smaller, but you’ll have a bath.”

  “How? How will you move me?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  “What if you’re caught on the way?”

  He led me back inside and dropped his arm from my shoulder. What if he never touched me again? Maybe holding me had only been a friendly gesture, a way of showing gratitude or consoling me for the bad news.

  He took out the white wine and filled two glasses. He handed me a glass and sat down at the table with his.

  “I hope this teaches you a lesson,” I said primly. “No matter how carefully you plan, things can go wrong.”

  “That’s true enough.”

  “Don’t you see? Someone might have seen me getting on the plane. Or coming off the plane—I was asleep so I don’t know how you managed to do that inconspicuously. That guy—the addict—he might have told someone. You’re risking your life, apart from everything else.”

  It felt good, lecturing him. I wanted to shake him out of his stubbornness. “When you release me, I’m going to say that you gave me a choice of staying or leaving right on the first day. And that I stayed here of my own free will.”

  “We’ll talk about that another time.”

  I looked down at the floor and jiggled my legs nervously. “Maybe in a few months, when everyone’s forgotten about me, we can meet, as if by chance—like at a party or something.”

  He shook his head. “It’s not possible. Once you go home, we won’t be able to meet again, ever.”

  The thought of never seeing him again made me desperate. “Is it because you don’t have feelings for me? Is that why we can’t meet again?”

  “It’s because it’s too dangerous. You’ll be followed for a long time. And I have many things I need to do. I haven’t set out to have an ordinary life.”

  “Have you ever been married?” I asked.

  “No. That’s not where I’m headed.”

  “You can change where you’re headed,” I persisted.

  “I don’t want to change. By the way, I need from you the location of your mother’s secret hiding place. To prove you’re alive.”

  “My mother’s secret hiding place? She doesn’t have one … Oh! She means up in the attic. Behind the Birth of Venus poster. I guess she’ll have to find a new hiding place now.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Tell me how you feel about me,” I pleaded. “If you tell me you can never love me I won’t bring up the subject again, I promise.”

  He paused and seemed to be considering his answer. “I do have feelings for you,” he admitted finally. “But they’re irrelevant.”

  “Do you love me?”

  “I guess you’d call it love.”

  His words were like a sweet, warm mantle falling from the sky and folding me inside it. I felt a flush rising to my face as I smiled at him. I wanted his expression to confirm what he’d just said, but his arms were crossed in front of his chest and I couldn’t read him at all.

  “What would you call it?” I asked.

  “Feelings I’m trying not to have.”

  I felt my heart brimming over with joy. I didn’t even know it was possible to be so happy. “I knew it!” I exclaimed. “I knew you loved me, I felt it.”

  “You’ll change your mind once you’re free. You’ll start to understand that your attraction to me is nothing but a trick of the mind, a way to make the captivity bearable.”

  I was frustrated and annoyed by his refusal to believe me. But I laughed and said, “You have very low self-esteem, you know. You don’t think I can really love you for yourself?”

  “There’s no way to tell, and we won’t have a chance to find out, because our paths are going to separate. But you’ve become part of my history, a part I’ll never forget.”

  “I’m not going to let you go. I’m going to refuse to leave. I can be quite stubborn,” I informed him.

  “If you refuse to leave, I’ll get caught.”

  “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

  “We’ll be moving you in a few hours. You might want to get some sleep.”

  For a split second I was afraid. Afraid he was going to kill me. My fear shocked and embarrassed me. He saw both my fear and the embarrassment that followed.

  “I’d be afraid too,” he said.

  “I’m not afraid of you. I love you. I’ve just seen too many Hollywood movies.”

  “I’m not going to harm you. But you’re going to be uncomfortable for a short while. I’d give you something to make it easier, but I need you to be alert. I’m sorry to put you through this.”

  “Uncomfortable, how?”

  “It’ll be cramped. I hope you’re not claustrophobic.”

  “If I wasn’t before, I am now. Anyone would be, locked up like this. Anyhow, I’m way too hyper to sleep.”

  “I have to go get things ready. I’ll be back before sunrise.”

  He left w
ithout bothering to lock the door.

  CHAPTER 18

  I did manage to get back to sleep, though bad dreams kept me tossing and turning. I dreamed I was clinging to a giant turtle, trying to hold on to him while he swam across a poisonous lake. I kept slipping because there was nothing to hold on to—if I held on to his neck, I’d choke him, and we’d both fall into the deadly water and die. The dream seemed to go on forever; even when I half woke it pulled me back.

  At one point I thought I heard voices outside—one I recognized as my hostage-taker’s but the other sounded like the voice of the addict. I knew it couldn’t be him, I knew he was dead, but I felt a lightning bolt of terror. In a flash, it all came back to me. He’d shouted at me the whole time he was in the warehouse—American this, American that. As if everything that was wrong with the world was personally my fault. Each time he dunked me it was for another crime I was supposedly responsible for.

  Then the voices died out and I realized they too had been part of my dream.

  My hostage-taker returned just before dawn. He was pushing a trolley with a beautiful antique chest. I understood immediately; I was to hide inside the chest. It shocked me, somehow, and made me feel vaguely nauseous.

  “Creepy,” I said. “How long will it take?”

  “About two hours.”

  I clasped myself protectively. “Good thing I’m flexible. What can I take with me?”

  “You’ll have everything you need there,” he said.

  “What about my notebooks? And the books?”

  “I’ll bring you those things later.”

  “So just me and my monkey?”

  “Yes.”

  “An iPod would have been nice … How will I breathe?”

  “See here—I’ve taped slivers of wood to the corners. They’ll keep the lid from closing all the way.”

  “When do we leave?”

  “Now. Here’s a bottle of water and some snacks. And a flashlight, if you want it.” He handed me a baggie filled with crackers and small squares of cheese.

  I packed a few essential items—watch, razor, lip gloss, eye shadow. Then, clutching my monkey in my arms and bracing myself, I climbed into the chest. There were blankets and two pillows inside for me to lie on. All the same, it was intensely oppressive.

  “Oh, man,” I said. “Now I know what those poor illegals feel like—the ones who try to sneak into countries in crates.”

  As the lid came down, I told myself not to be spoiled. It was only two hours, after all, and my hostage-taker was doing everything he could to make it as bearable as possible. I shouldn’t be making such a fuss.

  The trolley began to move. I lay on my side with my knees up and turned on the flashlight, but there was nothing to see. I couldn’t even think of eating; the closed space and the bumpy ride were making me carsick.

  We came to an abrupt stop. There were no sounds now and no movement. The stillness and silence scared me. My old fears returned in spite of myself—what if I was being deserted, what if it had all been a trick? What if I was about to be buried in this box or dropped in a lake and drowned?

  I knew I was being paranoid. A few seconds later the chest was tilted sideways onto what I assumed was a ramp leading to the back of a truck. I heard the thudding and banging of objects being moved around, followed by the sound of a door slamming shut.

  I lifted the lid an inch or two and peeked out; it would be safe now. I saw that I was in the midst of a jumble of furniture: tables, desks, chairs, more chests.

  The truck began to move and I felt slightly carsick again. I knew it was mostly nerves; I’d never suffered from motion sickness before, not even on the Dark Knight roller coaster at home.

  I distracted myself by thinking about my hostage-taker: his expressive eyes and hands, his sense of humor, his refusal to take advantage of me. He was misguided but not in a hopeless way. He didn’t even own a weapon. He’d done something wrong, but if he never did it again, there wasn’t any reason to send him to prison. He wasn’t dangerous. If anything, it was his idealism that had made him act so desperately.

  How many people were helping him? Maybe there had only ever been the woman and the man who was dead. Maybe they were all related. What if the woman was his mother and the man was his brother? That would explain how he ended up trusting someone so unstable. Maybe they were a wealthy family and the prisoner they were trying to get released was part of the family. Maybe he was my hostage-taker’s father! That would explain everything.

  I’d find out when I got back. If the prisoner was my hostage-taker’s father, I’d be able to track down my hostage-taker. The idea made me very happy, and I was finally able to relax in my bumpy box. I even munched on a cracker or two.

  Suddenly the truck came to a stop. I knew we hadn’t arrived because we’d only been traveling for about twenty minutes.

  I heard traffic and I began to panic. The back of the truck creaked open. I froze, afraid even to breathe. What if I suddenly sneezed?

  I heard a gruff voice speaking a foreign language, and my hostage-taker answering. Oh God, please don’t let us be caught, I prayed. I’d seen this scene in so many movies. Sometimes people were caught and sometimes they weren’t.

  To my enormous relief, I heard laughter, the door slammed shut, and a few seconds later the truck continued on its way. Thank you, God, I whispered in the dark.

  CHAPTER 19

  I heard the once-familiar sound of an automatic garage door going up and then coming down. It was lovely, hearing that sound again. It reminded me of families, car rides, civilization. Ordinary life.

  My hostage-taker raised the lid of the trunk. “We’re here,” he said. “Are you all right?”

  I nodded. My legs were stiff and wobbly from the ride and I needed help standing up. The garage was dark and bare and smelled of swimming pool chemicals. For no reason, I began to cry. It was just relief, I think. Relief that the move was over, relief that we hadn’t been caught.

  “Here’s a blindfold,” my hostage-taker said, ignoring my tears. “I’m going to lead you to the basement.”

  I nodded again and tied the black blindfold across my eyes. It was heavier and larger than the blindfold I’d had on when I was first taken, and I couldn’t see a thing through it. My hostage-taker slid his arm around my waist and led me through a door. The sensation of soft carpeting under my feet startled me. Something as simple as walking on a carpet had become an alien experience.

  We made our way down a flight of stairs. I held the railing with one hand and my hostage-taker’s arm with the other. His arm felt strong and reliable, and I wished he’d lift me up and carry me.

  The distance from the bottom of the stairs to my room suggested a very large house—probably a mansion. Or maybe we were walking in circles; I would not have known.

  A door shut behind us and my hostage-taker said, “We’re here.”

  I pulled off the blindfold and looked around me. I shook my head incredulously. “Is this it?”

  “I’m afraid so. We didn’t have a choice.”

  They’d attempted to make the room pleasant for me: there was a real bed with a white lace bedspread, a shaggy rug on the floor, a mini-fridge with a few dishes stacked on top of it, a low bureau with drawers. But it was tiny. If I stretched out my arms, I could almost touch the two side walls, and the open bathroom door reached the foot of the bed. The bathtub he’d promised me was there, cream-colored and shiny, and several folded towels had been piled on a rack above it. Next to the tub lay a basket of bath oils and soaps.

  I sat down on the bed. There wasn’t even a window in the room. Air came from behind a screen in the ceiling, like in a hotel.

  “It’s so small,” I whined. It was ridiculous—a hostage complaining about accommodations. Even if he loved me, I was still a secret prisoner, not a guest. He had to make sure I wouldn’t be found.

  “I know this isn’t ideal,” he said. “But take a look in the top drawer of the bureau.”

  I re
ached over and pulled the drawer open.

  “A laptop!” I exclaimed, my dismay vanishing in an instant. “Oh, thank you!”

  “I’ll bring you films to watch,” he said. “And I’ve installed a few games.”

  I rose from the bed and wrapped my arms around him. “It’s all right. I don’t mind the room. I guess I won’t be going out anymore?”

  “I’m sorry. It won’t be possible. But I don’t think your stay here will be very long. I have to go now but I’ll be back tomorrow. There’s food in the refrigerator. Any requests?” His voice was cold and formal again, but I knew it was only a front.

  “Now that we’re in a house, could you make me spaghetti, please?”

  “Yes, you can have hot meals now. I won’t always be the one bringing your food, though. If you hear three knocks on the door, wait a few minutes before opening it. You’ll find a tray on the floor.”

  “Spooky,” I said, almost in a whisper.

  He looked at me and I saw something in his eyes I hadn’t seen before. He was sad.

  “The lock releases automatically if there’s a fire,” he said.

  He opened the door and left. The door locked automatically, too.

  CHAPTER 20

  As soon as he’d left I filled the tub with hot water, bubble bath, and three bottles of scented oil.

  Immersing myself in hot water—as hot as I could stand—was wonderfully soothing after that dark, cramped ride.

  I wondered who lived in the house. Did it belong to my hostage-taker? He didn’t seem rich, somehow. You could tell, usually, who was well off and who was poor. It must be the woman’s house. It was unlikely, now that I thought about it, that she was his mother.

  I had sometimes smelled chlorine on him, and I realized now that he must have been swimming here, in an indoor or outdoor pool. I longed to go for a swim too. One day we’d swim together, the two of us. We’d race and dive and twine our bodies underwater.

  My imagination wandered to beach vacations and surfing, and I almost fell asleep in the tub. I shook myself awake and grabbed a towel. These towels were softer and larger than the ones in the warehouse. Every small detail became magnified, I realized, when your life was reduced to a single room. You lost perspective, literally.