Chapter Two
Phoenix
“Two weeks and a day.” The low, drawling voice is raspier than it had been before, but it’s such a fucking goddamned welcome sound. I can almost feel Jackson’s sigh stirring the air as he adds, “It was January 19 th , so it’s been fifteen days. Two weeks, plus one more day toward a damned third that I’ve been here.”
The room, or whatever space we’re in beyond the bars of my cage, had been dark and gloomy. But now it’s lightening up to simply gloomy, so I suppose that means the start of another day.
One day for me, fifteen for Jackson. An improbable burble of laughter tries to crawl up my throat as I contemplate whether it would be worth the effort and splinters of using my fingernails to gouge tally marks into the plywood floor of my cage to keep track of my days of captivity. Hopefully, this whole nightmare mess will be over quickly—a day or two for the kidnappers to contact my father with their demands, a swift transfer of the requested money, then transporting me to whatever agreed upon extraction site, and…off and away I’d be back to my safe, cozy life.
But in reality, I have no idea how long my ordeal could last. Surely, the kidnappers had some sort of plan in place before they’d snatched me, but what if they don’t? What if they don’t know how to contact my father? What if he thinks their claims are a hoax? He would check them out for certain, but he won’t act until he concludes without a doubt that I’m not simply holed up somewhere safe and sound.
Shit! I came to Rio to attend a house party and had planned on being incommunicado for a full week which my father is well aware of. And the house party is being hosted by someone I’m only vaguely familiar with, full of other people I’m only on loose acquaintance with. None of them will miss me when I don’t show up; they’ll just assume I changed my mind or found some other party to go to instead. Which means it could be at least a week and possibly longer before somebody even notices I’m missing.
The whole scene—loud, crowded parties, filled with glittery, self-absorbed people only looking for the next thrill, the next high, the next scandal—had already been getting tired for me. When I first started hitting the rounds, using the parties as a means of ditching my daily stresses and responsibilities for a short while, I’d done so with my best friend, Hadley. But ever since he fucked off to London for his dream job, it had just been me flying solo to these parties. And lately chasing after the fun has started to seem more like work than relaxation.
Or maybe, it’s not Hadley’s company I’m missing. Maybe, at the ripe age of 29, I’m just getting too old for that brand of hedonistic fun.
The money component of all this, I don’t question. That will be handled as quickly as electronically possible; my parents will see to that. But the rest of it… What if I wind up stuck in this fucking cage long enough that I’d be grateful for a physical record of how many days have passed?
Without giving it much more thought—I’d only wind up freaking out and spiraling downward into a quagmire of choking panic if I did—I half shimmy, half slide to one back corner of my cage and dig my thumbnail into the plywood, carving a shallow but clear, jagged line into its surface. As anticipated, the jagged material of the board pokes and jabs into the delicate skin just beneath the protective edge of my nail. Then I make a second one, right next to the first, to mark the start of a second day of being in a cage.
“Phoenix? Hey, Phoenix… Sorry about, you know…the whole going radio silent thing. Phoenix? Phoenix?”
At Jackson’s call, I make my way back toward the front of the cage. Not that it’s big enough to make much of a difference. Moving myself to the front is probably more a psychological trick to feel closer to the only human contact I’ve had since waking up in this living purgatory than a logistical necessity.
I spent some of the silent night repeatedly counting how many metal bars made up the enclosure of my cage. Forty-eight. There are forty-eight metal bars making up my jail, each spaced about six inches apart.
They aren’t all uniform; some seem older than the others, with bits of rust streaking along the jagged grooves in the metal surface. And having had plenty of time in which to examine them in detail, while they’re all about two inches in diameter, the thicknesses of the bars seem to vary by a centimeter here and there. A few have a smoother finish, but most of them are rough, and the welds holding them together are blobby, bumpy, worm-like ropes. It makes me think that my kidnappers, or whoever constructed my cage, scavenged the parts from somewhere and threw it together solely for the purpose of holding me.
My own brain scoffs at me for that bit of ego. Of course, I naturally leap to the conclusion that I’m somehow special, that something was crafted with only me in mind. In truth, I have nothing to go on to make me think I’m not the second, fifth, or even twentieth person they’ve shoved in this homemade metal prison.
Maybe I should just be thankful that they’d made the cage the size they did. I have to angle my 5’10" body a bit diagonally if I want to be able to lay down flat, but at least I’m able to lay down. And while I can’t stand up in it, with the bars only being about 4’ in height, at least I have the option of being able to sit or kneel or crawl. They could’ve made my life even more miserable by making a cage that’s half the size it is.
If I felt at all kindly toward my captor or captors, I’d probably be inclined to think that the generous size of my enclosure is an indicator of their intention to treat me gently while I’m their unwilling guest. I’m not inclined to think kindly toward them, but I’m at least grateful that it doesn’t seem as if physical torture is their intent, or a sought-after side benefit.
“Yeah, I’m here.” My own voice, as I reply, is croaky.
So far, my captors haven’t provided anything to eat or drink and I definitely feel the effects of a dry throat. I also haven’t had anything to eat since yesterday’s lunch. At least, I’m working off the assumption that it was only yesterday when I was taken. I assume that I’d be much hungrier than I currently am, even through the anger, anxiety, and fear, if it was more than twenty-four hours since I’d last eaten.
I hope they are going to actually feed me. The metal bars are one solid length from the top to the bottom of my cage, with no slot for a tray or plate to be slid in. Although, a cup or thermos would probably be able to pass between the bars. Hopefully, I’ll find out how they plan to feed me once somebody, besides Jackson, makes themselves known.
I do not want to contemplate a situation in which I’ll get desperate enough to repurpose the contents of the only other thing in my cage besides myself—a small metal bucket that I’ve already used as a bodily waste container.
“Oh, thank God,” Jackson says, sounding relieved. Then he immediately tries to backtrack with a rambling, disjointed outpouring of words. “No. I mean…not thank God . First, because I’m not a believer. And if I were, I wouldn’t want to blaspheme. But I just meant… I’m not glad you’re still here. I’m not. What kind of a dick would I be if I were glad you were still here? No. I just meant… I don’t want to be alone. I’ve already been stuck here alone and it sucks . I’d rather, for your sake, that you weren’t here. But for my sake, I’m so glad you’re still here.“ There’s the rustling sound of him shifting around again, then he continues in that smooth, drawling accent of his, “Does that make me a dick, after all? I think it makes me sound like a dick. I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean for it to come out the way it did. And speaking of being sorry…I’m sorry. I want to say that again. About not talking for—“
“Jackson,” I interrupt, using his name to stem his flood of words. “Jackson, stop. You don’t need to apologize. I get that it was a bit of a shock. That you hadn’t realized…”
“It was. Oh God, it was.” A soft sigh, then a quietly muttered, “Two weeks…”
I worry Jackson will lapse back into silence, so I’m relieved when he speaks again. Not that I welcome his renewed attempt to apologize for something he doesn’t need to apologize for.
“Still, I am sorry. I wish I could promise that I won’t do it again, but…”
“Jackson. Seriously, stop.” I inject as much of a commanding tone into my voice as I can. “I’m just glad you’re talking to me now. I was worried… I was worried that you might be hurt. That you’d stopped talking because you couldn’t. Because…” I stop before admitting to my greatest worry. That I’d been afraid Jackson had gone silent because he’d been unconscious. Or had died. And how not knowing had made me just about ready to climb out of my skin through those long, long hours of the night.
His voice is warm and soothing as he reassures me. “No. I’m fine. You know…relatively. I’ve got a couple cuts and bruises but nothing, you know…nothing serious.”
Just as I’m about to ask Jackson how he’d gotten his cuts and bruises, there’s a squealing metallic screech, a thud, and the sound of footsteps.
“Shh.” I don’t really need Jackson’s implored shush, the evident arrival of our kidnapper or kidnappers is an obvious sign to stop our conversing. However, I do feel a measure of gratitude and anxiousness over his whispered instruction. “Whatever you do… Don’t ask them questions. Don’t make any demands. Just listen and do whatever they tell you to do. And don’t…don’t freak out. Please don’t freak out. I’m pretty sure these guys are always armed.”
The notion that our kidnappers have guns is not unexpected. One would assume that you don’t go into the ransom-for-money business without the necessary supplies of guns, ropes, something to render your victim unconscious, and, in our case, pre-assembled and installed cages.
Not that he can see me any more than I can see him, but I nod my head once in acknowledgement of Jackson’s warning. No questions, no demands, no anything , other than cooperating with the big, bad guys. Okay. I can do that.
Probably.
As long as I suppress my natural inclination to always try to be in control and in charge of any situation. Or the way I tend to argue with and steamroll anyone who stands in the way of me getting that control.
I hear the jangle of keys, and then a clank and clang. I can’t see what’s going on. Fuck, I wish I could know for sure what the sounds I’m hearing mean. I think it sounds as though another cage is being unlocked and opened. If that is what I’m hearing, that would mean that Jackson is a fellow captive rather than a co-conspirator. Which, despite my more cynical side, is what my gut is telling me.
While the idea of the kidnappers intentionally planting someone in a cage near me to… What? Make me more cooperative? Slip up and pass along crucial business secrets they could leverage to make some extra cash to add to their ransom money? While that idea makes for excellent Hollywood movie fodder, it seems too convoluted of a plot for your everyday, average, real life kidnappers.
So, I’d already been leaning toward trusting that Jackson was swept up in his own ransom scheme. But having possible auditory proof that he’s locked up too? My mind and heart give a pang of relief over having a companion and fellow sufferer in this fucked up situation we’re in.
The kidnapper doesn’t say much as he does whatever it is that he’s doing over by Jackson’s cage. And what he does say, I can’t understand. My foreign language skills are pathetically bad and the few words and phrases I do know are in French, the language I’d theoretically studied in high school. I assume he’s speaking in Spanish or, more likely, Portuguese, as that’s the language spoken by the majority of Brazilians.
Not that I’m automatically assuming my kidnappers are Brazilian; it just seems more likely. They took me soon upon my arrival in that country, instead of nabbing me while I was still in my home state of Rhode Island, or anywhere else in the States. And while I’d probably never know for sure, I don’t have the sense that a lot of time passed while I was unconscious, meaning I’m probably still somewhere in Brazil.
But what does it matter? Why is my mind fixated on debating with myself and trying to unravel the mystery of who my kidnappers are, what nationality they are, and what language the man who’d entered the room is speaking? It’s all trivialities. None of it matters .
What does matter is keeping my wits about me, staying calm, and getting to the other side of this whole shitshow safe and unharmed.
And possibly to help accomplish the same outcome for Jackson if I can.
My sense of time is completely out of whack, but it seems like only five minutes or so that the kidnapper was doing whatever by Jackson before there’s the bang and rattle of him closing up Jackson’s cage. Then he finally makes his way in front of my cage and I see him for the first time. At least, for the first time that I can recall.
He looks to be of average height judging from where I sit in my cage. At least, of a height where his dark brown eyes stare straight dead-on into mine with an empty, emotionless gaze. The kidnapper’s dark hair and medium-toned skin are completely unremarkable. And with no overly apparent distinguishing features—no visible scars, deformities, or tattoos—there’s little to no chance I’ll be able to pick him out of a lineup. He looks like just some average, nondescript, dime-a-dozen, Latino guy in his thirties or early forties.
I expect him to say something to me. A taunt. Some bragging or boasting. Something to show his satisfaction over having so successfully and easily captured me. Gloating. After all, I’m sure he’s anticipating getting an awfully large payday for my return. Something. Anything . I’d heard him talking to Jackson. But to me…he says nothing.
Jackson warned me about it, but I’m still startled when a gun appears in the guy’s hand. He points it at me for a moment. Long enough for me to worry that money isn’t actually what this is all about. Then, turning the gun’s nozzle away from me, he uses it to motion that he wants me to move away from the bars along the front of the cage.
It’s a request I’m more than happy to comply with. I have no desire to be closer to my kidnapper, and his weapon, any more than I have to be.
I quickly scramble to crabwalk backward to the back corner of the cage—the one that holds my crudely scratched daily tally marks and not my waste bucket—and draw myself into a small, tight ball with my knees snugged up close to my chest.
If I had even an iota less of a sense of self-preservation, I’d probably be embarrassed by myself and how quickly I’ve fallen into the mindset and behaviors of weak and defenseless prey. But even though he doesn’t look like much, there is no question in my mind that, in this situation, I am facing a dangerous opponent.
My fear keeps my eyes locked onto my captor and his gun. I watch as he retrieves a small ring of keys from his back pocket, then flicks through them until he selects a particular key and slides it into a slot on the front of the cage that I hadn’t previously noticed.
He pockets the keys, then bends down and reaches for something by his feet. His eyes flick away from me and onto whatever it is he’s reaching for. His attention is momentarily off me, and the gun is now pointed down toward the ground, also of secondary concern for the kidnapper. The lapse in focus will probably only last a moment, but if I’m going to make a move, try to get myself out of this fucking cage, now would be the time.
The cage is unlocked. I saw and heard him unlock it. He isn’t watching me. He wouldn’t see me move until I’m already moving, and I’d have momentum and surprise on my side.
I...just sit there. I don’t move. I stay right where I am, hunched up and cowering in the corner of my cage.
When I was a teenager, I sat through a meeting with my father and the head of his company’s security. As one does when you grow up the only child of a billionaire. The security head gave me a frank rundown of ways people might try to use me for my money or connection to my father. And while they’d assessed that the threat of a kidnapping was low, they covered the possibility, along with the best ways for me to stay safe and unharmed in case it did actually happen.
Oh, how I scoffed at his cautionary, do-nothing advice. Hadley, stuck in the same boring talk as me at the behest of his almost equally wealthy parents, had also scoffed. We both thought that, if somebody was stupid enough to try to nab me, they’d find their hands full of me being my most stubborn, difficult, argumentative self.
Now, as an adult—a fully grown man of twenty-nine–I’m taller, bigger, younger, probably stronger and fitter, than this man who’d abducted me.
But still, I don’t move. I do exactly what I’d been advised to do, all those years ago. And exactly the opposite of how I thought I’d behave.
Who knew I had it in me to be a perfect, docile captive?
When he stands back up, he has a Styrofoam take-out container in his hand. Logically, I figure he must’ve gotten it out of some sort of bag. Did I see him carrying a bag with him when he moved in front of my cage? I’m usually so good at noticing small details; why is my brain not functioning as fully as I need it to?
Using the hand still holding the gun, he hooks the edge of the front of the cage and swings it open. He places the Styrofoam container onto the plywood cage floor, eyes me for a long moment, then bends down and retrieves a Styrofoam cup, placing that next to the container. One more silent moment of watching me, dark eyes staring straight into mine, then one corner of his mouth curls up into a mocking smirk as he swings the cage closed once more.
The clang of the metal rings in my head. And the scrape and click as he re-inserts the key and locks me in again stops my breath.
Oh, God. This…this is really happening. This is all real. Not some horrid nightmare caused by a sudden fever, or a hallucination caused by some drug somebody slipped me without my knowledge. It’s all real.
I, Phoenix Oliver Wilding…have been kidnapped.