Chapter 10 AMY
AMY
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I’m still reeling, trying to take in my kidnapper’s words.
A group has kidnapped me, not just one man who would be easier to manipulate.
Now I have to contend with who knows how many of these animal rights people.
Not that I know anything about animal rights.
The only rights I’ve ever fought for have been my own—the right to date older boys and the right to spend my allowance as I saw fit.
My only opponent was my father and he didn’t put up much of a fight.
I recall an incident mentioned at some or other charity luncheon I yawned my way through. One of the ladies there revealed she had her mink coat spray-painted by a lunatic woman she dubbed a bunny-hugger. Everyone at the table laughed at the description, including myself. But I’m not laughing now.
The man sitting in front of me doesn’t look the type to cuddle bunnies.
As I study the implacable line of his mouth and the cynical glint in his eyes, he seems the type who won’t compromise on a cause.
All his words and actions so far point to a fanatic.
Although I have no insight into the psychology of a zealot, I know they are capable of awful things, prepared to go to jail or even die for their cause.
That adds a far more frightening dimension to this situation.
Before either of us can say anything further, the door opens.
A woman wearing a scrap of a sundress enters the room, closing the door behind her.
She’s tanned and shapely, but I can’t tell if she’s beautiful because a black ski mask covers her head.
A ski mask that looks incongruous with her summery outfit.
She’s carrying a tray of food and the smell causes my stomach to growl. I realize I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday afternoon and I’m suddenly starving. The tray is deposited with a careless thunk on the bedside table.
“Lunch,” the woman announces in a husky voice, her hostility pervading the room like black smoke, swirling over everything.
I look over at what constitutes my lunch. A bowl of mush and a green apple for dessert.
“Lentil stew,” explains the kidnapper.
Of course. No meat here.
The woman saunters over to where the man sits, standing behind him and resting a hand on his shoulder. A proprietary gesture. They’re obviously in some sort of relationship, and I can’t help feeling I should be careful around her.
Too hungry to wait for them to leave, I settle the tray on my lap and stick a forkful of stew into my mouth. Although lukewarm, it tastes surprisingly good.
“Have you sorted things out with her yet?” the woman asks.
Things? What things?
He shakes his head. “I thought I’d let you handle it.”
“Let’s get started then.”
She reaches for my handbag on the man’s lap and pulls out my cell phone and appointment book. “Okay, Highness Hutchinson, time to barter.”
What on earth do I possess that they can possibly want? Thanks to them, all I have on me right now are the clothes on my back.
“Information for certain privileges,” the woman elaborates, looking at me with a malicious sheen to her eyes.
My appetite abruptly desserts me. So much for brown eyes being warm and friendly. I return the tray with its half-finished meal to the bedside table, placing the apple in the drawer, intending to save it for later.
“What do you want to know?” I ask.
“Your cleaner came today. Obviously, you aren’t home. Is that a problem for her?”
“If I answer your questions, what sort of privileges do I get?”
“Material ones.”
“Like?” I prompt.
“Things you need—clothes, toothpaste.” She doesn’t sound happy. She motions to the man in the chair. “You can thank him, it’s his idea. Me? I’m all for roughing you up a bit if you don’t cooperate.”
I gape at her, shocked at the violence in her tone.
The man says sharply, “That’s enough.” He fixes his gaze on me. “Tell us about the cleaner.”
“I want a change of clothes,” I say.
He gives a brief nod. “Done.”
“That includes new underwear,” I dare, holding my breath.
“Fine,” he agrees impatiently. “The cleaner?”
“Mavis comes in every day. She has her own key.”
“Will she worry if you’re not there?”
“No. I’m often not at home.”
“Is her number in your cell phone?”
“Yes.”
He points to a notation in my appointment book. “You’ve got ‘CI’ scheduled for tomorrow at eleven. Who’s CI?”
My cheeks heat up. “Does it matter? I’ll just cancel the appointment.”
But with a spurt of dread, I can see my sidestepping has intrigued him. “It’s easy enough to find out. Who’s CI?”
“It’s not a who, it’s a what.”
“So what is it?”
When I don’t answer, the woman snaps, “Do I get to try my way now? Just a little slap?”
“Give her a moment,” he says.
They both appear interested enough in my answer to keep silent as I flounder.
“It’s an appointment for colonic irrigation,” I say at last.
His eyes widen. “Is that where they shove a hosepipe up your—”
“I wouldn’t necessarily say shove,” I interrupt.
The woman smirks. “You should try cleaning up your diet before cleaning out your colon.”
“All right, let’s not go down there,” he says, shaking his head. He turns a page. “Who’s Gavin?”
And so it continues. They question me about my gardening service, my luncheon appointments, and dinner dates.
With the two of them watching me carefully, I’m forced to cancel everything I have scheduled for the next two weeks.
Then they remove the battery from my phone, the woman muttering something about cell phones being like locator beacons.
The one person I’m not allowed to contact is my father.
“We’ll deal with him,” is the enigmatic answer they give me.
In return for my cooperation, I’m promised a change of clothes, conditioner, a hairbrush, and toothpaste. They won’t budge on the razor.
At one point, the woman says in disgust, “This isn’t a hotel. She should work for these privileges.”
The man’s eyes spark a warning. “Not now.”
“Yes now. It’s about time she learned what hard work is all about.”
“Let it go.”
“What are we now, her personal shoppers? We’re running around after her, just like everybody else.”
Tired of being the invisible third person, I speak up. “My life is not really the way you describe it.”
She turns on me. “We’ve been watching you for weeks, princess. Your life is exactly like that.”
The air leaves my lungs. Weeks.
In a venomous tone, the woman says, “I bet you went to only the best private schools, probably had a few tutors thrown at you to polish you off. Now you’re living off Daddy’s trust fund. His precious little princess has it so easy.”
The words come at me like blades, nicking scars of old wounds. Easy. I remember watching my mother die. Slowly. Each day cutting away another chunk of her wasted body, the veins on her papery skin looking like ruined pipelines trying to contain the outflow of time’s poisons.
The mental death had come first, the giving up on the possibility of a future, her husband and fourteen-year-old daughter not enough to will her to live. The physical death... My mind shies away from that. Some memories are simply too huge to haul out.
An easy life. They don’t know me at all. And they can’t seem to grasp that there are prisons more confining than those made of brick and steel.
Some of my emotions must show on my face because my kidnapper brusquely orders the woman to cut it out.
The two of them retreat to a corner of the room to confer in whispers while I stay seated on the bed. It’s hot in the room, the air stifling. Sweat settles in the curve of my back. I wish I thought to ask for a fan. Looking at my kidnappers, I hope they’re both suffering in those horrible masks.
They had me cancel everything for two weeks. Is that how long they intend to keep me here? Two weeks in this place with the two of them for company. I hope my dad concedes quickly to their demands.
After five more minutes of feeling snubbed by their conspiratorial murmuring, I decide to make an effort to personalize my interactions with them. It makes sense that it will be harder for them to harm me if they see me not just as a hostage but as a person too.
“Excuse me,” I say loudly.
Their bent heads swivel around to look at me.
“If you’re planning on keeping me here awhile, it will be easier if I can call you something.” When their eyes narrow, I add hastily, “Not your real names, of course.”
After a slight hesitation, the man says, “You have a point.” He turns to the woman. “Any preferences?”
“She can call me ma’am. You can go by sir if you want.”
“Choose a name, will you,” he instructs irritably.
“Fine! She can call me Jill, after Jill Phipps.” There’s an edge to her voice when she addresses me.
“Jill was protesting the export of veal calves from the UK’s Coventry Airport.
She was sitting in the middle of the road with other protesters when an export truck failed to stop and crushed her under its wheels. ”
Jill looks at the man. “You have a name yet?”
He shrugs. “You’re obviously on a roll here. You pick one.”
Jill glares at me. “He’ll go by the name of Barry Horne.
Barry was an animal liberation activist who was jailed for eighteen years for arson attacks.
He went on three hunger strikes, trying to persuade the government to review its animal testing procedures.
It was too much for his body and he died in prison. ”
Silence shrouds them. I don’t know what to say. They’re naming themselves after martyrs. It’s not a good sign.
Dumping my handbag in the trash, Barry walks over to where I’m sitting, towering over me so I’m forced to tilt my head back to look at him. “You want to hand over that fork you palmed,” he says, almost gently.
Without a word, I open the drawer and give him the fork I stashed next to the apple.
Our gazes lock. “Let’s get this over with.”
Before I can absorb his words, he seizes my arm and pulls me upright. Jill materializes on my other side and takes hold of my arm above the elbow, her grip a little too tight.
“What are you doing? Where are you taking me?” I ask, my stomach plunging and my voice rising as they propel me toward the door.
They don’t answer. Their grim silence frightens me. Even Jill doesn’t seize the opportunity to jeer something derogatory at me. Suddenly the room, which seemed so unlivable a moment ago, now taunts me with its safe familiarity.
On their way out, Barry scoops up the trash can and deposits it outside the door, making sure I can’t retrieve any of the items inside. That is, if I ever come back.
“Wait! Please!” I plead. “Where are we going? What are you going to do to me?”
When they remain silent, I try to pull my arms free, but they simply tighten their hold as they hustle me down a carpeted hallway.
What does he want to get over with? Hurting me? Killing me? I try to take comfort in the fact that this man professes to care for animals. People are more important than animals, I reason, even as panic clutches my throat, so surely he won’t harm me.
A door on my right is slightly ajar and I catch a glimpse inside. My eyes widen. Toys are stacked on a shelf and there are Winnie the Pooh stickers on the wall.
The room belongs to a child.
It doesn’t make sense, I think wildly. None of it makes any sense.
Barry and Jill jerk me forward, forcing me to match their brisk pace. It’s as if they don’t want me to observe too much. But why not blindfold me?
Unless, my mind whispers on a shudder, it no longer matters what I see.
I’ve been pretty much running on bravado, but now my heart is beating too fast and tears are threatening to spill over. My chest burns with the effort of holding myself together.
They usher me into a dark room at the end of the hallway. Jill switches on a light. When I glimpse what’s inside the room, my legs collapse in terror.