Held (5 page)

I stared at my reflection for a long time. I was wearing a sleeveless purple top made of soft ribbed cotton and a necklace with a pendant Angie had made for me. I’d had my hair cut before we left for Greece; I’d asked for a choppy wash-and-wear cut that didn’t need much upkeep. Thanks to Dad’s Dutch ancestry, I never lost the blond hair I was born with.

It occurred to me as I gazed at the mirror that I looked stunned. I’d always felt my face wasn’t interesting enough, though Angie told me that was a crazy thing to complain about, and that in fact my eyes were unusually soft, which was probably why people tended to trust me. But all I could see now in my eyes was fear and disbelief. I snapped the mirror shut.

I began to have doubts about attacking my kidnapper right away. He might just respond by killing me immediately. Or he could shoot at me as I ran. Maybe I should pretend to be docile and obedient, and then when he was no longer worried about me, I could plan an escape. As soon as I knew what the routine was, I’d know the best time to do it.
God, please help me
, I prayed.

I sat on the bed, leaned back against the wall, and looked at the three paperbacks they’d left for me:
David Copperfield,
a collection of short stories, a novel about India. I tried to read one of the stories, but I couldn’t concentrate.

I decided to write Angie a letter. I opened the notebook and wrote:

Hi Angie,

So who would have thought our vacation would end with me being kidnapped!! Not the sort of adventure we had in mind … Still, nothing bad has happened yet, and with a bit of luck I’ll be home in a few days and we’ll be laughing about it. Good thing it wasn’t you, there are cockroaches here, you’d go nutso. They don’t bother me, I just pretend they’re the Cockroach Prince instead of the Frog Prince, though I do not intend to catch one and kiss it in order to find out. So the food is good and you’ll be happy to hear all vegetarian. Who has brought me here? That remains to be seen. Maybe the evil queen who wants to be the fairest one of all. Don’t worry, I’m not losing my mind, just remembering all the fairy tales Dad used to read to me, because what’s happening to me is pretty much equally unreal. Lots of love, and whatever you do, don’t blame yourself, you can’t control the universe. Give Pumpkin a kiss and an ear-scratch for me and tell Mom not to worry and try to keep your room in order because I can’t get to you right now to help you find missing beads.

xoxoxoxxoxoxoxoxo

I tore a blank page out of the notebook and folded it into an envelope, which I addressed. For a return address I wrote “Chloe Mills, imprisoned by criminals.” In the corner I drew a little stamp with the Statue of Liberty on it. I’d never really thought about its name before. Liberty: what I no longer had. What I longed for more than anything else.

I slipped the letter through the crack under the door. I did it as a kind of bleak joke, to make myself feel better.

But then I had an idea.

It occurred to me that someone might pass by the warehouse, and I wrote on another sheet of paper
HELP
!
CALL POLICE
! and slid it out as well.

But when I checked a few minutes later, the sheet had blown away. So this time I wrote
TAKEN HOSTAGE IN WAREHOUSE NEAR HERE PLEASE HELP ME
, C
HLOE
M
ILLS
and prayed the sheet would blow away where someone would find it. I tore out all the remaining pages in the notebook and repeated the message—the more pages out there, the better my chances.

At first it made me feel better to send out those messages for help. I prayed for a strong wind and wished they’d left me more than one notebook.

But then, suddenly, I was scared. If no one saw those pages in time to rescue me, the hostage-taker would see them when he returned. He’d be furious with me. And he’d never bring me paper again.

I wanted to take the notes back, but it was too late.

I wondered whether I should risk taking a shower. I was afraid of being in there when my captor arrived, naked and unable to hear anyone coming. But the desire to wash myself won out. I’d simply have to build a barricade.

Luckily, the door to the warehouse opened inwards.

I dragged the table to the door and set the two chairs on top of it. I positioned the chairs as precariously as possible, so that if someone came in while I was in the shower they’d both come crashing down. With a bit of luck I’d have enough time to grab my clothes and get dressed.

The shampoo on the shelf was bland and sticky, and the water was only tepid, but I was grateful for both. I felt better after my shower. Maybe everything would be okay.

The day passed in a haze of fear and boredom. I didn’t have any paper left, so I wrote and doodled in the margins of my guidebook. I began
David Copperfield
—I’d seen a movie version with Daniel Radcliffe, the Harry Potter guy, and scenes came back to me as I read. At first I was discouraged because I didn’t know what a
caul
was and therefore had no idea what the first page was all about, but it turned out not to matter. What came after that page was easy to understand, and it was wonderful to have a distraction from the present.

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.