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  “I need a photo of you, please. If you could sit in front of the door.”

  “And if I refuse?” I asked, just to see what he’d say.

  “No pizza.”

  This time his flippancy made me angry. It was as if he thought this was all some sort of game. As if he had no idea how much suffering he was causing my mom and grandparents, or how much he’d terrified me. A huge wave of hatred came over me, and I wanted to punch him. I forced myself not to give in to my fury. I sat cross-legged on the floor, with the black cloth behind me.

  “Just sit up a little, please, maybe on your knees—you’re too low.”

  Trying to control my voice, I asked, “Is this photo for the newspapers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you take a few, so I can choose the best one?” I didn’t want him to send out a photo that looked too sad. I wanted Mom to know that I was all right, and I did my best to smile into the camera.

  “Don’t smile, please.”

  Not being allowed to smile made me even angrier, if that was possible. I took a deep breath, shut my eyes for a second, and concentrated on the message I wanted to send Mom and my friends. I wanted to say so much through the photo—tell Mom I loved her, tell everyone not to worry.

  He took five shots and handed me the camera. I looked at all the photos and chose the one that seemed least frightened. I had tried not to look scared at all, but I didn’t succeed.

  “I’m probably the first kidnapped person in history who got to choose her photo,” I said.

  “While I’m gone, you can make a list of things you need. Is there anything urgent, before I go?”

  The thought of being left alone again was suddenly frightening. “Don’t go yet. I don’t like being alone here.”

  He considered for a moment. Then he said, “I’ll return in a minute.”

  He undid the combination lock and stepped out. He shut the door, but I noticed that he didn’t lock it. I could hardly believe it—this was my chance. I hadn’t had to plan it at all.

  CHAPTER 7

  I threw my body against the door and began to run. There was a tall aluminum fence on my right and a forest straight ahead, only twenty feet or so from the door. I dashed toward it and began weaving as fast as I could through the trees.

  I heard the man running behind me. The ground was uneven and branches kept getting in my way and slowing me down. I hadn’t gone very far when he grabbed my arm.

  I tried to kick him, but he moved aside in time. I tried again, this time using my arms as well. To my disappointment, he knew as much karate as I did, probably more. And he was stronger. In a few seconds he had maneuvered me so that I was lying on the ground on my stomach, the side of my face flat against the earth and dry grass. He had my arms in a clasp behind me.

  “Let’s go back,” he said evenly, as though we’d gone out for a pleasant stroll together.

  He let go and I sat up, breathing heavily, my heart pounding. “I think I twisted my ankle,” I lied, just to buy time.

  He saw right through me, of course. He said, “If your ankle hurts you can lean on me.”

  I wondered why he wasn’t dragging me back. Maybe he was afraid of attracting attention, in case someone saw us.

  “I need to catch my breath,” I said, still hoping to buy time, or at least enjoy the cool forest air for a few more seconds. Maybe I’d be lucky and someone would show up.

  “No,” he said. “We have to go back.”

  I sighed and got up. At least I knew now that he wasn’t violent. He could have hurt me when we fought, but he didn’t. Even when he twisted my arm behind my back, it was only to hold me down.

  “Small mercies,” I mumbled, not expecting him to understand or even hear me.

  But he said, “The approach of an optimist.”

  As we came out of the forest I tried to take in as much as I could of my surroundings. The tall aluminum fence, now on my left, extended from the warehouse to the forest and blocked the view on that side completely. On the other side, facing the fence, was the back wall of what seemed to be another massive warehouse. A second fence created a narrow alley between the two buildings. I wondered whether we were in some sort of industrial park or compound.

  My mistake had been to run in the direction of the forest. I decided to make a second dash for it. This time I’d run down the alley toward the entrance of the compound. There was bound to be a road at the end of it.

  But he anticipated my move. He caught me at once, slung me over his shoulder, and carried me back to the warehouse. I felt small and insignificant on his shoulder. I pounded his back and yelled, “Help! Help me!” But there was no one around. He stepped into the warehouse and let me down.

  I was sure he’d leave now. He went out and locked the door this time. But after a few seconds he returned with a briefcase.

  “I hate this. I hate you,” I blurted out. I regretted it right away—I couldn’t afford to alienate the person who was in charge of my food, my conditions, my life.

  But he replied evenly, “No one likes to be imprisoned.”

  I thought again of the Patty Hearst movie. I was luckier than her—so far, at least. I wasn’t blindfolded in a small closet with people hammering on the walls; a deluded egomaniac wasn’t trying to convert and seduce me.

  “I saw a movie about Patty Hearst once,” I said. “On late-night TV. Have you seen it?”

  “I saw a documentary about her.”

  “No, this was a real movie.”

  “I’m not familiar with it.”

  “At least I’m not getting brainwashed.”

  He didn’t answer. He sat at the table, unlocked his briefcase, and took out several books. He pulled the standing lamp closer to the table and began to read and make notes. He seemed to be doing research or writing an essay. As far as I could see, the books were in English, but I couldn’t make out any of the titles.

  I wondered whether he was a university student, and whether during the day he attended classes. No one would know he was a hostage-taker—like students who went to Ivy League universities during the day and worked as call girls at night. I sat down on the bed and hugged my knees.

  “It’s a warm evening,” I said.

  He looked up at me. “Yes, dusk is my favorite time of day.”

  I felt he was offering me a gift by making this personal comment, but the gift made me resentful. Why should I be grateful to him for being friendly? He had locked me up in a warehouse, he was traumatizing my poor mother, he had terrified me.

  It bothered me that I had to remind myself who he was. He kept trying to make me forget.

  Maybe he wasn’t all that different from Patty Hearst’s abductors after all. Maybe his methods were just more subtle. First step: make the kidnapped person forget that what you’ve done is wrong.

  Well, I wasn’t going to forget. Nor was I going to get brainwashed. No one could change who I was and what I believed in. At least I had that.

  “How can you send the photo to the press? They’ll track down the computer. Oh! Why did I tell you that!”

  He looked up. “Yes, you should have kept that to yourself,” he said, teasing me.

  I was too angry to answer. I opened one of the new notebooks and wrote Mom a letter:

  Dear Mom, I’m okay. I have everything I need and I’m being treated well so don’t worry. I have a shower and hot water, and lots of food. I’m not allowed to say anything about the people who took me hostage, but I have books and anything else I want, and I’ll try to spend the time productively. I love you. Give Pumpkin a big hug and don’t worry because as you always say, everything will work out. Please check the vet calendar for Pumpkin’s shots. Love to Oma and Opa and all my friends and tell Angie it wasn’t her fault. Don’t worry! I love you and miss you, Chloe.

  I tore out the page and handed it to my hostage-taker.

  “It’s mostly okay,” he said. “Just take out the information about the food and the books, and the words and anything else
I want. Also take out that you’re going to spend the time usefully. You can keep everything else.”

  “You want people to think I’m suffering.”

  “Yes.”

  I didn’t think I could be any angrier than I already was, but my rage rose to a whole new level. I was furious that I had to do what he told me to, furious that he wanted to hurt my mom, furious that I couldn’t reassure her. I was so angry my hand began to shake.

  I was afraid that if my hand shook, Mom would think I was writing at gunpoint or that I was lying in order to make her feel better.

  “I’m too angry to write steadily,” I said.

  “It’s better for you, too, not to give more information. No one would believe you anyhow. It’s more credible if you keep it simple.”

  I didn’t say anything, though I had to admit he had a point. I took a few breaths, focused on mind control, and rewrote the letter. I changed the part he told me to change. I wrote instead: I’m not allowed to say anything about the people who took me hostage, but I’m all right.

  “Much better,” he said. He slid the letter into his briefcase and continued working.

  I noticed that he was wearing a watch on his right wrist, and I decided to ask for my watch back, or for a clock. Knowing what time it was would help me orient myself. I wanted to ask him why he took away my watch in the first place, but I was afraid that if I made a nuisance of myself he’d leave.

  Instead, I worked on my list. I didn’t know how many things to ask for. The group he belonged to obviously had a lot of money, but if I asked for too much, I wouldn’t get what I most wanted.

  I finally narrowed my list down to the things I needed in order to keep my sanity.

  clock or watch

  mat for exercising (two or three if possible)

  magazines and newspapers—all kinds

  music—all kinds

  DVD player or laptop and movies

  tennis racket and ball

  hairbrush

  woman’s razor and foam OR electric

  hand soap for sensitive skin

  skin lotion

  box of tissues

  decent shampoo and conditioner

  panties (2) and pair of cotton socks

  nail file

  book for learning Italian or German

  more towels

  flip-flops or slippers

  crossword puzzles, dictionary, playing cards

  I’d never been interested in crossword puzzles, but I figured it would be something to do. I wasn’t really into cards either. I only knew one version of solitaire, but maybe I could play poker or blackjack with my hostage-taker. I had to take Italian or German in my last year, so I could try to get a head start on that. At least I’d have the illusion that I’d be going home eventually.

  In fact I no longer believed that I’d be killed for the simple reason that I couldn’t maintain that degree of fear. It was too hard. I had to believe that I’d make it through this.

  When I finished the list, I made a calendar. I wasn’t sure whether it was Wednesday or Thursday, but I took a guess and went from there.

  I shut the notebook and leaned back against the wall. I would have done anything for a phone—preferably an iPhone. It was agony not to be able to email or text or talk to somebody. It was the worst part of my situation, apart from not knowing my future.

  I watched my hostage-taker as he worked. He was reading several books at once, looking for passages, and making notes. I wondered what the topic was. Politics, probably. How to take hostages …

  I tried to read too, but I couldn’t concentrate. It was hard, sitting there in the spooky silence, not saying a word. Finally I asked, “Are you looking up recipes?”

  He looked at me and tilted his head, but his expression didn’t change. He checked his watch, then he pressed his eyes with the palms of his hands. “I have to go now,” he said. “I’ll be back tomorrow evening.”

  “I guess hostage-taking is tiring.”

  He didn’t answer. He put his books and papers away and clicked his briefcase shut.

  I handed him my list.

  “I’ll see what I can manage,” he said, looking it over.

  “Why did you take my watch?”

  “So you wouldn’t know how much time had passed.”

  I wondered why he was being so open with me. Maybe it was a strategy. Maybe everything he did was a strategy: the joking, the good food, the wine.

  “Your eyes aren’t exactly brown,” I said, trying to keep him from leaving.

  He pretended not to hear me. Without saying goodbye, he undid the combination lock and left. I suddenly remembered that I’d forgotten to ask for pajamas, and I pounded on the door and called out to him, but it was too late. He was gone.

  Angie Shaw Thanks for all the comments, everyone. It really helps to know so many people are supporting Chloe. Don’t forget to join the Free Chloe Campaign—there’s a fundraiser in the works and we need all the help we can get spreading the word. It’s so hard not to know anything about what’s happening to her, where she is, how they’re treating her, the imagination starts going and there’s no end to it. I lie in bed awake thinking thinking thinking, feeling so helpless. Going over the last day, which is really pointless but I can’t help it. Wishing I’d gone with her … Anyhow, as far as the demands, nothing is really confirmed, but it seems they, I mean the guys holding Chloe (it freaks me out to call them terrorists)—anyhow, it seems they have a thing against this public prosecutor Lawrence “the horror” Mayfair-Horrick, known to be a bigot, very controversial. According to rumors they want two releases, two retrials, nine parole reviews, and twenty-one prisoner transfers—all are guys this Mayfair-Horrick person prosecuted. Meanwhile he’s recovering from bypass surgery after consuming nothing but pork, bacon, and ham since he was around three months old. Says he doesn’t care less what the gov’t does. PLEASE BE OK CHLOE.

  32 minutes ago Comment Like Wall-to-wall

  Jeanette Persky Why aren’t we getting all the details???

  28 minutes ago Comment Like Wall-to-wall

  Matthias Santiago They (the guys on top) are probably having frantic meetings about what to do. If it was a pure exchange it would be simpler, there’s a policy and they’d just stick to it and say no way josé, especially if the prisoner’s a lifer or on death row. But this is more complicated, harder to say no and a lot of pressure from all sorts of lobby groups and people who hate this Mayfair-Horrick guy regardless. The question is: can the AG review the cases and file a request with the court of appeal if the appeal time limit has passed? Ditto for parole review. So that might be a problem, I don’t know if it’s written in stone. That’s why I think what the Chloe campaign is doing is good—hire lawyers and see if it can all be done quasi-legitimately to start off with.

  15 minutes ago Comment Like Wall-to-wall

  Angie Shaw The main thing is not to forget about her! I’m so glad she’s still in the news—though some of those tabloids, have you seen them??? There is NO WAY they can know that Chloe’s been tortured or anything else!! She sounded okay in her letter, I think she’s okay. I notice my art has changed completely btw, in Greece it was all stone and sand and light and now there’s this wild, slashing thing going on. Don’t worry it’s just on canvas! I love you all, your support is so amazing. We’ll have a huge party when she gets back—it will happen. How about this for our slogan—“Chloe Come Home”? I’ll post it on the Free Chloe Campaign site and ask for votes. What do you think?

  2 minutes ago Comment Like Wall-to-wall

  CHAPTER 8

  I didn’t fall asleep right away. I wondered whether he was lying about everything. I thought about his expressionless face, his cool and casual voice. His impassivity was not entirely reassuring: he didn’t give anything away. He may have been putting on an act for me, pretending to be considerate and concerned. Sorry for the inconvenience! Yes, sorry for terrorizing you and your family and friends. Sorry for locking you up. Sorry for thre
atening to kill you and making you think you were a sex slave. Sorry.

  Could I rely on the fact that he didn’t look or act like an insane criminal? People who seemed polite and harmless sometimes ended up being serial killers—and after all, he’d done all this. He’d put me here. Not only that: he’d done it in a very careful and calculated way. Every detail had been planned in advance. He was extremely intelligent, and that also meant that he could be an excellent liar.

  I finally sank into a deep, dreamless sleep, and I woke up feeling a little better. I decided to make the best of the situation, find a way to make it bearable.

  I turned on the boiler and had a shower. The hot water was soothing, and I even sang to myself—I was desperate for music.

  After the shower I exercised. I revived some old gymnastics moves and then moved on to aerobics. I didn’t bother with karate.

  I’d finished exercising and was trying to decide whether to have a second bowl of vanilla pudding when there was a loud pounding on the door.

  I froze. The pounding scared me. It didn’t sound like the man from the day before. He wouldn’t pound on the door, he’d knock. Besides, he wasn’t due back until evening. There were a few more loud bangs and then I heard a terrifying male voice: “I am coming in. Put on your blindfold or I’ll shoot you.”

  “Wait! Wait!” I called out. I was right, it had all been a lie. It had all been an act. How could I have let myself be taken in?

  I looked around frantically for the blindfold. Then I remembered that I’d put it inside my knapsack. I emptied the knapsack on the bed and desperately rummaged through everything, but it wasn’t there. The hammering on the door continued, and my heart seemed to be hammering just as hard. I felt around inside the knapsack and to my relief I found the blindfold at the very bottom. Everything seemed to be taking ten times longer than it would normally and my fingers were so stiff I could barely make a knot. I wondered whether this was the end for me. Or worse.