Chapter 18 #2
I fight to keep my composure. What can I say?
I can’t argue a subject I’m ignorant about.
But I know my father. He’s not a man capable of cruelty.
I’m certain any experiments he performs are necessary for his research.
I’m also certain he uses anesthetic in surgeries and administers pain-relief medication afterward.
Really, this man hasn’t done his homework.
Having made his point, Kane sets up the recorder and points to the piece of paper. “Let’s get on with it.”
It takes three tries before he’s satisfied. In the first attempt, he complains I sound too emotionless. In the second, too cheerful. He seems pleased only when I stumble over my words and there’s a slight quaver to my voice.
When we’ve finished, Kane packs away the recorder. “It gets pretty hot in here,” he says abruptly. “Would you like a fan?”
“Yes.” Grudgingly, I add, “Thank you.”
He stands and turns toward the door.
“Wait!” I scramble to my feet. “There’s nothing to do and it’s driving me crazy. Do you have a spare TV you can put in here?”
An incredulous laugh bursts out of him. “Forget it. I’m not bringing you a TV.”
“But—”
“You want to guess how Jill will react when you’re lounging in here watching your soaps?”
“But you’re in charge,” I persist. “If you say it’s okay, what can she do?”
“Don’t,” Kane warns, his tone hard. “Don’t play us against one another.” The despondency must show on my face because he exhales in irritation and says, “I’ll bring you some books.”
I grimace. “I’m not really the bookworm type. What about magazines?”
There’s a long pause. Finally he asks, “What sort of magazines do you read?”
“Cosmopolitan, People, Heat. No car magazines though, and no handyman or parenting ones.”
There’s another long pause. I start to wonder if he has some sort of speech defect.
“I’ll find something to keep you occupied,” he says at last.
“Thank you...Barry.”
His reply is soft. “Call me Kane.”
So Jill’s slip didn’t go unnoticed. My tongue is so dry it scuffs the roof of my mouth. I don’t even have it in me to pretend ignorance. “I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”
His eyes bore into mine with an intensity that stirs a nervous flutter inside my stomach. “Never make a promise you have no intention of keeping.”
Not waiting for a response, he leaves the room.
While I wait for him to return, I put the various pieces of furniture back in place.
I’m sitting on the bed, sipping warm water, when Kane walks in holding a stand-up fan in one hand and a bulging bag in the other.
He upends the bag and a pile of books and pamphlets fall onto the bed.
I frown. “What is this?”
“Non-fiction,” he replies, plugging in the fan and switching it on. “It’ll be a new experience for you.”
Relishing the cool breeze on my face, I ignore the dig and pick up a book.
Boredom might push me to read anything, even non-fiction.
I glance at the title. Slaughter of the Innocent.
I frown. I would prefer a more light-hearted read, like a celebrity biography.
Turning the book over, one sentence catches my eye: “The first book to expose vivisection as a scientific fraud.”
Oh, no, he isn’t.
I search through the rest of the books and pamphlets spread out on the bed, the titles jumping out at me—Free the Animals. Animal Rights and Wrongs. Animal Dissection: Counterfeit Science. Xenotransplantation.
Anger bubbles up inside me. “What have you brought me?”
“You want me to explain what a book is?”
“You know what I mean. What are you trying to do—indoctrinate me?”
“Think of it more as an enlightening.”
“My mind is fine as it is.”
“You know, Amy, there’s a world out there beyond Prada.”
I stiffen. He’s so full of self-righteous judgment I wish he’d choke on it.
He doesn’t know me; he doesn’t know anything about me.
Anyway, why am I getting myself so worked up about his opinion of me?
In two weeks’ time, he’ll be in a cell fighting it out with hundreds of other prisoners awaiting trial. Let’s see how superior he feels then.
Kane picks up one of the books and fans the pages. “Afraid of what you might read in here?”
“No.”
“So what’s stopping you?”
I cross my arms. “Forget it.” He must think I’m stupid. I know vaguely about Patty Hearst, how a kidnapped heiress was brainwashed into becoming a gun-toting terrorist. That’s not going to happen to me.
He shrugs, as if my refusal means nothing to him. “You asked for something to relieve the boredom. This is all you get.” He heads toward the door.
“You can take this...this propaganda with you,” I call after him. “I won’t read any of it!”
“The books are staying,” Kane says. “Try learning something for a change.” On that derisive comment, he closes the door behind him.
After he’s gone, I sit there, fuming. What a cheap trick.
I stare at the books and pamphlets scattered in front of me.
I pick one up gingerly. Leafing through it, a black-and-white photograph of a beagle with one side of its body covered in burns leaps out at me.
I slap the pages closed. I’m already feeling down and reading these will only sink my spirits deeper.
But I’m really, really bored.
An idea crawls into my head.
No, Amy, no, I plead with myself.
I have to be careful here. I’m already on a slippery ledge. My back talk, the barricade incident, plus the fact I now know my kidnapper’s real name are all glaring indicators I shouldn’t be taking any more chances.
But then I think of my pathetically grateful reaction when Kane offered me a measure of privacy, a right that isn’t even his to grant in the first place.
What next? I berate myself. Am I going to thank him for abducting me? I don’t want to be the archetypal abused victim, in the end so grateful the punch is a mild one.
I pick up a thick tome of a book. And very slowly, very deliberately, I open it up at the first page.