Saving Brigit (3 page)

“Your things have already been disposed of. Your parents will find it is difficult for Westerners to get information in this part of the world. They may try, but they will discover nothing. There is no trace of you in Islamabad, and soon there will be no trace of you here.”

Ahmad threw the cloth over her. They looped something around her throat and tied it tightly enough to keep her from taking a deep breath. Together, they lifted her into the cargo section of the SUV and closed the door.

Moments later, the vehicle started and began a slow crawl up the hill.

Brigit had no sense of distance or time. By the time they stopped, her only wish was to breathe freely again.

They removed her from the car and stood her so that she could lean against the SUV for balance. Voices called from a short distance, and Ahmad answered. Suddenly, more voices, all male, surrounded her.

The rope came off and then the sheet. Gagged and bound, she stood naked in front of three strange men. They examined her, turning her this way and that, and then spoke to Omar. He nodded. They signaled to someone up the road.

A car door slammed and Ahmad called out. Before the strange men again covered her head with the sheet, she caught a glimpse of a petite girl about her own age, running into the outstretched arms of Ahmad. Omar joined them in a group hug, never giving her a second glance.

Motherfucker
. She wanted to spit on him.

Her naked body covered once more and the hated restraint around her throat, one of the men slung her over his shoulder and walked several yards before tossing her into another vehicle.

An eternity could have passed before the vehicle stopped and someone carried her into a building, down a hallway, around corners, through doors, and on and on before depositing her on a bed of some sort. Battered and bruised, she lay quietly while a man unwrapped, ungagged, and untied her. Then he departed, leaving the clanging of a metal door ringing in her ears.

Unbound for the first time in what seemed like hours, Brigit lay quietly, letting the blood flow to her hands and feet and allowing her eyes to become accustomed to the light. The light bulb hanging from the ceiling was bright and unforgiving.

She examined her surroundings. The cell was no more than a few feet wide and only slightly longer. The walls were concrete gray. The cot on which she lay was nothing more than bare army-style—a thin ticking mattress covered with a white sheet and a blanket folded at the bottom. A toilet and sink took up one corner, not three feet from the bed. At least the ceiling was high, but that was the only thing about the room with any sense of space. She’d be able to stand and pace, but not for more than a few feet without turning.

Before she had time to plan what to do next, a slot opened in the door. Dark brown hands pushed a tray onto an attached ledge.

“Fifteen minute,” a man said in broken English. “Put back when you finished.”

Brigit jumped to her feet. “Wait!” The opening closed, shutting out all sound. She pounded on the door. “Wait! Open up! Help me, I’ve been kidnapped!” Her fists were balls of pain by the time she stopped, and there’d been no response.

The door was metal with no handle. Brigit swung around seeing no way to open the door, no window, no one to listen or care what happened to her. She slid down to the floor. Drawing up her knees and wrapping her arms around them, she cried, letting out the despair she’d felt since Omar told her on the mountain ridge what he had planned for her.

Omar! She’d actually thought she loved that pig. They’d met and entered an intimate relationship right away. He’d catered to her every wish and answered all her desires in bed, even needs she hadn’t realized she harbored. He said he needed her so many times, she’d believed him. Now she knew why he needed her.

“Bastard!” But disappointment and pain filled the word instead of hatred. Fresh tears ran down her cheeks.

The cover for the door slot opened. Brigit swiped the moisture from her face and stood, not caring that she was naked.

Hands reached through and grasped the tray of food she hadn’t touched.

“Wait a minute,” she rushed out, “please. Please help me. I don’t belong here, there’s been a mistake.”

The only response was a grunt. The opening closed. Within seconds, the light went out.

No amount of screaming, crying, or pounding brought a response. More tired than she’d ever been, Brigit felt her way along the wall until she stumbled into the foot of the bed. She crawled up, pulled the blanket over her, and curled into the fetal position. For the first time in many years, Brigit went to sleep crying for her mama.

Sometime later, the bulb overhead came on. Brigit awoke. Rubbing her eyes, she wondered what time it was and whether anyone today would listen to her pleas. Before she could become fully awake, the light went out. This happened several times more before the door slot opened and a tray of food was deposited.

“Fifteen minute.”

There were no tears this time. Even self-pity could wait until after she’d eaten. She scrambled out from under the blanket, went to the sink and washed her hands with a sliver of soap, then tore into the food.

When she finished the tepid grain cereal—a tasteless cross between oatmeal and cream of wheat—the slice of thick wheat bread, and the apple, she slurped down coffee, thick, strong, and very black. Her stomach still grumbled with hunger.

The slot in the door slid open. “Tray!”

“I’m still hungry. May I have more?” She held out the cereal bowl like Oliver Twist and with the same results.

“Tray, or you will be whipped.”

Whipped? Irrational fear raced through her. She wielded no power here, and she’d do well to remember that. Trembling, she placed the tray on the ledge. The man snatched it away.

“Please, can’t you help me? I have money.”

A moment’s hesitation in the man’s actions followed her words and her hope soared.

“Really, lots of money. I’ll pay you if you just help me out of here.” She spoke so fast her words collided. She reached out through the opening in the door, her fingers reaching, beseeching.

“Get back!” The man shouted and then struck her palm with something hard. Brigit sucked in a breath of pain.

As she cradled her hand, the man slammed shut the door of the slot. Seconds later, the light went out.

She felt her way to the bed and—like the previous night—curled up and cried.

Later, the light came on once more. “Leave me alone, you sons of bitches!” She pulled the flat pillow over her head.

The door opened. Surprised, Brigit rolled over and stared at the man standing inside the cell.

“Who are you? Can you help me get out of here?”

“Possibly,” he said. “It is not beyond hope.” He bowed slightly. “I am the doctor. I will examine you now.”

Short and stocky, the man wasn’t much taller than Brigit. His complexion was swarthy, his hair salt and pepper and frizzed around his ears. He wore glasses and had a gray, shaggy moustache. His white coat made him look like a doctor, as did the black case he carried. But Brigit had finally learned that when it came to people from this part of the world, things often were not what they seemed.

“How do I know you’re a doctor?”

“What difference does it make when all things are considered? You have no choice but to allow me to do as I will.”

He shrugged. “As you say. I can call others to help me.” The implication was clear—one way or the other, he would do what he wanted.

“What do you want me to do?”

His small smile wasn’t a sign of gloating, but rather acknowledgment of an assured win. “Lie on your back.”

She did as told. He came forward, carrying a stool as well as his satchel. Setting the stool beside the bed, he sat and opened his case.

What followed, Brigit tried to block from her mind. The doctor touched every place on her body. The fact that he was clinically detached didn’t matter. That he had power over her did.

“These are to prevent your becoming pregnant.” He held up a packet of little white pills. “One will be on your breakfast tray every day. You will take it while the servant watches. If you become pregnant while you are here, it will not please your masters.”

“I’m already on birth control.”

He cocked his head and studied her as though trying to determine truth or lie. “Your captor reported you take no medications.”

At the mention of Omar, Brigit felt a black rage well up in her chest, but she tamped it down. She needed her wits, not emotion. “It’s implanted in my arm.” She held out her right arm and pointed to a tiny scar. “I’m not sure what would happen if I doubled up on dosage, so I don’t want your pills.”
Besides, who knows what you’re really giving me, you bastard.

The man looked at the scar. With a speed she didn’t realize he had, he whipped out a knife and nicked her arm.

“Ouch!” She tried to pull back, but he held her firmly. With tweezers he pulled from his bag, he probed under the skin until he found and removed her birth control strips. Then, with no word, he cleaned the cut, spread some goo, and topped the incision with a bandage.

He placed the pills back in the black bag along with the stethoscope. The scalpel and bloody gauze he wrapped in another cloth and stuck in the bag also. Brigit dared to ask again if he would help her escape.

“My parents would pay you very well.”

His eyes showed no interest.

She touched his hand. “Really. And…and I’d do anything I could. Do you know what I mean?” she whispered.

“You would give me anything?”

She nodded her head vigorously. “Anything.”

He trailed the back of his fingers along the curve of her breast, stopping at the nipple. “You would allow me to use your body?”

She took a breath. “Yes, if you helped me.”

He curled her pubic hair around another finger. “So you would allow me to take your body in any way I wish, and you would take me, too, in your mouth?”

“Yes. Will you get me out of here?”

He sat back, distant again. “Do you not think that every woman who comes here offers me the same thing? More appealing women who are not infidels. None of you accept the fact that you will do everything demanded of you. Not for me, but for many others. What you have just said you will do, you will do. And more.”

He stood, and without a backward glance, removed himself, his case, and the stool from the cell. Almost immediately, the light flipped off.

More depressed than before, Brigit pulled the blanket up and stared into the darkness. Fostering a flicker of hope was worse than having no hope at all.

Time went by. Brigit ate when the tray was shoved through the opening and tried to sleep when they left the cell dark. She memorized how far she had to pace the center of the floor and the number of steps she would take from the bottom of the bed to the toilet. One day melted into another. One moment meant nothing more than the next.

Then, just when she felt her captors had forgotten about her, the door opened and a woman stepped through. Other than the doctor and an abbreviated view of the man who brought her meals, this was the first person she’d seen since they’d brought her to this horrible place.

Brigit stood, holding the blanket around her. The woman was slight and dark complected, with long, silky black hair. Her face was delicate, with exotic features. She wore silver sandals and a white robe-like gown trimmed in silver. From one hand dangled a chain attached to a collar. In the other hand, she held what looked like a robe.

“I am Fatima.” She held out the robe-like thing. “Come with me.”

Brigit didn’t hesitate, throwing the material over her shoulders and hooking it in front with trembling fingers.

She didn’t know this woman, but she seemed to have some authority, and she was taking Brigit out of the cell. Maybe she was turning her loose. Maybe her parents had found her and were ransoming her. Wherever they were going, Brigit was happier than she’d been in days. Things had finally improved.

Then the woman hooked the collar around Brigit’s neck, and her hopes sank. Wearily, she began to get some inkling that being alone in the dark cell might not have been so bad after all.

Two weeks after July mentioned Brigit’s trip, the phone on Thia’s desk rang. July reached for it. “Thia Williams’s office.” Her face turned serious. “Marvin? What’s wrong?”

Marvin Thatcher was July’s brother-in-law. Thia had met the whole family years ago when she and her husband started C&H Accounting, and employees had become like family.

That was before Harry, Thia’s husband, had died, and before she and Derek met and joined forces to stop a drug smuggling ring. Thia tried not to listen to July’s conversation. Instead, she quietly marveled at how much her life had changed in the few months she’d known Derek. Never before had she felt such excitement—both in and out of bed. Derek owned his own investigation agency and was often away on cases, but when he was home, he made her body sing, making up for lost time.

July’s strident voice cut through Thia’s thoughts. “Marvin, try to stay calm. I’ll find out what I can and get back with you.” She hung up the phone with shaking hands.

“What’s wrong?”

July fell into a leather guest chair fronting the desk. Wordlessly, she stared out the window behind Thia. Her face was ashen.

Thia rushed around the desk and crouched beside her friend. “July, what’s happened? Is it Steven?” July and Steven Thatcher had been married for more than thirty-five years. Thia shuddered, imagining something awful happening to Steven.

“No, it’s Brigit.”

“What’s wrong?”

“She’s missing. Steven’s on his way over to Marvin’s now. Marvin’s beside himself, and Lacy is so upset she can’t talk to anyone.” Lacy, Marvin’s wife, was a worrier if ever there was one.

“Brigit hasn’t come home yet?”

“No. She called a couple of weeks ago and gave them a number in Pakistan where she could be reached. She was supposed to come home last Saturday, but she wasn’t on the flight. The airlines said she called and cancelled the return ticket. Lacy was upset, but Marvin said that Brigit was just being young.”