Held (7 page)

But he said, “The approach of an optimist.”

As we came out of the forest I tried to take in as much as I could of my surroundings. The tall aluminum fence, now on my left, extended from the warehouse to the forest and blocked the view on that side completely. On the other side, facing the fence, was the back wall of what seemed to be another massive warehouse. A second fence created a narrow alley between the two buildings. I wondered whether we were in some sort of industrial park or compound.

My mistake had been to run in the direction of the forest. I decided to make a second dash for it. This time I’d run down the alley toward the entrance of the compound. There was bound to be a road at the end of it.

But he anticipated my move. He caught me at once, slung me over his shoulder, and carried me back to the warehouse. I felt small and insignificant on his shoulder. I pounded his back and yelled, “Help! Help me!” But there was no one around. He stepped into the warehouse and let me down.

I was sure he’d leave now. He went out and locked the door this time. But after a few seconds he returned with a briefcase.

“I hate this. I hate you,” I blurted out. I regretted it right away—I couldn’t afford to alienate the person who was in charge of my food, my conditions, my life.

But he replied evenly, “No one likes to be imprisoned.”

I thought again of the Patty Hearst movie. I was luckier than her—so far, at least. I wasn’t blindfolded in a small closet with people hammering on the walls; a deluded egomaniac wasn’t trying to convert and seduce me.

“I saw a movie about Patty Hearst once,” I said. “On late-night TV. Have you seen it?”

“I saw a documentary about her.”

“No, this was a real movie.”

“I’m not familiar with it.”

“At least I’m not getting brainwashed.”

He didn’t answer. He sat at the table, unlocked his briefcase, and took out several books. He pulled the standing lamp closer to the table and began to read and make notes. He seemed to be doing research or writing an essay. As far as I could see, the books were in English, but I couldn’t make out any of the titles.

I wondered whether he was a university student, and whether during the day he attended classes. No one would know he was a hostage-taker—like students who went to Ivy League universities during the day and worked as call girls at night. I sat down on the bed and hugged my knees.

“It’s a warm evening,” I said.

He looked up at me. “Yes, dusk is my favorite time of day.”

I felt he was offering me a gift by making this personal comment, but the gift made me resentful. Why should I be grateful to him for being friendly? He had locked me up in a warehouse, he was traumatizing my poor mother, he had terrified me.

It bothered me that I had to remind myself who he was. He kept trying to make me forget.

Maybe he wasn’t all that different from Patty Hearst’s abductors after all. Maybe his methods were just more subtle. First step: make the kidnapped person forget that what you’ve done is wrong.

Well, I wasn’t going to forget. Nor was I going to get brainwashed. No one could change who I was and what I believed in. At least I had that.

“How can you send the photo to the press? They’ll track down the computer. Oh! Why did I tell you that!”

He looked up. “Yes, you should have kept that to yourself,” he said, teasing me.

I was too angry to answer. I opened one of the new notebooks and wrote Mom a letter:

Dear Mom, I’m okay. I have everything I need and I’m being treated well so don’t worry. I have a shower and hot water, and lots of food. I’m not allowed to say anything about the people who took me hostage, but I have books and anything else I want, and I’ll try to spend the time productively. I love you. Give Pumpkin a big hug and don’t worry because as you always say, everything will work out. Please check the vet calendar for Pumpkin’s shots. Love to Oma and Opa and all my friends and tell Angie it wasn’t her fault. Don’t worry! I love you and miss you, Chloe.

I tore out the page and handed it to my hostage-taker.

“It’s mostly okay,” he said. “Just take out the information about the food and the books, and the words
and anything else
I want
. Also take out that you’re going to spend the time usefully. You can keep everything else.”

“You want people to think I’m suffering.”

“Yes.”

I didn’t think I could be any angrier than I already was, but my rage rose to a whole new level. I was furious that I had to do what he told me to, furious that he wanted to hurt my mom, furious that I couldn’t reassure her. I was so angry my hand began to shake.

I was afraid that if my hand shook, Mom would think I was writing at gunpoint or that I was lying in order to make her feel better.

“I’m too angry to write steadily,” I said.

“It’s better for you, too, not to give more information. No one would believe you anyhow. It’s more credible if you keep it simple.”

I didn’t say anything, though I had to admit he had a point. I took a few breaths, focused on mind control, and rewrote the letter. I changed the part he told me to change. I wrote instead:
I’m not allowed to say anything about the people
who took me hostage, but I’m all right.

“Much better,” he said. He slid the letter into his briefcase and continued working.

I noticed that he was wearing a watch on his right wrist, and I decided to ask for my watch back, or for a clock. Knowing what time it was would help me orient myself. I wanted to ask him why he took away my watch in the first place, but I was afraid that if I made a nuisance of myself he’d leave.

Instead, I worked on my list. I didn’t know how many things to ask for. The group he belonged to obviously had a lot of money, but if I asked for too much, I wouldn’t get what I most wanted.

I finally narrowed my list down to the things I needed in order to keep my sanity.

clock or watch

mat for exercising (two or three if possible)

magazines and newspapers—all kinds

music—all kinds

DVD player or laptop and movies

tennis racket and ball

hairbrush

woman’s razor and foam OR electric

hand soap for sensitive skin

skin lotion

box of tissues

decent shampoo and conditioner

panties (2) and pair of cotton socks

nail file

book for learning Italian or German

more towels

flip-flops or slippers

crossword puzzles, dictionary, playing cards

I’d never been interested in crossword puzzles, but I figured it would be something to do. I wasn’t really into cards either. I only knew one version of solitaire, but maybe I could play poker or blackjack with my hostage-taker. I had to take Italian or German in my last year, so I could try to get a head start on that. At least I’d have the illusion that I’d be going home eventually.

In fact I no longer believed that I’d be killed for the simple reason that I couldn’t maintain that degree of fear. It was too hard. I had to believe that I’d make it through this.

When I finished the list, I made a calendar. I wasn’t sure whether it was Wednesday or Thursday, but I took a guess and went from there.

I shut the notebook and leaned back against the wall. I would have done anything for a phone—preferably an iPhone. It was agony not to be able to email or text or talk to somebody. It was the worst part of my situation, apart from not knowing my future.

I watched my hostage-taker as he worked. He was reading several books at once, looking for passages, and making notes. I wondered what the topic was. Politics, probably. How to take hostages …

I tried to read too, but I couldn’t concentrate. It was hard, sitting there in the spooky silence, not saying a word. Finally I asked, “Are you looking up recipes?”

He looked at me and tilted his head, but his expression didn’t change. He checked his watch, then he pressed his eyes with the palms of his hands. “I have to go now,” he said. “I’ll be back tomorrow evening.”

“I guess hostage-taking is tiring.”

He didn’t answer. He put his books and papers away and clicked his briefcase shut.

I handed him my list.

“I’ll see what I can manage,” he said, looking it over.

“Why did you take my watch?”

“So you wouldn’t know how much time had passed.”

I wondered why he was being so open with me. Maybe it was a strategy. Maybe everything he did was a strategy: the joking, the good food, the wine.

“Your eyes aren’t exactly brown,” I said, trying to keep him from leaving.

He pretended not to hear me. Without saying goodbye, he undid the combination lock and left. I suddenly remembered that I’d forgotten to ask for pajamas, and I pounded on the door and called out to him, but it was too late. He was gone.

Angie Shaw
Thanks for all the comments, everyone. It really helps to know so many people are supporting Chloe. Don’t forget to join the Free Chloe Campaign—there’s a fundraiser in the works and we need all the help we can get spreading the word. It’s so hard not to know anything about what’s happening to her, where she is, how they’re treating her, the imagination starts going and there’s no end to it. I lie in bed awake thinking thinking thinking, feeling so helpless. Going over the last day, which is really pointless but I can’t help it. Wishing I’d gone with her … Anyhow, as far as the demands, nothing is really confirmed, but it seems they, I mean the guys holding Chloe (it freaks me out to call them terrorists)—anyhow, it seems they have a thing against this public prosecutor Lawrence “the horror” Mayfair-Horrick, known to be a bigot, very controversial. According to rumors they want two releases, two retrials, nine parole reviews, and twenty-one prisoner transfers—all are guys this Mayfair-Horrick person prosecuted. Meanwhile he’s recovering from bypass surgery after consuming nothing but pork, bacon, and ham since he was around three months old. Says he doesn’t care less what the gov’t does. PLEASE BE OK CHLOE.

32 minutes ago   Comment   Like   Wall-to-wall

Jeanette Persky
Why aren’t we getting all the details???

28 minutes ago   Comment   Like   Wall-to-wall

Matthias Santiago
They (the guys on top) are probably having frantic meetings about what to do. If it was a pure exchange it would be simpler, there’s a policy and they’d just stick to it and say no way josé, especially if the prisoner’s a lifer or on death row. But this is more complicated, harder to say no and a lot of pressure from all sorts of lobby groups and people who hate this Mayfair-Horrick guy regardless. The question is: can the AG review the cases and file a request with the court of appeal if the appeal time limit has passed? Ditto for parole review. So that might be a problem, I don’t know if it’s written in stone. That’s why I think what the Chloe campaign is doing is good—hire lawyers and see if it can all be done quasi-legitimately to start off with.