Held Page 4

  I also exercised. I did push-ups and sit-ups and practiced my karate. I was desperate for some music. If only my MP3 hadn’t vanished from the katikies while Angie and I were away!

  I nibbled on food all day. I kept wondering whether terrorists would go to all this trouble to prepare tasty meals for me. Maybe it was some sort of last meal ritual. I seemed to remember reading something about chocolates being sent to the families of women who were raped and executed by Saddam Hussein’s army.

  I sobbed as I ate. I wasn’t the sort of person who cried, usually, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d broken down before all this happened. I was more than making up for it now.

  I watched the windows darken as evening fell. Loneliness came over me like a physical illness—a haunting, hollow, desert-island feeling that was unbearable. I had no phone, no computer, no way of reaching anyone. I longed for company and at the same time I was terrified of who might come.

  I was afraid to fall asleep. I piled more items on my barricade: the plate, mug, spoon, and knife, the mop and pail, the shampoo bottle, the empty food containers.

  I took the fork to bed with me. If I had the guts, maybe I could poke out the terrorist’s or pervert’s eyes with it. I wondered why they trusted me with metal cutlery.

  Eventually I dozed off, though I woke up continually during the night. I had kept the light on, and each time I woke, I was relieved to see that the barricade was still in place.

  I remember dreaming about my dog Pumpkin—half poodle, half unknown. We rescued him from a shelter, and he was one of those dogs everyone fell instantly in love with. In my dream I hugged him and kissed him and cried into his fur. When I woke up my pillow was soaking wet.

  CHAPTER 6

  Waking up in the warehouse, imprisoned and alone, I felt more miserable than afraid. Maybe I was still too bleary to be afraid.

  I dragged myself to the little bathroom, washed up, and forced myself to exercise. I kept wanting to throw myself on the bed in despair, but I knew I had to concentrate on the task of overcoming my captor and not let misery weaken me.

  I was on the bed reading David Copperfield when I heard a sound on the other side of the door, then a knock.

  I jumped up on the bed, clutching the fork in my hand. My heart began thumping against my chest.

  Then I remembered that I was supposed to pretend to be cooperative, and take the terrorist or pervert or whatever he was by surprise, so I quickly hid the fork under the blanket. The important thing was to stay in control, I told myself, but my heart was pounding so hard I was afraid something inside me would tear.

  The door opened and the barricade came crashing down. The mug broke into several pieces.

  A tall man wearing black jeans and a long-sleeved white shirt, and carrying several plastic bags, entered the warehouse. My SOS messages and the letter to Angie were tucked under his arm.

  I assumed he was the man who had brought me here. His movements and appearance matched the casual voice I’d heard, and I had caught a glimpse of his black jeans through my blindfold.

  It was a shock, seeing him now. I realized I’d created a picture of him in my mind, and though the picture went in and out of focus, and details kept changing, I’d imagined him having shaggy black hair, a Che Guevara cap, a Che Guevara beard, olive-brown skin, a stocky build. When he retied my blindfold, I imagined large, muscular hands.

  But he didn’t look anything like that. The only thing I was right about was his height, which I’d been able to estimate from the sound of his voice and where it came from. I’d guessed that he was close to six feet—nearly eight inches taller than me—and I was right.

  I was also right about his black or nearly black hair, but it was on the short side, and he was clean-shaven. He was slender rather than stocky and burly, and his long hands made me think of Angie’s poster of Venus and Mars.

  What most stood out for me, though, was how ordinary he looked. He could have been someone you passed on the street or sat next to on the bus. He didn’t look mad or cruel. In fact, I had to admit that he was good-looking. It confused and upset me, to register that he was attractive. Not that I wanted him to be scarily hideous, but finding him attractive seemed crazy and somehow wrong.

  But the real shock was what a relief it was for me to see another human being. I’d been deprived of company for only a short time, but I was already hungry for it. Hungry to know I wasn’t alone in the world—even if the person I was seeing was not only a stranger but was the one responsible for how alone I was.

  I was shocked by my own desperation, by the intensity of my need. It seemed like a great bonus, that I was allowed to see my captor, and I resented my gratitude.

  Then I remembered that he was probably a terrorist and that he could kill me at any moment. It didn’t matter what he looked like; the only thing that mattered was whether I’d survive.

  He stared at the barrier I’d set up for a few seconds, and then he stared at me. I was standing on the bed with my back to the wall, and I must have looked terrified, but he didn’t betray any reaction to the barricade or to my fear. He locked the door on the inside with a combination lock. Then he moved the table and chairs back to the center of the room and began to empty the plastic bags. His face was expressionless.

  I watched him put away the items he’d brought: more plates, a bottle of wine, two wine glasses, dishwashing detergent, instant coffee, tea bags in a jar, mint leaves in a jar, sugar, more cutlery, and more food. He had also brought a hot plate, a small pot, a few more books, two more empty notebooks, and another ballpoint pen.

  To my surprise, he placed the books and pen and notebooks on the bed.

  He said, “This is on condition that you stop slipping notes under the door. There’s no one around here anyhow. But if you persist, I’ll have to confiscate the paper.”

  I was right: it was the same man. I recognized his voice. Persist … confiscate—he used such strange, formal English. As if we were in a classroom.

  “I promise,” I managed to say. At least he wasn’t planning to kill me right away. He wouldn’t have brought all those things, he wouldn’t be giving me notebooks.

  He began collecting the shards of the broken mug. Then he took the first notebook, which I’d left on the floor by my bed, sat down at the table, and matched the messages to the missing pages. He seemed satisfied that he had them all. He returned the letter to me without reading it.

  “Are you going to kill me?” I asked. I didn’t know what I was going to say until I spoke, and I didn’t know that my voice would sound so shaky.

  He looked at me for a few seconds and then said, “No.”

  “What sort of prisoner are you asking for?” I asked, trying to steady myself. What I meant, of course, was, What are your politics?

  But all he said was, “An innocent one.” His composed voice made him seem less threatening, but also very distant, and the relief I’d felt at seeing another person was quickly vanishing.

  “Can’t you just hire a better lawyer?”

  “That’s already been tried.”

  “What if you don’t get the prisoner? Will you kill me then?”

  “No.”

  “How can I believe you?”

  “We’ll let you go whether the attempt works or not.”

  “But now I know what you look like,” I said, panicking again. My fear was like sea waves, receding for a few seconds, then surging through me with renewed force.

  “There are over six billion people on the planet. I’m sure many of them look like me.”

  “I guess it’s good you don’t have six fingers,” I said, trying to ride the wave.

  “I’m glad you’re keeping your sense of humor,” he said. “Would you like some wine?”

  He stared at me and I stared back. It was as if we were two predatory animals, sizing each other up in some life-and-death contest. “How come you trust me with a glass bottle?” I asked.

  “I like to live dangerously,” he said, and
I felt ridiculous. Now that he was here, a real live person rather than an imagined figure, the possibility of breaking a glass bottle over his head or attacking him with a fork seemed as farfetched as digging my way out of this place with a spoon.

  In any case, the door was locked with a combination lock. Very clever! I couldn’t escape, even if I knocked him out.

  “Why are you giving me this food, and the wine?”

  “There’s no reason for you to suffer more than necessary.”

  “Then let me go!”

  “Freeing my friend is more important.”

  “Are you terrorists?” I asked recklessly.

  “No. Not terrorists and not any other euphemisms that are used.”

  Euphemisms … he was smart. That was a good thing—you could reason with a smart person, you could make them see things from different angles. On the other hand, a person could easily be intelligent and cruel; the most sadistic girl in our school, Rik, was a top honor student. “I thought …” I muttered.

  “Yes, it’s the obvious conclusion to draw these days. But no, I’m not a terrorist of any kind.”

  “But if you were … I mean … would you admit it—would you use that word, I mean, does anyone say, ‘I’m a terrorist’?”

  “What I mean is that I don’t believe in killing civilians to make some point.”

  Civilians. Wasn’t that something a military person would say? Ordinary people didn’t divide the world into civilians and non-civilians. “Are you British?” I asked.

  “The less you know about me, the better for everyone.” Since I had not answered his question about the wine, he opened the bottle and filled the two glasses.

  “I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to think,” I said frantically. It made no sense to turn to him for direction, but there was no one else.

  “It will be better for everyone if you accept the situation. We can both try to make the best of it.”

  “I don’t seem to have much choice! Does my mother know I’m okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I write to her?”

  “Yes, but only a few sentences.”

  “You won’t get what you’re asking for. I’m not important enough. If you’d kidnapped someone from the government, that might work. But no one cares about me. What a stupid idea!” I was very angry suddenly.

  “You may be right,” he said in the same even voice. He didn’t seem to care whether I was angry. He didn’t appear to be at all violent or aggressive. But what he’d done—abducting me, holding me here—these things were aggressive. His calm demeanor was only a facade.

  He arranged the food he’d brought on the table.

  “Who prepared all this?”

  “I did.”

  “You cooked it yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where did you learn to cook?”

  “I picked it up.”

  “Are you vegetarian? My friend Angie is.”

  “If there’s something specific you want, let me know.”

  “What’s your name? I mean … you can give me a fake name.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “I’m Chloe,” I said. “But you know that.”

  “Yes.”

  “Poor Angie. She’s going to blame herself. You have no idea how much anguish you’re causing. To my mother … and everyone. Only Mom’s dad won’t know. He has Alzheimer’s.”

  He didn’t answer. He served himself and began to eat. He’d brought the same sort of food: dips, salads. There were some cheese and spinach pastries too, and peach pie and vanilla pudding and a loaf of homemade bread.

  I sat down at the table but I didn’t join him.

  “Why should I eat with you?” I said. “You’re not my friend. Did you threaten to kill me?”

  “Yes.”

  “But it’s just a bluff.”

  “Yes.”

  “Or you might be lying to me, so I won’t panic. You might shoot me and film it on video, like they do in Iraq.”

  “I’m not going to shoot you. And we are not in Iraq.”

  “Well, that’s one country down, a hundred and ninety to go. Though I guess I can rule out Iceland too.” I realized I was chatting with him as if we were in geography class and he wouldn’t give me the answer to question B. It was loneliness.

  He didn’t smile, but he seemed amused—I could tell by his shoulders, somehow, and by the slight tilt of his head. Maybe he was amused by my practical side, the side Angie sometimes found so annoying.

  “We must be near the equator,” I said, leaning back in the chair. “Or you wouldn’t have installed an air-conditioner.”

  “Yes, you can also rule out Greenland,” he said, without smiling. I was somewhat disconcerted by how expressionless and immobile his face was. It could have been scary, but his eyes at least were clever and full of life. He looked at me intently, as if he were trying to see me as clearly as possible, or maybe as if he already saw me more clearly than I supposed.

  “I guess I have to believe you. I guess I want to believe you. You don’t look like the type to shoot an innocent person, but looks can be deceiving.”

  “That’s true.”

  “If you kill me, will you do it fast?”

  “I told you, no one is going to kill you.”

  “I don’t want to die.”

  “Most people don’t want to die.”

  “I’ve only just started my life.”

  “Yes.”

  “But I’ve seen you,” I repeated.

  “Brown hair, brown eyes, six-foot-two—that will narrow it down,” he said.

  “If you’d kidnapped my friend Angie, she’d be able to draw you.”

  “That would be bad luck.”

  I took a sip of wine and studied his face. Nothing about him seemed desperate or wild. He appeared to be about twenty-seven or twenty-eight. His eyes weren’t brown, as he’d said, but it was hard to tell what color they were. I tried not to relate to his good looks. It seemed to me dangerous to even notice that he was attractive; I didn’t want anything like that to cloud my vision or affect my judgment.

  He stared at me in a way I wasn’t used to, but I knew that might have more to do with culture than with personal idiosyncrasy. I’d noticed that in Greece people looked at the person they were addressing more directly than we did. I was interested in things like that—I even thought I might study anthropology when I went to university.

  Of course, maybe he wasn’t Greek at all. I was never much good at guessing anyone’s race or background.

  “You’re a very serious sort of person,” I said.

  He looked at me but didn’t answer for a change. I didn’t avoid his gaze. I looked right back at him.

  “Your idea won’t work, you know. If the government gave in, everyone would try it. Everyone would take hostages, it would get completely out of control. Our prisons would empty out within weeks!”

  “You have a point,” he said, and I wondered whether he was humoring me. It was impossible to tell from his tone of voice.

  “What you’re doing isn’t right. I’ve never done anything to you. Why would you make me suffer like this?”

  “You’re right, it’s not fair to you.”

  “Well, I’m glad I’m not a sex slave at least. I thought some pervert may have hired you to kidnap me … You’re not interested in me that way either,” I said. It was a disguised question, of course. I needed confirmation.

  “No,” he said. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

  I looked down and shuffled my feet under the table. I felt embarrassed, but I was glad I’d asked.

  “One hour before you need hot water, turn on the boiler. It shuts automatically, so you need to switch it on each time.”

  “I didn’t see any boiler.”

  “It’s next to the shower.”

  “Okay.”

  “If you need anything, let me know.”

  “I guess I’m lucky, relatively speaking. I me
an, you could have been horrible. But you seem nice, actually. Apart from this very stupid idea of yours.” I was no longer afraid of him. It was obvious he wasn’t going to hurt me, no matter what I said. If he was going to kill me, it would be because of what he’d decided, not because of anything I said or did.

  He went on eating, and in spite of my resolution not to join him, I helped myself to a cheese and spinach pastry.

  “I don’t need so much food,” I said.

  “I wasn’t sure what you liked.”

  “Did you give a deadline?”

  “Yes, one month.”

  His answer jolted me back to reality. It was easy to get drawn into his casual style, his informal conversation. Easy to slip into semi-denial and pretend that we were friends, because that was so much more bearable than the truth. I felt cold suddenly, and I shivered. A month! How would I survive?

  “Will you extend it if you don’t get your prisoner back by then?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re in charge of my life now.”

  I waited for him to sip the wine before I drank from my glass. “You’re my food taster,” I said. “This way I know it’s not spiked.”

  “I’m sorry you’re having all these fears,” he said.

  “Not sorry enough,” I mumbled.

  He tilted his head, and I felt again that he was amused.

  When he’d finished eating, he washed his dishes in the bathroom sink and carried them back to the table. He said, “I brought you a hot plate in case you want tea. It needs to be unplugged when you’re not using it.”

  “Thank you,” I said without thinking and immediately felt stupid. Why was I thanking my jailer? But he seemed not to have heard and I wondered whether I’d actually spoken or just thought I had.

  He reached into one of the plastic bags, pulled out a large piece of black cloth, and slung it over the saloon doors. It reached the floor, and I wondered whether he was trying to provide me with more privacy. But I was on the wrong track. He took a camera out of his pocket—my camera.