Two Peasants and a President (3 page)

“Ray?  Ray?  Babe, are you there?” she said again, thinking
, hoping that
perhaps he was nearby, but still unconscious.  “Ray!”
she screamed
, squeezing her fists as if willing him to answer.  Only the distant rumbling of the engine answered her.  “No, Damn it!” she said to herself as another tear trickled downward.
“You will not cry again!”

She began to explore the room around her, on her hands and knees at first, lest she fall over something unseen.  The object she
first
encountered seemed strange and unrecognizable.   Moving her hands over its surface, she
gradually came to understand what it was.  They had placed a folding por
t
able toilet in the room, x-shaped like a lawn chair but with an oval seat and a plastic bag suspended beneath it.  This told her that it was unlikely she would leave this room until they reached their destination, a realization she didn’t need.

In the first corner she felt something hard and flat.  The latches and handle revealed that it was her suitcase.  Buoyed by its familiarity, she flipped the catches and opened it. 
Things that I can use to improve my situation,
she thought.  The flashlight that she had brought jumped into her mind, but it was not there. 
They must have taken it
. B
astards!
  Her clothes seemed to be there and her makeup kit was where she had put it, but felt like it had been rummaged. 
Why do they need a prisoner with nice clothes and makeup?
she asked herself.  The answer that sprang back at her frightened her deeply.  Struggling to suppress thoughts of Natalie Holloway, the girl who disappeared in Aruba, and white slavery, she forced herself to continue exploring her cell.

Then without meaning
to, she knocked something
over
, startling her with a sound magnified by the darkness.
  Reaching to upright it,
she felt
a thermos.  She unscrewed the top and sniffed the contents.  Water, it seemed.  Beyond it a wicker basket. 
Oh great,
she thought. 
A prison picnic - in the dark. 
She almost laughed when she opened it and discovered that it was indeed filled with sandwiches, fruit and some sort of crackers.  But that only reinforced
the grim conclusion
that her captors intended to keep her fed and looking good.  Thoughts of a hirsute, greasy Middle Eastern male with greedy eyes and a bulging, sweaty belly waiting for her in some distant hellhole
almost
made her cry again. 

Finding nothing else in the room, she stood up and moved toward the door, under which light faintly crept.  Pressing her ear against it, she listened intently for a long time.  No sound other than those of the ship and the sea emanated from behind the door.  She decided to feel her way around the room, seeking a crack, an opening, anything that might provide egress.

Perhaps an hour had passed since she’d awakened, she couldn’t tell for sure.  She now knew that she was in a small room, having steel walls and containing food, drink and her clothing and makeup.  No avenue of escape. The engine sound droned on as her floating prison rose and fell with the swells.  A deep sense of despair
had started
to descend.

Hash marks, four vertical then one across popped into her mind.  She resisted contemplating it, but realized it made sense.  Prisoners keep time
–
and
their sanity
–
b
y carving the passage of days on the walls of their cells.  Her fingernail file was in her makeup kit where she had put it.  As she etched
the first groove into the floor by her bed, she thought: 
What are you doing, you idiot?  Without light you can’t count days. 
But she finished the carving nonetheless; something about it comforted her.  She had never felt so alone. 

3

The scraping of great iron gears grinding slowly against massive rus
t
ing wheels was punctuated by a rhythmic screeching that surely must be the cries of some mechanical beast from hell.  A huge metal door ground upward until flaming molten scoria spewed from its gaping mouth.  Still smoldering lumps of slag littered the floor around her feet.  A howling sound outside this baking hell was her only company.

Abruptly she pulled her legs up to her chest as the still glowing embers started to burn her feet.  Sweat-soaked clothes clung to her chest, smothering her.  The howling grew louder until it was just outside.  She covered her ears and rolled over onto her side into a ball.  Suddenly the howling stopped as she felt something beneath her, neither hard nor smoldering.  It was the mattress. 

Once more the howling blasted her senses, but it was no longer the sound of some mortally wounded creature.  It was the trumpeting horn of a nearby ship.  The nightmarish images began to blur then fade into the dar
k
ness that had surrounded her for she knew not how long.  A stench assaulted her nostrils, her stench.  The wretched loneliness returned.  How many days and nights had she been here?  How many nightmares?

There had been no light by which to count her scrapings on the floor, no measure of days or nights.  Only fitful sleep, nightmares and numbing fear.  Then she noticed something different.  She listened.  The dull throbbing of the distant engine had slowed.  Even in the darkness she sensed that her room was turning.  It was clear now that the ship that contained her iron prison had not only slowed but was turning.  But turning where?
  Into what?
  A new dread
thrust its
long, inelegant fingers
deep inside her
. 

Holly tried again to tell herself that she is strong, but the words were brittle.  How many times had she told herself that since the
honeym
. . .  She pulled herself up short, having learned that there are words that invariably lead to tears.  Tears lead to despair, and despair leads to nothing. 

This had to be an inflection point.  Surely they were nearing land.  She must somehow pull herself together enough to try to escape if the o
p
portunity presents. 

She sensed they had slowed further.  She could hear other sounds now, harbor sounds.  She thought about the clothing in her suitcase.  What she was wearing had to be filthy and wrinkled.  That would stand out if she
managed to run away.  She reached for the container of water, hoping to w
ash with it, but it was empty.
Then she remembered she had finished it.
R
e
solved nonetheless to at least change her clothing, she knew she must be quick in case someone came.

Hurriedly she pawed through the contents of her suitcase, searching by feel for what she needed.  Then she stripped off her clothes and in the dar
k
ness struggled into clean ones.  The thought of being caught naked on the mattress spurred her to move faster.  Finally she balled up her dirty clothes and thrust them into the suitcase.

The sounds outside were growing more numerous now.  She was certain that she was in a harbor or the entrance to a river.  The sound of motor boats came and went.  She could feel their wakes against her floating prison.  Time passed slowly as she waited to learn her location, and her fate.

She had almost drifted off again when the sound of loud voices brought her bolt upright.  The dim light beneath her door grew suddenly brighter.  She could hear voices speaking what sounded like Chinese.  Heavy metallic noises told her that a lock was being turned.  But she was unprepared for what happened next.  The door swung open and briefly she glimpsed two figures standing there.  In an instant, the blinding flash of light streaming through the door overwhelmed her vision.   Eyes, having no pain receptors, did what they must to protect themselves.  They signaled her hands to cover them and her eyelids to close.

She wanted desperately to see her captors, to gather any information about them, but her eyes knew that in order to save themselves, they must not allow the light to damage them.  She almost cried
when she realized that for now at least,
she was blind.  She tried to open her eyes a little, but the primitive protective response only forced her to close them again.  Then she heard an accented male voice.

“Do not be afraid.  You will not be harmed if you do not attempt to escape or call out.”

It was almost laughable.
 
‘Do not be afraid.’
 
Are they kidding?  They kidnap me, hold me prisoner for God knows how long, and then they say ‘Do not be afraid!’ 
She
had
started to say “
Where’s m
y husband, you sons of bitches!”
when she remembered that she had thought this through d
uring her captivity.
Shut up and act submissive.  Lull them into thinking you’re not going to give them any trouble.  Gather information and act on it when it becomes practicable.

“Where am I?” she said with feigned timidity. 

“You will know that soon,” was his menacing response.  “You will be taken to a place where you will receive food and be allowed to clean up.  If
you resist, you will be sedated again.”

O.K. So I’ll play along now, but by God, I’ll kill you bastards if you give me the chance. 
She felt them grasp her arms and lift her to her feet.  She submitted but her legs had scarcely been used in days and they collapsed under her.  The men tightened their grip an
d led her forward.  Through
tightly closed eyes she could only see the brightness increase as she was being led down what sounded from the echoes like a passage way. 

Every few feet she opened her eyes just slightly to allow them to a
c
climate. The br
ightness was still blinding, though
each time a little less so.  She was in a companionway of some sort.  After walking what she estimated was about forty feet she was told to stop.

“There are railings in front of you,” the same voice said,  “Put your hands on them and use them to climb the staircase.  One of us will be behind you to prevent you from falling.”

Her hands found the metal railings.  Her legs were weak but she was able to hold herself upright using her hands.  The steps sounded and felt like the perforated steel staircases she had seen in industrial settings and in the movies.  Slowly, one step at a time she mounted them, occasionally feeling the hands of the person behind her on her back, which made her cringe.  When she reached the top, the man in front took her hand and led her forward through what felt like a doorway. 

“Stop now,” the man said.  “Place your hands behind your back.”  The thought of being cuffed scared her, but there was no choice.  She didn’t even know if she could walk on her own yet, much less run.  They placed a coat of some sort over her shoulders, more to conceal the handcuffs than to keep her warm, she thought. 

“We will now walk to a vehicle.  If you scream, the only thing you will accomplish is to bring pain upon yourself.  Do you understand?”  She nodded.  Her eyes had recovered slightly and by squinting briefly she could see what appeared to be a police van waiting on a pier for her.  The rear doors were open and a uni
formed man stood next to them.  Police.

When she was seated on a hard bench in the van, she opened her eyes again briefly.  The uniformed man sat on another bench looking at her, though he did not seem disturbed that she had seen him.  The next time
,
she glanced up at the small window in each door at the rear of the van.  The van was moving now and she caught glimpses of a city, a modern city.  She saw the top of a giant wheel that was lit brightly
, like an enormous Ferris wheel and
stored that away in her memory.  The fact that she was being allowed to look at the small windows told her one of two things: either the man was being careless or he felt confident that anything she saw would not be of any use
where she was going.  The latter thought depressed her, but she forced herself to focus on gathering information. 

They drove for some time.  She caught glimpses of the tops of buil
d
ings, all brightly lit.  Clearly they weren’t stingy with electricity in this place.  She tried to remember as much as she could but there was so much.  It seemed like they had driven for about thirty minutes when she felt the van turn. 
T
he
tops of large iron gates
closed behind them.  The van continued until it pulled to a stop.  S
ounds
like a garage door opening, which she was able to confirm when it closed behind them
, told her that this place must be large, probably not a house
.  

“You will be blindfolded now,” the man in the van told her.  She felt an involuntary tightening in her stomach, but she knew this was not the time to resist.  Moments later she could hear her own footsteps and those of the men on each side of her on what sounded like a linoleum floor.  She detected an aseptic smell, like bleach or a cleaner of some sort before she was ushered into an elevator that took her down
–
one floor, she was certain.  Another walk down a long hall, this one sounding like conc
rete and smelling less aseptic.  Then
she was brought up short by the men holding her arms.