Held (6 page)

“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 mean, 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.

“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.