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  “Okay!” I said as loudly as I could without sounding aggressive. I didn’t want to make the man angrier than he already was.

  The door flew open and I heard someone charging into the warehouse. I could see his shoes through my blindfold—old, dirty sneakers with laces.

  “American whore,” he said in a hollow, raspy voice that sounded as if he’d been up for several nights drinking, and was possibly still drunk, though I didn’t smell any alcohol. He had an accent, but it was different from the other man’s.

  I knew at once that I was in trouble. I’d been right, they were terrorists. They hated me, and they were going to kill me, though maybe not right away. Maybe they would torture me first.

  I began to sob hysterically, though I tried to control myself. I wanted to be in control so I could at least make an effort to overcome him. Should I rip off my blindfold and try my karate on him? Maybe he wasn’t as good at fighting as the other man.

  But I was too frightened to do anything and a second later it was too late. My wrists were tied behind my back. “Please,” I said. “I haven’t done anything. I’m not even old enough to vote,” I added inanely, as if I could reason with him.

  How to have fun with a hostage: Bring hostage to knees. Dunk her head in a pail of water until she’s convinced she’s drowning. Let up for air. Repeat as often as desired, until sadistic urges subside. Leave hostage lying on floor. Don’t forget to kick the pail, so the water spills everywhere.

  I would like to forget what happened, or at least for the memory to fade, but instead I can recall every tiny detail in its exact sequence, as if my brain had turned into some kind of video recorder. The only thing I can’t know is how long he was there—was it ten minutes? Half an hour? An hour? Everything else, everything I thought and felt, is weirdly vivid. I remember the smell of the metal pail, the piercing pain of its rusty edges on my throat, my eyes burning under the soaking blindfold.

  I was sure I was going to die. I wanted to talk, to answer the man’s hollow shouts and accusations, to explain things to him, but I couldn’t even breathe. It was as if ten different types of pain had invaded me. The worst was a blackout pain at the back of my eyes. I couldn’t help swallowing the dirty water, which tasted of some horrible cleanser, and I thought, If I don’t die of drowning I’ll die of poisoning.

  For some reason I remembered some TV show about sadistic parents who dunked their kid’s head in the sink as a punishment. And about how sadists justify themselves. How all sadists justify themselves in the same way. No matter what people do, no matter how horrible it is, they can invent a reason—or several reasons—to explain why it’s right and good to do what they did. I even had a flash of the five major justifications that had appeared on the screen in point form. I had no choice. They deserved it. Everyone does it. I’m a hero for doing what I believe in. I couldn’t remember the fifth one.

  The man was weak. I could tell by the way he pushed me that he was physically weak, even frail. Had I not panicked, had I taken off my blindfold and rushed at him, I would have been able to knock him out, even if he had a weapon. I could have disarmed him if I’d acted fast. But by the time I realized he was weak, whether naturally or because he was drunk or on drugs, I was even weaker than him. Every bit of energy I had was concentrated on trying to breathe.

  He had his fun and then he left. I was alive after all, but maybe that was only because he wasn’t through. Maybe he’d be back to finish the job later.

  I lay on the wet floor, unable to move. I was coughing and gasping and my head felt as if it had smashed into a hard object. I lifted the wet blindfold from my eyes and tried to get up so I could shower, but the room began to spin and I passed out instead.

  I don’t know how long I lay there. At some point I became aware of warm air in my mouth, and I began to cough.

  I was wrapped in the army blanket and my feet were raised on a pillow. The man from the day before was blowing air into my lungs.

  I watched myself from a great distance. I felt completely detached, as if nothing could possibly affect me.

  I became aware that my fingers were frozen stiff. I couldn’t move them at all. But it didn’t worry me. Nothing did.

  “I’m hot,” I said, trying to pull away from the blanket.

  “It’s better if you stay warm.”

  “I’m too hot.”

  He loosened the blanket. “Do you think you can drink some water?”

  “I can’t move my hands.”

  “I’ll hold the bottle for you.” He held my head up slightly with one hand and with the other he brought the water bottle to my mouth. Then he held my wrist and checked my pulse.

  “I want to go home,” I said. “I want my mom. Mommy, Mommy.” I knew I sounded like a small child but that was exactly how I felt—small and helpless.

  “It’s not a good idea to move. You’ll pass out again.” I saw now that he was furious. I felt it in his body and I heard it in his voice, though he was trying to conceal it.

  I became aware of an unpleasant smell and I realized, to my horror, that the smell was coming from me. I’d wet my pants.

  “I have to wash. I have to wash,” I said. Hearing the frantic pitch of my own voice made me realize that I was on the brink of hysteria.

  “Please try to relax. It would be better to wait.”

  “No, I need to wash,” I insisted. “I need to wash now.”

  “I can do it for you if you allow me.”

  Allow—as if I had a choice. But I only nodded. It was too much effort to speak.

  He wet a towel and wiped my face. Then, without warning, I threw up on everything—the floor, his arm, the blanket. I had just enough time to twist sideways. It was beyond horrible.

  “It’s okay,” he said. He was very upset. He placed his hand on my forehead, as if checking for fever. It felt so good, having that reassurance, and he must have sensed how consoling it was for me because he left his hand there longer than he needed to. Almost instinctively he drew my hair back and I felt he wanted to stroke my hair to soothe me, but he stopped himself.

  I shut my eyes as he cleaned the mess. I didn’t care at all about being exposed in front of him. I was in too much pain to care, and too detached. If anything, I hoped he was disgusted. I hoped he was sickened and disgusted and embarrassed.

  But probably neither of us cared. There were new rules in place now.

  My throat was burning, and I remembered that I’d swallowed cleanser. “I’ve been poisoned, I’ve been poisoned!” I began to scream.

  “Please try to calm down.”

  “There was cleanser in the water. In the pail. And I swallowed it.”

  “It was only dishwashing soap in there, and I don’t think all that much. You’ll be okay.” I felt him trying to control his anger as he spoke. He wasn’t steady or calm now.

  I wanted to believe him. I shut my eyes and moaned. “I can’t move my hands,” I said.

  He began to massage my fingers. I felt a great wave of misery coming over him, replacing the anger.

  The massage worked. One by one, my fingers relaxed. “I’m ready for bed now,” I muttered. “I need to get these jeans off.” I began to pull at the jeans, but they clung to my legs. “Help me, please,” I said. I pushed my jeans and panties off under the blanket while he pulled at the legs. “Okay, I’m ready for bed,” I told him.

  “I’ll carry you,” he said.

  The blanket fell off as he lifted me. I didn’t care. I was very dizzy and I held on to him. I felt his rage returning as he carried me to the mattress.

  I must have passed out again. When I woke up my head was throbbing.

  “Bathroom,” I groaned.

  “I’ll give you a hand. Maybe you’d like to put on the skirt while your jeans dry?”

  I shook my head. There wasn’t time, and I didn’t have the energy. He wrapped the sheet around me, helped me to the bathroom and left me there. My stomach was grinding away; I had cramps, nausea—I was a mess. I noticed
my jeans hanging on the shower rod.

  When I was back in bed, he said, “You need to keep drinking. Can you manage some more water?”

  I shut my eyes and saw myself hurtling through a tunnel, and at the end of the tunnel was the brutal man, waiting for me.

  “My head hurts,” I moaned.

  “Did you hit your head against something?”

  “Yes, against the heart of darkness, ha ha.”

  He took my wrist and felt my pulse again. He said, “You’re better now. Your color is returning, your pulse rate is almost normal. You’re over the worst, I think. Can you drink a little?”

  “My throat hurts.”

  He looked straight at me and said, “This wasn’t supposed to happen. It will never happen again.”

  A strange thing happened then. I’d heard about people reliving experiences and I thought it meant that you recall the experience vividly. But it isn’t like that. It’s more like a waking dream. You think, feel, and react exactly as you did during the event, as if the event was actually recurring.

  Without warning I sat up as if I’d been startled and began alternately shrieking and whimpering. I was sure I was going to die, I choked and retched and pleaded, I wasn’t in the present at all. Then it was over, and I was aware that my hostage-taker was kneeling behind me with his arms clasped around my waist.

  “Do you want to lie down?” he asked, letting go of me.

  “My throat hurts,” I said. I felt humiliated and ashamed, and I wanted to forget what had just happened.

  “I’ll make tea.” He boiled water on the hot plate and made me sweet tea. I watched him without really understanding what he was doing.

  “I don’t know what that was all about,” I mumbled when he handed me the mug. I didn’t mind that he’d seen me vomit, or that he’d had to wash my urine-soaked jeans, but I was embarrassed that I’d lost control in front of him.

  “You’re very strong,” he replied. “Everyone reacts that way. You’re not an exception.”

  How would you know? I wanted to say. But I was too afraid of him. I could no longer trust him not to hurt me, even if he was being nice now. Who knew what he was capable of, what kind of double personality he had?

  A dreadful thought came to me. Everyone reacts that way—did he mean all the other girls he’d brought to this warehouse? What if the entire prisoner exchange story was invented, what if he was nothing more than a psychotic kidnapper, playacting a role to disguise his real intention?

  Maybe he was delusional, like people who think they’re Napoleon—maybe he thought he was some kind of revolutionary hero, and he was lying about contacting the media. The other guy had to be working for him—how could he not be? Someone gave him the key. Someone who knew what he was like.

  “How do you know everyone reacts that way?” I asked, trying to hide my fear.

  “It’s common knowledge,” he said. “I’ve never taken anyone hostage before, if that’s what you’re wondering. There are no skeletons buried in the backyard.”

  I was suddenly too tired to think. The hot, sweet tea made me drowsy and I wondered vaguely if it was drugged. I didn’t care if it was. I wanted to sleep. “Why were my fingers stiff like that?” I asked.

  “Just stress. How do you feel?”

  “Like a house landed on my head,” I said, my voice barely audible. “Even though I was the good witch.”

  “I’ll get you some painkillers.”

  “Your friend. Your friend,” I said, panicking at the thought of being left alone.

  “I can promise you nothing like this will happen again. I know it’s impossible for you to trust me now. But I don’t even know what went on. And it would help me if you told me, so I can get you what you need.”

  I didn’t answer. I was too wiped out. Instead I took his hand and held it.

  I don’t know why I took his hand. I think I was just desperate. Desperate to have a friend, desperate to believe him. I knew now that I was on the brink of real disaster and that he was the only one standing between me and that disaster. I could have been left on the floor to die. Instead I was in bed drinking tea.

  He pulled his hand away and said, “I think you have a fever. I’ll go get something to bring it down and for your stomach. I’ll return in an hour or so. No one else will come—I’m putting the combination lock on the outside.”

  “I want my teddy bear,” I whispered. I was growing more confused by the minute, and it really did seem to me that he could go upstairs and fetch me my old teddy bear.

  “I’ll be back soon.”

  CHAPTER 9

  He left. I wanted to sleep, but every small noise startled me, even the sound of my own body moving on the mattress. I thought I was in a hospital, then in an ambulance, then on a sofa at home. When I remembered that I was in the warehouse, I was afraid that the brutal man would kill the kinder man and come back. He’d break the combination lock and finish me off. Or else this was just another lie, another part of the game they were playing with me, to drive me crazy. I was so anxious and afraid that when I heard the door opening I nearly jumped out of my skin.

  “It’s me,” he said.

  He was carrying a cardboard box containing linen, towels, and underwear. He set the box down and put the combination lock in place. I never thought I’d be happy to see that door locked.

  He handed me a stuffed monkey, a white T-shirt, and navy sweatpants. “I couldn’t find a bear—I wanted to get back right away,” he said.

  I put on the improvised pajamas. The T-shirt was twice my size, but the sweatpants were a woman’s small.

  I found it strangely comforting that the T-shirt was too big for me; it was as if I were being protected by someone larger and stronger. The sweatpants smelled of lavender and I wondered whether they belonged to the woman who had been on the plane with us.

  My hostage-taker mopped the floor with strong cleanser and opened the door to let in fresh air. “If it’s okay with you, I would also like to check your temperature,” he said.

  “Is this your T-shirt?” I asked.

  “Yes. I brought you some pills for fever and pain, and something for your stomach.”

  He handed me two pills and I swallowed them. I hoped they weren’t arsenic. No, he needs me alive, I thought. He wouldn’t have bought me the monkey. Then I swallowed a teaspoon of something pink from a bottle. He began shaking a thin glass thermometer.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Bringing the mercury down.”

  “Why don’t you have a normal thermometer?” I asked, suddenly afraid again.

  “I have a digital one, but it doesn’t work properly.”

  I slid the thermometer under my tongue. When the minute was up, I squinted at it but couldn’t see anything. “I can’t read it,” I told him.

  He took a look. “Just move it until you get the right light. 103.2. You have to drink more water or you’ll dehydrate.”

  “I want to go home,” I wailed.

  He sat down next to the bed and said, “I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”

  “I can’t sleep,” I told him. “When I shut my eyes I see him. I see him in a tunnel.”

  “Do you want me to read to you?” he asked.

  I nodded. He began reading David Copperfield from where I’d left off, and I fell asleep to the sound of his voice.

  Interview with Allegra Mills

  Allegra talks about the roller coaster of pain and hope that followed the devastating news.

  Allegra Mills was teaching a jazz ballet class at her Happy Sprites Dance School in Chicago when the phone call came. The caller was the father of her daughter’s best friend, Angie Shaw; Allegra’s heart froze at the sound of his voice. Her worst fears were confirmed when Reggie Shaw told her that her daughter, Chloe, had gone missing in Greece. Allegra talks about the roller coaster of pain and hope that followed the devastating news.

  First let me ask you—how are you?

  ALLEGRA: The question has to be, for me, ho
w is Chloe? I don’t have time to think about myself.

  I think everyone is impressed by your strength and the campaigning you’ve been doing. Do you feel you’re improving Chloe’s chances of coming home safely?

  ALLEGRA: Yes, I think our work is crucial in every way.

  It must be hard to read the darker scenarios that are being imagined.

  ALLEGRA: I know people are concerned and concern makes the imagination run riot. My imagination would run riot too, if I let it. But it doesn’t help anyone. Nor does it help to blame anyone.

  I would not be so forgiving of the organizers of the volunteer program.

  ALLEGRA: I can’t waste energy on blaming anyone. The main thing is for people not to forget about Chloe.

  I don’t think there’s any chance of that happening. She sounds like a very special person.

  ALLEGRA: Yes, she is. I’m truly lucky.

  (continued on page 87)

  CHAPTER 10

  I woke up covered in sweat. My T-shirt was clinging to me and the sheets felt as if they’d been immersed in water.

  It was dark out, but my hostage-taker had left the light on in the bathroom and I saw that he was curled up in a sleeping bag at the other end of the warehouse. I wondered whether I should wake him, but as it turned out, I didn’t need to decide. I began to cough, and the sound woke him. He sat up abruptly. He was wearing a white T-shirt, but he quickly pulled on his long-sleeved white shirt and buttoned it.

  “I need a shower,” I said.

  “I’ll turn on the boiler,” he answered. He disappeared into the bathroom, then returned to the bed with a bottle of water.

  “I’m all sweaty,” I said.

  “I’ll change the sheets while you’re in the shower.”

  “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Nearly fourteen hours.”

  When the water had warmed up, I showered, wrapped myself in a clean towel, and came back to bed. It was wonderful being clean again.

  He sat on the edge of the mattress and said, “If you tell me what happened, I can try to figure out what might be wrong with you.”