Chapter 18
AMY
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I pace the room, burning with rage. They haven’t given me anything to keep me occupied.
No TV, no magazines, nothing to pass the torturous shuffle of time.
Worst of all is the sense of disorientation.
The room is so thoroughly boarded up it’s difficult to tell night from day.
The only way to vaguely track time is by the delivery of my meals.
The door opens to reveal Jill with my lunch, a baked potato hugging a slice of browning avocado. Through the hole in her ski mask, a nasty smile twists her lips. “Brought you your change of clothes, Highness Hutchinson.”
Ignoring the taunt, I take the proffered bundle of clothes.
We stare at one another in silence. It appears Jill isn’t leaving until she’s witnessed my reaction.
Preparing myself, I lay out the orange sweatpants and orange shirt on the bed.
A traffic cone. That’s exactly what I’ll look like if I wear them.
This, I guess, is the intention. The witch. The scheming, devious, insecure witch.
I smile at Jill. “Orange is my color. You should steer clear of it though. It will make your skin look even more sallow.”
A spark of fury ignites Jill’s eyes. “You’re so skinny, I don’t know if the clothes will fit. The results will be interesting.” She pivots on her heel and exits the room, leaving her animosity behind like a rancid scent.
I drop down on the edge of the bed, my shoulders slumping.
Amy, you fool. As if this is a battle you stand a chance of winning.
I’m bitterly aware that Jill and the man control everything, from what I eat to what I wear to when I will be freed.
I shouldn’t have antagonized her. I should’ve played my role of submissive victim.
Then I remember Monday, how I groveled and cried and begged them not to hurt me.
All that sniveling subservience, however, hadn’t helped me.
I had still been injected with some paralyzing drug.
I recall the helpless sensation of losing all feeling in my body, giving me an unnerving glimpse into the trapped existence of my mother.
In all my life no one has ever set out to deliberately and willfully harm me like that. My father’s prestige always served as a sort of protective barrier. Now I’m at the mercy of people who are ruthless, sadistic and, yes, certifiable.
I was left alone most of Tuesday, still too shaken to get out of bed. I refused to touch the food brought to me, ignoring the silent, condemning figure of Jill standing over me.
When I woke up this morning, anger warred with depression. How dare these people think they can do whatever they want to me? How dare they keep me here?
As the afternoon stretches in front of me, I feel my temper flaring as high as the temperature in the room. Yet I have to admonish myself to watch my mouth. If I respond every time Jill or Barry baits me, I’ll only make matters worse for myself.
A sour smell suddenly assaults my nostrils. To my shock, I realize it’s me. I need a bath, but there’s no bathroom door and the man calling himself Barry can walk in anytime. Not that he’s even bothered to show his face, not since Monday, the coward.
A wisp of an idea dangles in front of me.
I stride to the bed and throw off the covers. Grunting with effort, I drag the mattress to the door, barring the way in. I do the same with the base of the bed. For good measure, I add the bedside table and plastic chair to the mix. By the time I’m finished building my barricade, I’m sweating.
Opening the faucets to fill the bath, I strip off my clothes, washing them with soap in the basin and hanging them over the towel rail to dry. With a flicker of triumph, I lower myself into the bath, sighing in satisfaction as the tepid water laps my body.
I close my eyes, the drip drip of water from my clothes onto the bathroom tiles the only sound rupturing the stillness. I wonder if they’ve contacted my father and what his reaction was.
Hovering in the back of my mind is the possibility my kidnappers might kill me.
How will they do it? Quickly? Painfully?
If I die, who will miss me? My father, of course.
He’ll be devastated. Who else? I flick through a mental database of family and friends, feeling something stir inside me when I realize I can come up with only a pitiful number of names.
Reeling myself back from that depressing train of thought, I soap myself and wash my hair. After I climb out of the bath, I don Jill’s fashion-disaster outfit. The clothes hang shapelessly on me and I don’t need a mirror to tell me how awful I look.
Then I hear the snap of a lock being undone.
My heart falters as the door opens and encounters the makeshift barricade.
It’s too late now to put back the furniture. I hurry to a corner of the room and sink to the floor. I hear Jill swear, then the whump-whump of her throwing her body against the door, trying to shift the pileup of furniture. Her shouting grows louder.
I hear Jill call out, “Kane!” Then the answering baritone of his voice.
Astonishment shoots through me. Despite this whole setup, they’re amateurs. Should I be relieved? Or should that scare me even more?
Judging by the noise outside, I’m guessing that Barry—no, Kane, I must remember to disclose that detail to the police—is adding his weight to the door. After that, it’s easy, the whole barricade shifts and Kane and Jill burst into the room.
“What are you playing at?” Jill demands, her eyes glittering through the ski mask.
My lips are so stiff I have difficulty shaping the words. “I needed a bath.”
“And what, you decided to do some construction work beforehand?”
“There’s no bathroom door. I wanted some privacy.”
Jill’s hands fist at her sides. The look in her eyes is disbelieving. “Privacy! You think this is some kind of spa holiday?”
“I only—”
The slap is stinging. “Shut up!”
Pressing my palm to my throbbing cheek, I stare up at her in shock.
“I don’t care about your privacy! Don’t you ever do that again!”
“I won’t,” I whisper.
“You sure, princess?” Jill raises her hand and I cringe, hating myself for showing fear.
Kane catches Jill’s wrist. “That’s enough.”
She jerks her arm out of his grasp. “You deal with her. If I stay here another minute I’ll do something I’ll regret.” She stalks off, cursing colorfully under her breath.
After the door slams behind her, I say to Kane, “I wasn’t setting out to cause trouble. I just didn’t want you walking in on me while I was having a bath.”
I fully expect him to take a turn at castigating me.
Instead, he sits opposite me, drawing his legs up and resting his elbows on his knees.
“I’ll give you a piece of paper,” he tells me in a quiet voice.
“If you’re undressing or in the bath, stick it under the door. I’ll know then not to disturb you.”
My heart races at this unexpected gift. “Thank you.”
His eyes narrow. “If you abuse this privilege even once, I won’t offer it again. Understood?”
“Yes.”
“And no more stunts like the one you pulled now.”
“No more stunts,” I agree. “What about Jill? I don’t think she’ll be happy with this.”
“I’ll talk to her.”
I touch my cheek. “She hit me. There was no need for that.”
Kane offers no apology. “You scared her, and that made her angry. Her first thought was that you’d committed suicide.”
I still. From conversational bits and pieces, I know they’ve done their homework on me, but surely they have no idea what happened. Dad covered it up so well. I force myself to say carelessly, “I’m not the suicidal type.”
“I know. You’re more the escaping type.”
It’s said without rancor and I think how odd it is to be having this conversation with him, as if we’re two strangers parrying pleasantries, only he’s hiding his face and I can’t leave the room.
Kane pulls out a miniature recorder and piece of paper from his pocket. “I want you to read this aloud.”
So much for pleasantries. I take the paper from him and scan the contents. It’s a message to my father, reassuring him I’m all right and urging him to concede quickly to their demands.
“You contacted my father?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say? Is he okay?”
“Everything’s fine.”
“Please.”
After a minute, Kane says gruffly, “He’s worried about you, he wanted my assurance you’re all right, and I assume he’s processing our demands.”
I rub my arms to ward off the image his words evoke. “Poor Daddy.”
At my words, a shuttered look enters his eyes.
I say defensively, “You’re wrong about my father.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yes,” I insist. “He’s not this monster experimenter you seem to think he is.”
“Let’s see how well you know him, shall we,” Kane says conversationally. “You know the name of the institute your father works at?”
“Of course,” I answer warily, wondering where he’s going with this. Wherever it is, I’m not sure I want to follow.
“Humor me.”
“The Galen Research Institute.”
“You know who Galen is?” he asks in the same casual tone.
“My father referred to Galen and Hippocrates as the fathers of ancient medicine.”
“Your father is right.” Kane stretches out his legs. “Galen was one of the first experimental physiologists. He’s still revered for his anatomical discoveries. You heard of Galen’s nerve?”
I shake my head.
“It’s the laryngeal nerve. Named after him. You want to know why?”
“Not particularly,” I reply stiffly, tired of this.
He ignores my lack of interest. “Galen is famous for his public dissections of live animals. In one dissection of a pig, he took his time locating and cutting the pig’s nerves. Finally he severed the laryngeal nerve and the pig stopped squealing.”
I can’t help flinching. “My father is not Galen,” I say slowly.
“Your father has stated publicly his admiration of Galen.”
My only response is a defensive silence.
That doesn’t seem to deter Kane. “One particular area Galen concentrated on was the spinal cord and spinal nerves. Just like Daddy,” he adds softly.