Set Free (17 page)

Jaspar reverentially accepted the worn leather wallet, his eyes nearly bugging out. Katie knew she’d played the scene perfectly. The producers had wondered if he should be forewarned about the revelation. But she and the lead producer, Peggy Guttenberg—the only other person who knew everything that was going to happen today—had argued strongly against it. To tell Jaspar she’d recovered the wallet was to rob their viewing audience of a priceless moment. By the look on Jaspar’s face and the way the cameras were zeroing in on it, Katie knew they’d made the right call.

Jenn leaned in to get a better look at the item in her husband’s hands. “That’s your wallet,” she marveled in a hushed whisper.

“Yeah. They took it from me when…” Jaspar stopped, looking up from the wallet to glare at Katie. “But…how did you get this?”

“You’re right,” Katie said, ignoring the question for now. “Your kidnappers took this wallet from you while you lay unconscious in the back seat of their vehicle. I believe if you look inside, except for cash and credit cards, everything else is there. Driver’s license, insurance card, family photos.”

TV screens across the country flashed blown-up versions of the wallet-sized pictures Katie had found. Mikki as a baby. Mikki at about three. Mikki just before she was abducted and never seen again.

The cameras—and America—watched as Jaspar carefully withdrew the same photographs, one by one, and stared at them in amazement. When he was done with one, he’d carefully pass it to Jenn, who did much the same.

With the final photograph handed away, Jaspar was about to demand an answer from Katie about where and how she’d found the wallet, when she gave him more. First a set of keys. Then sunglasses.

“I believe these are yours as well?”

Jaspar massaged the keys in his right hand, as if attempting to force warmth into the cold metal. Gently taking hold of the sunglasses, Jenn studied them intensely, as if beholding a friend long believed lost forever.

“How did you do this?” Jenn marveled. “How did you get these?”

Katie nodded, as if hearing the question for the first time. “I know both of you must be shocked. I was too. To find something of yours, Jaspar, thirty-five hundred miles from home. It made your story all the more real for me.” She smiled a sad, kind smile. “I’m just glad I could do this one small thing for you, to bring back at least a very small part of what you lost in Marrakech.”

Jenn’s thank you was tearful, her hands visibly trembling.

Jaspar nodded his gratitude. She’d not yet answered his question. He asked it again: “How did you get these?”

Sliding back into reporter mode, Katie faced the camera and told her well-rehearsed story. Low-quality video, taken with her own hand-held Sony, flickered behind her, its gritty inferiority adding a dark, grungy authenticity to the report and her investigative prowess.

The first images showed the immensity of Jemaa el Fna, all fine detail of the massive square lost in blaring, hot sun. Jerky shots of the
medina
aptly captured the frenzied activity and crowded maze of the marketplace. A long, lingering view of the Mattars’ shop appeared as the camera meticulously panned the street where it was located. Although Katie did not specifically identify the store in her reporting—as advised by the station’s legal department—her camerawork told the truth. She’d also included an artist’s rendering of Mehdi Ahmadi, whom she identified only as a confidential source from whom she’d retrieved Jaspar’s personal effects.

Jaspar and Jenn watched and listened, as enraptured and awed as any TV viewer. Immediately prior to announcing a scheduled break from the live telecast, Katie earned her keep by artfully ending on a cliffhanger: “When we return, you’ll learn about my meeting with a man who went by the name of Tarek, and what he told me about what happened next to American detainee and bestselling author, Jaspar Wills.” Concluding remarks done, she set her face in stone until the broadcast went to commercial.

“Katie, this is amazing!” Jenn exclaimed, jumping up. She made a stilted move toward the other woman. Given where they were, and the state of their recently-strained friendship, she decided a hug was inappropriate. “Why didn’t you tell us about any of this?”

“Yes,” Jaspar intoned, less enthusiastic, still fingering the keys. “And what else did you find? Who is this Tarek person?”

“Come on, Jaspar!” Jenn chided, attempting a cheerful tone. “Why so glum? Were you hoping your money was still in the wallet?”

At that exact moment, Peggy arrived, bringing the interaction to an abrupt end. The producer was demanding Katie attend to some urgent matter happening on her iPad. The diversion was planned. Both Katie and Peggy had agreed that it was important to keep the Wills from having too much chit-chat time with Katie during breaks, in the interest of maintaining the in-the-moment realness they were going for.

As Katie and Peggy stepped away, Jenn returned to her seat next to her husband. “Isn’t this incredible?” She held up the sunglasses. “I remember when you bought these. I bet you never expected to see any of this stuff again.” When there was no response, she asked: “Jaspar, are you okay?”

He nodded, eyes darting between his newly-returned keys and Katie’s powwow with her producer.

“Oh, God,” Jenn said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think. Is seeing these things bothering you? Are they bringing up bad memories?”

Their eyes met. For a moment it was just the two of them, husband and wife, the frenetic noise of the studio and hustle and bustle of the dozens of people who made the broadcast happen nothing but muffled background. Despite everything they’d been through and the difficulties in their marriage, Jenn knew this man. She could tell he was uneasy, unhappy. But there was something else too: he looked worried. But what could he possibly have to be worried about? Wasn’t the worst over with? Things were getting better between them. His book was an immediate bestseller. Wounds were healing. Weren’t they?

“We can stop this anytime, Jaspar,” she offered, her voice a gentle caress.

His head bobbed. “I think we sh—”

“Welcome back,” Katie’s voice boomed, sharp, powerful, at-the-ready.

Jenn tried to catch Katie’s eye, to somehow communicate that maybe this wasn’t such a good idea anymore. Maybe they could take a break? Something, anything, to avoid putting her husband through any more of this.

Immediately, Jenn realized it was too late. She also realized something else: at least here in the TV studio, Katie Edwards was not their friend. She was a professional newsperson, intent on doing her job at whatever cost. And then came one more hideous truth.

The surprises weren’t over.

“Jaspar,” Katie began, full wattage on the author. She was bringing to bear her keen ability at making it seem as if there were no cameras, no millions of viewers on the other side of the lens, no collection of technicians, producers, social media managers, news directors, editors, camera operators, sound and audio engineers, hanging on to every word. “In your book,
Set Free
, you talk about the day it became apparent, to you and the kidnappers, that their demands were never going to be met. They decided to move you from your original location, which we now know to have been in the
medina
section of Marrakech.”

Jaspar struggled to mentally pull himself out of the ugly place he suddenly found himself in. The camera showed him turning to his wife. Viewers would wonder what he was seeking. Comfort? Rescue? Benediction? But there was nothing Jennifer Wills could do. His gaze shifted back to Katie, questioning, as if he wasn’t quite sure what she wanted from him.

“They moved you out of the city, isn’t that right?” Katie asked.

Jaspar cleared his throat. “Yes. But I didn’t know why. All I could think of was that whatever their original plan had been, it had failed. So they needed to make a change.”

“You were right.” Katie subtly shifted in her seat to concentrate on the camera. “We know from what officials are now making public about the case, that although the American government was fully engaged in discussions with the kidnappers, they were never in a position to obtain the release of Qasim Al-Harthi. We also know that international relations between the United States and Morocco have been—and continue to be—strained at best.

“Although we can’t confirm their validity, for years there have been reports of prisoner release negotiations, such as this one, being successfully carried out behind-the-scenes, arranged privately, by non-government third parties. In the end, numerous questions still remain unanswered. Was everything done that could have been? Did Jaspar Wills’ kidnappers simply give up and run scared? Or did something else happen to make them change plans?” Turning back to her guests, she asked: “Jaspar, is it your belief that, given the complexity of the situation, we may never know the real truth?”

Jaspar hesitated before haltingly agreeing. “I think I have to believe that. If for no other reason than to protect my sanity, and move on.”

Katie nodded, as if never before having considered that point of view. Inside, she was smiling. He’d just given her the perfect segue. Choosing her words carefully, she asked, “Is it true then, that throughout your ordeal, and maybe since, you’ve feared for your sanity?”

Jaspar looked struck, not expecting the question. “I…I suppose in a way, yes. I talk in depth in my book about the times when I felt…removed from my normal self. As if my mind was taking me someplace else, someplace better, safer. If you want to call that insanity, so be it. But I certainly didn’t fear it. In truth, I sought it out, in order to survive.”

“I get it.” She waited a count of three, then: “When the kidnappers moved you out of the city, was that one of the times?”

“I was gagged, tied up, thrown into the back of a van in the middle of the night. So, yes, I was probably a little cracked when that happened. You have to understand that by this point, I’d already been held for several days in a sweltering hot, dark, smelly room, with very little food or water. I was beaten almost daily. These were not good conditions.”

The shake of Katie’s head and grim repose of her mouth communicated sympathy. “I’ll probably say this a dozen more times throughout this interview, Jaspar, but I just can’t imagine what that would be like. No one watching tonight can. That’s one of the reasons we’re so appreciative of your willingness—and Jenn’s—to be here today to share your story.”

Jaspar and Jenn exchanged a not-so-private look that now questioned that decision.

“In the book, you state that on the night you were moved, you believed you were being taken out of the city, into the Atlas Mountains.”

“Yes,” Jaspar confirmed.

“It’s astounding how, despite being battered, emotionally-overwrought, and frightened, you were able to deduce that.”

Jaspar gave her a blank look.

“How did you deduce that?”

Jaspar cleared his throat. “Of course I couldn’t see a thing. But I could hear traffic patterns, the change in sound the tires made when we moved from pavement to gravel. Based on how long it took us to reach the final destination, I made an educated guess.”

“Well, you are a writer,” Katie responded, her tone sunny and complimentary. “I suppose you’re used to observing and researching and using clues to get at the truth.”

“Uh, yes, I guess that’s true.”

“Of course, it wasn’t until much, much later, when you finally made your escape from the place you’ve called ‘the rectangle,’ that you knew you were right?”

Jaspar shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Jenn laid her right hand over the fingers of his left, which were franticly at work on the keys Katie had given him earlier. “That’s right,” he agreed.

“You describe—in the book—the area as being remote, somewhere in the foothills of the High Atlas Mountains.”

“Yes.”

“After your escape from the rectangle, you wandered aimlessly until you found a small Berber village, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

Katie inspected Jaspar with a keen eye, curious but not entirely surprised by the typically eloquent man’s sudden lackluster ability to elaborate. She tried again with another leading question. “You found help in the village and eventually hitched a ride back to Marrakech?”

“Yes.”

“Jaspar, I know this may be difficult for you, but I wonder if you’d mind taking us back: to the time before you escaped, to the time you spent inside the rectangle. Why did you call it that, anyway?”

“The rectangle.” Jaspar repeated the name, eyes and voice deadened, the only liveliness coming from his left hand as he manipulated the keys, threading them under and over his fingers like some kind of parlor game. “It was shaped like a giant shoe box,” he finally uttered, “four walls with a metal grate for a lid. Like someplace you’d keep a hamster.”

“Is that how you felt? Like a pet? Being kept in a box for the kidnapper’s pleasure?”

“No. Pets are cared for, played with, loved. I was just…being stored. Until they could figure out what to do with me.” Jaspar allowed Jenn to pull the keys from his hand. His eyes followed to where she placed them at rest on a side table.

“But things were different in the rectangle, compared to where you were held in Marrakech?”

“Yes. The rectangle was considerably larger. The grate roof allowed in light, sunshine, fresh air. My restraints were removed. I was free to walk around. The beatings stopped. There was more food and water. Eventually a lot more, as you’ll read about in the book.”
Why isn’t she talking about the book?

Katie referred to her notes and recited a list: “No TV, no internet, no books, no real bed to sleep in?”

“I had none of those things.”

“For months.” Katie’s voice communicated her incredulity.

He nodded. “For months.”

“Do you—and I’m sorry for having to ask you this—but you’ve talked openly about your battle with maintaining sanity in what, I know everyone watching tonight will agree, were dreadful circumstances,” she said, wanting to circle back to the topic she needed him to talk about. “Jaspar, as you sat there—in the rectangle, day in, day out, waiting for who knows what, scared for your life, worrying about Jenn, about your friends and family back home, knowing they probably thought you were dead—do you believe this was when you slowly began to slip away from sanity? When you began to escape into what you’ve referred to as dreamscape reality?”

Having lost confidence in his responses, Jaspar considered his answer carefully before making a reply. “I don’t know if it was an escape so much as a crucial mental adjustment. My dreamscape reality became a necessity of life. It was as essential as breathing and eating and sleeping. I needed to allow my brain to do what it needed to do…” Momentarily overcome, Jaspar swallowed hard, attempted to continue, swallowed again, then: “…so I could make it through another day.”

Jenn watched her husband through silent tears.

Katie nodded. “So even though your physical body was healing, even though you were being fed more, you weren’t tied up, you had more space and light, despite all of that, there really was nothing—other than being set free—that could even begin to heal the extreme emotional and mental damage that had been inflicted upon you. And I’m not just talking about the kidnapping and torture,” Katie hesitated here to emphasize her point, “but
everything
that had happened to you. To Jenn. To your daughter. For months and months and months.”

Jaspar kept his eyes on Katie, cementing them there, as if letting go would surely mean he’d be set adrift and forever lost. She was doing something to him, he knew that much. Either he needed to trust her, and hold on for dear life, or let go and get as far away from her as possible.