Cross Country (26 page)

T
HERE WAS A damp cloth over my face, some kind of a hood that reeked of rubbing alcohol. Then I was being pulled to my feet. I'd been unconscious, but I didn't know for how long.

"Put your hands flat against the wall and spread your legs. Stay just like that. Don't move, or you'll be shot."

"Where's my family? Where the hell are they? Who are you?"

Instead of an answer to the question, I heard an amplified whirring sound in the room.

"Stay just like that — or you die right here and now. Then you'll never know about your family. Never is a long time, Dr. Cross. Think about it."

I thought about other things first. Who had grabbed me off the street in Southeast and was holding me now?

Could it be another Tiger? Somebody else from Nigeria?

The voice didn't sound like it. No accent. American. Could it be the CIA?

"Where's my family?" I asked again.

No one answered, and I stayed there with my hands tied and held flat against the wall over my head. I knew this particular kind of torture had a name, wall-standing. I was also made to wear a hood and was subjected to loud noise and sleep deprivation. I'd heard about these torture techniques before. Now I was the victim.

No one answered any of my questions, and I wondered if I was alone. Was I delirious? Was I dreaming all this?

My hands went numb first.

Then I could feel pins and needles stinging my ankles and feet. Then shooting pains moving up and down my legs.

My head began to swim and I thought I was going to pass out.

"I have to pee," I said. "I have to go."

No answer.

I held it as long as I could, then let go down my legs, over my bare feet. No one reacted. Was anyone there? Was I alone now?

Wall-standing. Some American government officials had said that it was okay to use techniques like this on suspected terrorists.

Was I a terror suspect? What had I done to deserve this? Who was torturing me?

My hands were completely numb and I badly wanted to sleep. I could think of little else and would have given anything just to lie down on the floor. I couldn't give in, though.

Wall-standing. I can do this.

I thought about stepping away from the wall and what the consequences might be. I held internal debates with myself. They wouldn't kill me, would they? What would be the point of it?

Finally, I turned my body so that only one hand was on the wall. Did that count? Was it a violation of the rules?

Immediately I was kicked hard behind the knees! I went down hard on the floor. Cold to the touch. A bed — finally!

But I was yanked right back up and thrown hard against the wall. Still, no one spoke. But I assumed the position. Not just my legs were trembling now. Everything was — my entire body was shaking terribly.

Who else was with me in the room?

What did they want from me?

T
HEN I WAS talking to Jannie. I was hugging her, and I was so happy that she was all right. "Where's Ali? Where's Nana?" I asked in an excited whisper. "Are you okay, sweetheart?"

It was only me.

I had the sense that I was in the second day of captivity, Or may be the third day. Suddenly I was startled as someone pulled the cloth hood up around my nose, still keeping my eyes in darkness.

"What?" I muttered. "Who are you?" As I spoke, I realized how dry my lips and mouth were.

I was given water, which splashed from somewhere, maybe a bottle, pouring down my throat and all over my face.

"Don't be greedy, now," someone said and snickered. A captor with a cruel sense of humor. "Eat this! Slowly. Don't make yourself choke."

I was fed three crackers, one right after the other. I didn't choke, but I was afraid I was going to throw them up as fast as I'd eaten them.

"Water?" I asked. "More water, please?" My throat was tightening up again.

There was a long pause, but then the bottle was returned to my lips. Once more, I drank greedily.

"Too fast," someone said. "You'll cramp up. Don't want you to be uncomfortable."

Then I was pushed into position again.

Wall-standing.

S
OMETIME AFTER THAT, I began to seriously hallucinate and I wondered if there was something in the water, or maybe even the crackers I'd eaten.

I was struck hard in the back — and I fell to my knees again.

"You were dreaming — asleep on your feet. That's not allowed, hotshot."

"Sorry."

"Of course you are. Now, would you like this to stop? Would you like to sleep? I'll bet that you would."

More than anything I've ever wanted in my life.

"Where—?" I began to say.

"Right — Where is your fucking family? You're nothing if not consistent, or is it stubborn? Or stupid? Now, listen to me closely. I will let you sleep. I will give you closure about your family… Are you with me so far?… Are you following what I'm saying?"

"Yes."

"Yes what? Tell me what you are agreeing to."

"You'll tell me about my family. Let me sleep."

"Provided that what?"

I don't attack and kill you, you sonofabitch. Where there's a will…

"Provided I answer your questions."

"Very good. Would you like more water, hotshot?"

"Yes."

The cloth hood was lifted halfway and the water bottle was returned to my lips. I drank as much as I wanted to, but then there was silence. It frightened the hell out of me. Had he gone away? The one who knew what had happened to my family? The one who had actually talked to me for a minute or so.

"I saw terrible things in Africa, especially in Sudan," I said. "I don't think any of that interests you. A family — the Tansis — were murdered. In Lagos. Maybe because they were talking to me. Or because of what Adanne wrote in the newspaper. You can get her articles."

"Are you there? You wanted me to talk, right? Are you listening now? Anyway, Adanne Tansi and I were taken to a prison," I continued. "She was murdered there. I saw it happen. The Tiger killed her. I don't know who the other men holding us were. I don't know who the hell you are!"

"Before we got to the prison, Adanne told me about a long piece she was writing — it was to appear in the London
Guardian
… the
Guardian
. Maybe some other papers. I'm not sure. She had learned that the United States might be manipulating factions in the Delta… to ensure the oil fields would stay in the right hands. Adanne had tapes of interviews. They were taken from her. Whoever captured us must have them now. You have the tapes, don't you?"

I stopped talking and waited for an answer, any kind of response.

But no one said anything. That was the technique — and guess what? It worked. I kept talking.

"Adanne told me the man known as the Tiger was also being paid by our government. I don't know if that's true. You probably know, don't you?"

I stopped again, then went on. "By the CIA, maybe. The oil companies? By someone from here. Adanne wrote that, and she told another writer, named Ellie Cox. She was killed because of what she knew. That's what I know. That's what Adanne found out. That's all of it."

I stopped again. There was still no response, not a word from the interrogator.

I waited.

I waited.

I waited.

Y
OU THINK YOU know what's going to happen in life. But you never do. And usually the surprises aren't good ones either.

Hours after I was interrogated, I heard footsteps in the room where I was being kept. More than one person. At least two.

I pulled myself away from the wall and moved forward. I stumbled and fell to my knees. I pushed myself back up and somebody grabbed my arm.

"Fucker can't even walk by himself."

I heard a door being slid open and then I felt cool air hit my face. I was pulled forward and then shoved inside some kind of van or truck.

"Let's go!" said someone in the front. "We don't have much time for this."

For what?

What was happening now?

I had no idea where I was going now, but I knew the chances were good that I was going to die. At certain times in the past, I'd been pleasantly surprised that I'd lasted as long as I had. Still, it felt unreal that I would probably die in the next few minutes. I prayed for my family; and then I said a prayer for myself.

Good, moderately lapsed Christian that I am, I even said a prayer of contrition.

Then the van pulled to a stop. This was it. "End of the line!" I heard one of the bastards say.

I was pushed out and landed hard on the street, and then I heard the vehicle drive away, gravel crunching under spinning tires.

I crawled up and over a curb and then just lay there, partly on grass, partly on a sidewalk or walkway.

They hadn't killed me.

I was still alive.

Finally — I slept.

T
HEN I WAS awake; at least I thought I was.

"Why are your hands tied? What happened to you?" he asked next.

"I'm Alex Cross. I'm a detective with Major Crimes — I was kidnapped."

He had the hood all the way off now, but I couldn't see much of anything yet, not even his face. My eyes were slow to adjust to the light — to the streetlights mostly. It was dark outside. Night.

"Yes, sir, Detective Cross. We've all been looking for you," patrolman Maise said. "Let me call it in."

"How long… you been looking?"

"Three days."

Finally, I could see his face, which showed concern but also surprise. He had found me. I was alive. I'd been missing for three days.

"Can you get these binds off?" I asked.

"I'll call it in first. Then I'll get the ropes off you."

"No press," I told him.

"Of course not. Why would I call the press?" the patrolman asked.

"I don't know," I said. "I guess I'm not thinking straight yet."

I
WAS TAKEN home by Officer Maise. The house on Fifth Street was dark and obviously empty. Bree had been staying with us off and on, but she had kept her place, so I figured she was at her apartment tonight. Why would she stay here by herself?

No, I guess I was remembering.

The kitchen had been cleaned up since the last time I'd been there. Probably Bree had done it.

Now it was neat, as if nobody lived here.

I continued walking from room to room, everything quiet, and I felt unbearably sad. I turned on lights as I went, feeling like a visitor in my own house. Nothing about my life felt right, or even real. The world had become such a cruel, unsafe place. How had it happened?

How much blame should America take, and did accepting blame really help anybody? Wasn't it time to stop offering criticism and start providing solutions? It was easy to be a critic; it took no imagination. Problem solving was the bitch.

I finally made it up to my office in the attic, and I sat at my desk, looking down on the street, wondering if there was anyone out there watching me.

Had the interrogators believed me? Did it matter? It struck me that I didn't really know that much about the world, the larger picture, anyway. But who did these days?

None of us, maybe. That's what made it so daunting and scary — and took away hope too. That's what gave us a feeling that everything was out of our control. So who was in control? Somebody had to be — but who? Somebody had to have some answers. Somebody had just imprisoned and tortured me.

I continued to wander around the house. I needed to call people — Damon, who I hoped was still safely stashed away, and Bree and Sampson. But I couldn't make the calls yet. I didn't know what to tell any of them, or how to face them.

No, that wasn't it exactly. The truth was, I didn't want to put them in danger. Somebody out there might still think that I knew something, something dangerous and important, or maybe just embarrassing to them.

And the really scary part?

They were right.