Water (4 page)
I jumped and recovered too slowly, "Do what?"
He looked at me with his hand on his hip, as if debating whether or not to elaborate. "Never mind. Here."
He placed a paper plate with one small sandwich on the floor in between us. I didn’t hesitate; I was starving and had he been any closer I would have shoved him back to get to the food. The meat was too thin and dry, but it tasted like heaven. He watched as I gulped down the sandwich in three bites, then inspected the plate for crumbs. Finished, I realized what I must have looked like, kneeling at his feet practically begging for nourishment in any form. I wasn’t going to give him or anyone here the satisfaction.
Starting now
.
Wiping my mouth, I cleared my throat and slowly stood. I walked over to the chair that kept me hostage for so long, and took a deep breath.
Nothing will faze me
. I sat down, crossed my legs and began toying with one of the straps that had chaffed my wrist raw. "So, Micah – like the stone?"
"Yes, like the stone." His expression matched his name. He walked toward one wall of the lab, keeping his distance, and leaned against it. His posture was misleading. The muscles on his forearms, tense with well-defined lines gave him away. He was ready for action.
But why?
We remained in silence, stealing quick glances at each other. The awkward tension only increased each time one of us was caught mid-stare.
He was handsome, in a rough, construction worker sort of way. Passing him on the street any other day I would have pegged him as a blue-collared worker, with a couple days worth of stubble on his upper lip, cheeks and chin and short hair that seemed like it would be unkempt if only a little longer. He looked just a few years older than me, but the deep lines etched in his face could have rivaled those of my late father’s.
Our eyes continued to play hide and seek, darting in for a quick look, then out again. Neither of us turned our heads away; that would have been considered backing down, as silly as it was. Finally, we caught each other at the right moment, and once we did, it wasn’t easy to let go. His eyes were a startling color of green. They were hypnotizing, holding me hostage more effectively than the bonds I toyed with. An Afghan refugee girl who famously graced the cover of the 1985 June issue of National Geographic had similar eyes. I kept the photograph tucked away in my camera bag and referred to it whenever I shot people, always attempting to capture the same breathtaking effect. Her eyes emanated a strength that endured the hardships of a war-torn country and would endure whatever else the world would throw her way with dignity and grace. I saw the same magic in his eyes, though there was nothing feminine about it. They exuded warmth that invited you in but were hardened enough to keep you humble during your stay. What I would have given to photograph him as a farmer hard at work in his field. Or maybe in a coal mine – his eyes would have glowed in contrast to the murky shadows of the dirty tunnels.
Of course, his involvement with my kidnapping severed any potential working relationship.
His loss
. I cleared my throat and attempted to negotiate my freedom, "So, what is it you want from me? Money? That can be arranged…"
"This isn’t about money, Kaitlyn." He looked bored of the negotiations already.
"My blood? They’ve already taken plenty of it."
He yawned, "We didn’t bring you here to kill you."
Okay, different tactic.
"I would appreciate some information here. There will be people looking for me. My dog needs to be taken care of."
"You have no pets; and no one will be looking for you." Micah appeared to be well engaged in cleaning his fingernails, and I was getting irritated.
"I do have a life to get back to, you know."
He raised his eyebrow at me as if he knew I was fibbing.
"Well, I do. I have….I have…"
"Yes?"
I pulled my shoulders back. "I have plants that need watering."
He actually laughed.
Time to up my game.
"My father has some very powerful connections in the FBI. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if they already found me." I stood up to face him full on and raised my voice, "If you don’t let me go,
right now
, I will…"
"Your parents are dead." The bluntness of his statement shocked me into silence. The ‘no pets’ could have been just a good guess, but not this. They knew me well.
A look of guilt flashed across his eyes , but it was gone before I could be sure. His stony expression resumed its proper place.
After several deep, calming breaths, I spoke again, "Why am I here?"
"You are here, Kaitlyn, because you are needed."
Needed.
Hearing that word come from him sent chills down my spine. It was menacing, foreboding, and exciting all at once.
"Needed, how?" I asked
"That explanation is best left for others to give."
I let out an exasperated sigh and started pacing the room. "Well what explanations
can
you give me? How do you know my name? How did you find me in the middle of an avalanche? When do you plan on letting me leave?"
He didn’t necessarily address my questions. "Your apartment has been taken care of," he said. "The plants were donated to an elementary school and everything else is in storage. Final bills have been paid and your mail has been put on hold."
"My, my….what? You were in my apartment?" I stuttered. The skin on the back of my neck prickled and a chill went down my spine. Somehow every single private aspect of my life was attended to by captors I didn’t know. The invasion was more disturbing than the fact that I was kidnapped at all. "What in the hell is going on?"
He studied my reaction, considered it, and moved on. "I did bring you one thing from home." He reached into his cargo pocket and produced a small, very well-used notebook. "Interesting stuff in here. You might want to take the time to revisit it."
He set it on a table by the door, and left the room without glancing back. The door swung shut, and three loud beeps echoed through the room. I took a few steps closer until two very distinct words in my handwriting were visible.
Dream Log.
I picked up the book and turned to the door, still closed tight, "You just stay out of my…" I glanced at a pair of used, stained pants lying on top of the pile of clothes on the floor, "…head!"
Neither the door or the person on the other side responded. I huffed, then returned to my chair, hugging the book tightly to my chest.
Tree Huggers
There was more blood work, followed by a jaunt on a treadmill long enough to let me know I was in decent shape. Lugging that heavy camera pack around the world apparently did my body good. Guards escorted me back to the ‘white’ room, which now came complete with a barred window, and left me alone. Without even checking to see if the door was locked behind me, I collapsed on the bed. I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.
What felt like five minutes later, I was awoken by a rough shake of my shoulder. "Kaitlyn, wake up. Wake up!"
I turned, eyes not opened to more than a squint, seeing Micah’s blurred face. I groaned, threw a pillow over my head and went back to convincing myself this was all a bad dream. A very long, bad dream.
He only shook me harder. "Come on, you’ve been sleeping for 12 hours now."
"And before that I was awake for 72, so let me sleep for another 12," I said through the pillow. "Or better yet – go kidnap someone else. I’ve got no more blood to donate to your cause. Whatever
that
is."
"There is food," Micah said.
That did get my attention. I was starving. Reluctantly, I gave in and got out of the bed, my growling stomach leading the way.
Micah walked out of the room, motioning for me to follow. We went up a flight of stairs and into a spacious, commercial-looking kitchen. It felt weird to be walking around without guards. It felt weird to be walking around at all, instead of being tethered to a hard, straight back chair. He didn’t give me time to adjust, instead leading me to a small table with two stools and a plate with nothing more than a sandwich and sliced oranges. My stomach growled. It still looked like a feast to me. I dived in, swallowing the food in huge gulps, sputtering a bit after each bite.
The plate empty, I finally straightened.
"Won’t you sit down?" he asked, sarcastically cordial as I realized I hadn’t even taken the time to do that.
I slowly sank into the chair. "Is there any more food?"
Micah walked over to a refrigerator, almost bare of food, and pulled out the fixings for another sandwich. "Mayo? Mustard?"
"Yes – both." The more calories I could get my hands on, the better.
I couldn’t take my eyes off his hands as he made the sandwich. Deeply tanned and wrinkled, they showed evidence of long hours outside. His knuckles were knobby and his palms calloused. For a split second, I had a flash of those hands around my body, caressing me, possessing me fully. A shiver ran its way down my spine.
"Are you okay?" Micah stood over me with a new plate of food. His eyes had the usual effect. I couldn’t pull myself away, even to take the plate from him. I was still staring and miscalculated the distance. Our hands brushed. A spark jumped from his skin to mine, and the heat traveled straight to my core, warming me.
"Yes." I cleared my throat and with a monumental effort, and broke our gaze. I set the plate down in front of me slowly, trying to regain my composure. After years of a stubborn resistance to people in general, the alienation caused a simple brush of hands to leave me aching for more skin to skin contact, in any form. Once, I had gone so far as to buy a dress two sizes too big, just so I could go to the old Vietnamese seamstress who owned a shop down the street and feel her hands working the seams of the dress. Paying for a massage did come to mind as a less insane option, but it didn’t have the same effect as the indifferent handling of her gentle pinches, smoothing, and firm tugging I felt through the fabric. Afterwards, I recalled with a growing sickness what I had to do for the intimate contact every human body craved. Yet, I made it an annual tradition. As my wardrobe of perfectly fitted, unused dresses grew, I was able to curb any desire for close contact with a once per year treat.
Micah would be the undoing of such carefully thought out control. I stared hard at the sandwich, willing myself not to look up at him again, lest my thoughts show on my face. A green, furry spot on the bread came into focus. I grimaced.
Distraction achieved.
"This bread is moldy."
He shrugged his shoulders, unconcerned, "The Seven doesn’t have a lot of funding. We take what we can get."
"The Seven?" I tore off the bad part and studied the rest for any more mold. Satisfied, I finished the sandwich in three bites.
"The Seven is what we call our organization."
Before I could question him further, he removed my empty plate, replacing it with a granola bar and juice box. "You can eat this on the way, there’s someone you need to meet." With that he left the kitchen and I had no choice but to follow with my snack, happy as a preschooler. I was grateful his back was to me instead of those dangerous eyes. Despite myself, I continued staring at his hands, trying to think up some small accident that might cause them to reach out to me again.
What is wrong with me?
Micah was like a drug – a very good drug. The kind that prowled the streets of Seattle, enticing young and old, weak and strong. The addiction had no preference in victims so long as they succumbed.
I shook off the thought.
Yes
.
A very dangerous man, that one. Keep telling yourself that.
We walked down a long hallway to a double doorway at the end. Micah pushed the doors open and I paused to look at the intricate carvings in the wood. There were a number of Celtic knots looping and weaving their way around the edge of the doors, and the same strange symbol in the center of each.
"Carved them myself out of reclaimed wood," Micah commented, puffing out his chest and straightening his back. He traced the strange symbol with his finger. "This is the Spiral of Life; it is drawn from a single line with no beginning or end."
"Hmm." I tried to appear mildly interested, but the last drops of grape juice were good at evading the straw.
He eventually snapped himself out of it and pushed me forward into the room.
I looked around, absorbing as much as I could. Floor to ceiling bookshelves lined the walls, most of them sagging under the weight of thousands of books, shoved into every nook and cranny the room had to offer. They covered every available flat surface. Couches, tables, and desks; even the floor had piles of books I had to weave my way past. Topographical maps, oceanography maps, statistical maps, maps of the world, and maps of individual cities throughout the world were strewn over, under, and hanging out from between the books. In the few spaces still available there were globes, microscopes, and jars of what looked like different dirt and water samples. Nothing appeared to be in any sort of order.
