Held (18 page)

CHAPTER 20

As soon as he’d left I filled the tub with hot water, bubble bath, and three bottles of scented oil.

Immersing myself in hot water—as hot as I could stand—was wonderfully soothing after that dark, cramped ride.

I wondered who lived in the house. Did it belong to my hostage-taker? He didn’t seem rich, somehow. You could tell, usually, who was well off and who was poor. It must be the woman’s house. It was unlikely, now that I thought about it, that she was his mother.

I had sometimes smelled chlorine on him, and I realized now that he must have been swimming here, in an indoor or outdoor pool. I longed to go for a swim too. One day we’d swim together, the two of us. We’d race and dive and twine our bodies underwater.

My imagination wandered to beach vacations and surfing, and I almost fell asleep in the tub. I shook myself awake and grabbed a towel. These towels were softer and larger than the ones in the warehouse. Every small detail became magnified, I realized, when your life was reduced to a single room. You lost perspective, literally.

I examined the contents of the bureau drawers: socks, two tops, a pair of sweatpants, underwear, flannel pajamas, hairbrush, comb, nail file, hand lotion. I tried on the tops. They were a perfect fit: one was a striped green-and-blue tank and the other a long-sleeved pink jersey. I was as happy as a little kid that I had something new to wear. I wondered who had chosen them for me.

The bureau doubled as a night table, and next to the lamp there was a mug with a picture of a shaggy dog on it. I stared at the dog for about ten minutes. “Talk about sensory deprivation,” I murmured.

I sat on the bed and checked out the games on the laptop: they were mostly word or puzzle games. There was also a program for learning Italian; it moved me that my hostage-taker had gone to the trouble of finding and installing it, and I felt a wave of affection and gratitude.

I spent the rest of the day playing a game I’d never heard of which was slightly addictive. But despite the distraction of the laptop, I felt almost unbearably caged in. The ceiling seemed to be pressing down on me, and I began to worry about suffocating. What if the vent stopped working?

I considered banging on the door, but I was afraid people in the house who weren’t supposed to know about me would hear. I was sure I’d never look at a caged bird the same way again.

I knew I should exercise. I could have run in place, done sit-ups and push-ups, performed a handstand. I could have had a decent workout even in that tiny space, but I wasn’t up to it.

Instead I ate a sandwich and got into bed. There was a warm, lightweight quilt under the bedspread and I pulled it up to my ears.
At least I have a comfortable bed with cozy blankets
, I told myself.

When I woke up in the miniscule room I had no idea whether it was six in the morning or six in the evening. I checked the laptop, but for some reason it didn’t have the time.

Now I was even more lost than in the warehouse. The watch I had was old and didn’t indicate the time of day. Old watch, old mat; private planes, mansions—it confirmed my sense that it was the woman, and not my hostage-taker, who was wealthy.

For breakfast—or was it supper?—I had a banana milkshake. I looked forward to the pasta dish I’d asked for. That would be the highlight of my day, it seemed.

But I was wrong. When my hostage-taker came to see me he was carrying a bottle of sherry and a vase of purple irises. He handed me the flowers and said, “Many happy returns of the day.”

“Oh! Is it my birthday today?” I buried my face in the flowers. The oppression and frustration I’d been feeling began to recede. I was overjoyed to see my hostage-taker, and his gift reminded me that he loved me.
I guess you’d call it love
, he’d said. He was fighting his feelings, but he wouldn’t have to fight them if they weren’t there in the first place.

“They’re celebrating all over your country,” he said.

“Don’t say ‘your country’—it hurts me.”

“I only meant the country you live in.”

“Is it morning or evening, by the way?”

“Evening. I brought you some films,” he said. He emptied two bagfuls of DVDs on the bed.

“Oh, thank you! I can’t wait to watch them. Can I have a birthday kiss?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

But as soon as he sat down on the bed I leaned over and kissed him and, to my delight, he kissed me back. He didn’t pull away, he didn’t stop himself.

I’d never felt anything so perfect—I didn’t know such perfection existed. We’d kissed twice before, but only for a few seconds. This kiss was long and unhurried, and I could tell he wasn’t going to pull away. He’d given up trying to resist.

There are a million ways to kiss, as I know from my few experiences and Angie’s many reports, and I’d never really enjoyed kissing before. Angie and I had all kinds of funny names for various types of disaster kissing. But this was something altogether different and impossible to describe.

We kissed for a very long time. Every time we paused for breath my hostage-taker said, “This is a huge mistake.” But he didn’t stop.

For the first time I understood the expression “floating on air”—it was nothing like the experience of hurtling through the air during a floor routine or dismount. That was about focus, control, achievement. You became part of the world, part of its options.

This was about leaving planet Earth altogether.

Finally he said, “Would you care for some sherry?”

“You’re so funny,” I said. “The way you talk sometimes! So formal.”

“Probably because English isn’t my first language.”

“Or maybe you’re just trying to stay detached. I’ve never met anyone who never smiled. Never ever.”

I was surprised by his answer. “I’m sure I smile.”

“And you don’t say hello or good-bye,” I said.

“Don’t I?”

“No. And it’s quite rude, if you ask me.” I was only teasing, of course.

He poured sherry into two glasses and said, “To you.”

“Yes, to me,” I agreed. “The perfect hostage. And to you, the misguided but well-meaning criminal who is going to see the light and reform.”

I sipped the sherry—I’d never actually drunk sherry, and it was better than I’d expected. “What a way to celebrate my eighteenth birthday,” I said. “You know, I’ve never been as scared in my life, and then never as sad, and now I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.”

“That’s why I worry, Chloe.”

I felt tingly and shivery, hearing him say my name. It was almost as if I had a new name, it sounded so different when he said it.

“I wish I knew your name. Can I make one up?” I asked.

“I don’t think that would work.”

“I’ll just call you sweetie, then.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“You can’t control everything … Two control freaks,” I laughed. “We’re quite the couple!”

“We’re not a couple.”

“You can be really boring, you know.”

“You’re falling prey to the Stockholm Syndrome. I’m sure you’ve heard of it. You imagine you love me, you want to protect me. It feels real, but it’s not. You’ll see that when you’re free.”

“You couldn’t be more wrong,” I said. “I think this hostage-taking idea of yours is completely insane. I don’t believe in crime. You can’t just take things into your own hands! You can’t decide which laws suit you and which ones don’t. You could have worked for a retrial without risking your life and terrifying me. If you really love me, why can’t you believe that I really love you?”

“You don’t know me.”

I pulled an iris out of the vase and buried my face in it. The satiny petals tickled my cheek and the delicate, sweet scent was heavenly. If only it could last, that scent … “Are people really celebrating my birthday?” I asked.

“Yes. It’s lucky for us.”

“They’re turning me into someone I’m not.”

“I suppose that’s true. But so what? Mythologizing is part of our nature. It doesn’t have to be a bad thing.”

“Please tell me one thing,” I said. “I have to know. How many people know where I am?”

“Two now.”

“What if that guy—the addict—told someone before he died?”

“Fortunately, he had no one to tell. He didn’t have other people in his life.”

“Why take such risks? You can do so much good just by being a decent person,” I said. “You may want to seriously reconsider your lifestyle choices.”

“Yes, taking you was risky and dangerous.”

“So why do it? Why, why, why?”

“You care more about my life than I do.”

My eyes filled with tears. “You’re a sad person,” I said. “What about the pilot of the plane?” I asked.

“I have a license.”

I shuddered. It was impossible not to think of 9/11. He knew that, and he added, “Millions of people know how to pilot a small plane. It takes about three weeks to learn.”

“So you’re not part of a group?”

“No.”

“Who’s the woman?”

“She was a friend of my parents’.”

“It’s frustrating—I want to know everything about you. I can’t even place your accent. I know you swim in a swimming pool. And now I know the pool is here, in this house. I like to swim too—I love diving. Do you dive?”

“No.”

“I could teach you—it’s lots of fun. Oh, I want us to be together always!” I had an image of the two of us in a backyard, our two little children in a wading pool, our house behind us. We were wearing shorts and throwing a beachball for our kids to catch.

He didn’t answer or even look at me. He was staring into space and his face was even more expressionless than usual. He was somewhere else, far away from me.

I waited for him to come back. I heard the faint sound of a car outside, either driving away or arriving.

My hostage-taker broke the silence. “Shall I make the pasta now?”

“Yes, please.” I placed my hand on his back, but he immediately removed it.

“Please don’t touch me,” he said.

“Is that creep Chad still saying he’s my boyfriend?” I asked.

“I think he’s lost credibility.”

“I’ve never had sex with anyone,” I said.

“I know.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, confused.

“It’s been in the papers.”

I felt my cheeks burning. “They’re discussing my sexual status in the media?!”

“I told you, you sell many copies of newspapers. They have to think of new things to say.”

“Oh, God. I thought high school gossip was bad. Is there anything about me that
hasn’t
been discussed?”

“Not much.”

“If only I could trust Mom. But she’s so naive in some ways.”

“She’s doing a great job for you, Chloe. She’s made the world love you. It’s good for us, but it’s also good for you.”

“What else did they say?”

“Only good things. No one has said anything against you—they’d be stoned alive. You’ve become everyone’s favorite person.”

“It’s no one’s business what I’ve done and haven’t done. I feel I don’t have a private life anymore. Whatever, I don’t care. What about you? You must have had a lot of girlfriends.”

“I’ve never been with a woman,” he replied, looking steadily at me.

“That’s impossible!” I said.

“Why?”

“Because of your age—you must be at least twenty-six? And because you’re so good-looking—and sexy. Women must have been after you constantly. And besides, how would you know how to kiss like that?”

“It was included in the hostage-taking manual,” he said.

I laughed. “So why haven’t you dated? Were you in a Buddhist monastery?”

“I was in prison for a long time.”

I was shocked when he said that, though I tried not to show it. “Was it for another crazy hostage scheme?”

“It wasn’t the sort of place where there had to be a reason.”

“Well, what were you accused of?”

“There wasn’t any trial. The more I tell you, Chloe, the more complicated it’s going to be for you when you come out.”

“What does it matter? I’m not going to tell them anything anyhow.”

He looked at me as if he was about to hypnotize me. “You have to tell them everything,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“No one will believe I’ve told you the truth. If you say I mentioned a Catholic community, they’ll automatically assume I’m Muslim. If you tell them I said I was in prison, they’ll assume I wasn’t. So you don’t have to worry about that. And don’t think for a minute that you can get away with lying. Lying would make things very messy and very horrible for you. It’s the worst thing you could possibly do. Instead of being everyone’s hero, you’ll find yourself in serious trouble. Withholding information that could help them arrest a terrorist, as they see it, will be considered a crime.”

“That’s crazy. You talk as if I don’t have rights.”

“Yes, of course you have rights. But you can’t imagine you’ll get away with lying to professionals. Don’t even try, Chloe. They’ll know in seconds, and then you’ll be in for a very long haul, and an extremely unpleasant one. They’ll destroy the image that’s been created of you and overnight you’ll lose everyone’s sympathy.”

“I can’t reveal everything!” I cried out. “I love my country, but I can’t betray you.”

“Telling the truth is your only choice and, luckily, it’s the best policy. In any case, they’ll assume I manipulated everything. They’ll assume I sent the other guy to make you vulnerable, and that the story of him dying of an overdose is invented. They’ll assume I pretended to know something about medicine, that I left you alone on purpose, that the kids you heard were just taped voices, that the close call on the highway was staged. They’ll even assume the broken can opener was part of a strategy.”

“And this conversation—do I tell them what you’re telling me now?”

“There’s no reason not to.”

“But … then they’ll know it’s a strategy …”

“No, Chloe. You have to realize that one thing they’ll be certain of, no matter what, is that I’m a bad guy. The only reason you don’t feel that way yourself is that you’ve become attached to me. And you’ve become attached to me because of the situation. That’s the only thing you may not want to reveal—your feelings toward me. Because if that leaks to the press it could destroy your life. The people questioning you won’t care, but the media would not forgive you. So I’d strongly advise you not to tell anyone, even Angie. The potential harm it could do to you is just not worth it. I’ll go make the pasta now. Any special requests?”