Taken

by Edward Bloor

  He paused significantly, as if he had just explained everything away. I wasn’t buying it. I answered, “So you figured you could just kill the family you’ve lived with for three years, and take their currency to buy your spare parts, and that would be a positive thing?”

  “No, of course not! No one was supposed to get killed.”

  “What about Plan B? Does anyone get killed in that?”

  He hesitated for a fraction of a second. “No. No one else is going to die.”

  I feared that hesitation, but I pressed ahead. I asked the most practical question I could think of: “Where will the second bag of currency come from?”

  “From the sale of your house. From what I hear, it’s coming from Mr. Patterson’s vault.”

  “I see. So does Patience know about this?”

  “She shouldn’t. Not if Ms. Meyers follows her orders; not if Mr. Patterson can keep his mouth shut.”

  “Those are big ifs.”

  “It doesn’t really matter. The payoff will be tonight, at nineteen hundred. You’ll be free by nineteen-ten.”

  “I’ve heard that before.”

  “You will be.”

  “There’s no Plan C?”

  “No.”

  “Then you will take your currency, disappear, and enter the health-care field?”

  “That’s right.”

  It all sounded too simple to me. After another minute, I asked him, “So what about Dessi? What’ll he do?”

  “I don’t know. That will be up to him. He is very independent.” He pointed outside. “Young men and women around here basically have two options—be a servant or be a soldier. One is degrading; the other is deadly.”

  “Which do you think he’ll pick?”

  He answered right away: “Soldier.”

  “Why?”

  “Because someone will ask him to pick that.”

  He gestured at the medical parts on the floor and explained, “If you lived in this house and you called a doctor, you’d wait the rest of your life for one to come. Literally. But if you called a military recruiter, he’d be here inside an hour. And he wouldn’t be alone. They’d be lined up outside your door—army, navy, marines, air force. They’d make you feel very, very wanted.”

  He added sadly, “That’s a powerful feeling for the young people down here. So maybe Dessi will go that route. Maybe he’ll do his bit in the Oil Wars. Ironically, he would get excellent health care. He might lose his life getting it, but…”

  “But what?”

  “But at least he wouldn’t be a servant.” Albert got up. “All right. That’s enough. You need to go back to the ambulance now and stay there.” He reached over to take me by the elbow, but I pulled back.

  I said, “Wait. I need to use a bathroom. A real bathroom. Will you at least let me do that?”

  Albert nodded courteously. “Of course. It’s the first door to the left, down that hall. I’ll have to stand outside, though.”

  “Okay. If you have to.”

  I followed Albert’s directions down the dark hallway and turned left. The bathroom was really gross. It smelled like mildew, and it had fungus growing in the tub. There was definitely no woman’s touch in there. I finished up quickly and exited.

  I walked ahead of Albert through the kitchen and into the daylight. The sun was directly overhead, blazing down on the driveway, evaporating the muddy water. Albert warned me, “Don’t even think about running for it.”

  “I’m not. I could have run for it earlier, but I didn’t.”

  He assured me, “You wouldn’t have gotten very far.”

  I looked him in the eye and told him, as sincerely as I was able, “I believe in you, Albert. I believe in Plan B.”

  “Good. You won’t be sorry. Drink some fluids and sit tight until evening. Then we’ll get this done.”

  Albert watched me open the door and step up. I didn’t even try to sneak back in. I didn’t care anymore. Albert slammed the door behind me, startling Dessi and waking him. Dessi’s hands flitted around his face like he was being attacked by bees. “What? What’s going on?”

  “Nothing’s going on.”

  “What are you doing? Get back on the stretcher.” I climbed up and sat back against the incline. “Are you trying to escape?”

  “No.”

  Dessi stood up, yawned, and stretched. He asked me seriously, “Tell me what’s going on. Did I fall asleep?”

  “You did.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I had a long talk with Albert.”

  “Oh no! Where?”

  “In the house, the house full of medical equipment.”

  He nodded fatalistically.

  “I know a lot more than I did last night.”

  Dessi placed both hands behind his back and stretched again, making his vertebrae crack. “I guess he’s mad at me now.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  “I would.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s my uncle.”

  “Oh? What does that mean?”

  “It means…your uncle is like your father. You don’t want to disappoint him.”

  “Albert is like your father?”

  Dessi looked at the door. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think yes. But sometimes I think…”

  I felt sorry for him at that moment. I said, “Well, the truth is, he just spoke very highly of you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  He gulped and nodded. Then he went back to sitting in silence. I started to think about my father again, but I fought off the impulse. Instead, I pulled the Ramiro Fortunato novel from my backpack. For the next three hours, I stared at its simple illustrations and its bilingual text, and I thought about its simple message of heroism.

  At 15:05, Albert came in to relieve Dessi. He muttered, “Go take a break, Neve.” As Dessi slipped out, Albert took his seat and asked me, “How are you doing?”

  “Fine.”

  “Rested? Ready for tonight?”

  “I’ve been on a stretcher for two days. I’d say I’m rested.”

  “Good. We all need to be alert and ready tonight. No mistakes.”

  I curled my lip like Dessi. “Mistakes?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by that.”

  We heard a quick rap on the back of the ambulance. Then the door opened slightly. Dessi whispered to Albert through the crack, “Monnonk, you’re not going to believe this.”

  “What?”

  “Look at your vidscreen. I’ll turn on mine and vid them.”

  “Who? Vid who? What’s going on?”

  “You had better look for yourself.”

  Albert leaned across the stretcher and worked the vidscreen. I saw a view of the street come up, and then I saw something unusual: a second car was parked outside, a car that had not been there before.

  I looked closely at the screen. I recognized that car! But I didn’t let on to Albert. It was a Ford 900D, the work car for the number one realtor in Martin County, Mr. Roy Patterson. What was he doing here? Was he selling a house in Mangrove?

  Dessi remained just outside the ambulance door, vidding the scene. He widened the view, and I saw a figure standing by the front door of the white house. The figure had an unruly clump of brown hair and singularly bad posture. The figure started to back away from the door, moving in a familiar, invertebrate sort of way.

  It was Hopewell! I couldn’t control a gasp at the sight of him.

  Albert looked at me, and then at the screen. “Who is that? Do you know?”

  I mumbled, “I might.”

  “Is it a boy or girl?”

  “I think it’s a boy.”

  He leaned closer to the screen. “Hopewell? It can’t be. Is it Hopewell?”

  “I think so.”

  “What’s he doing here?”

  “I have no idea.”

  We watched Hopewell backing up steadily. Then we saw why he was in retreat. Two boys and a girl ha
d come out of the house. One boy in the lead was pointing a menacing finger at Hopewell, and he seemed to be yelling at him. The sight of the boy jogged my memory, and I quickly realized why: he had been doing the exact same thing on Kid-to-Kid Day when the mob turned on Hopewell and Sterling Johnston.

  This time, however, the scene unfolded differently. After a few more steps, Hopewell stopped backing up. He stood rigidly still, with the boy still yelling in his face. When the boy finally stopped, Hopewell lifted up his left hand and showed some papers to the group.

  Albert muttered, “What the hell is that? What’s going on?” He stuck his head out the door and whispered, “Neve! Zoom in on those papers.”

  Seconds later, the camera snapped into focus on a set of flyers. Although blurry from the motion of Hopewell’s hand, it was obvious who they were about: me. Hopewell was showing “Taken” flyers of me—with my face; with my height, weight, and hair color; with everything that goes on a “Taken” flyer.

  I wanted to cry.

  Albert knew what the papers were, too, and he wasn’t pleased. He told Dessi, “Okay. Enough. Zoom out.”

  The camera pulled back, and we were soon looking at a changed scene. There were now three boys and two girls around Hopewell. They were listening to him, but just barely. He was clearly not a welcome visitor.

  Suddenly the first boy flashed a backhand at Hopewell that sent the flyers scattering along the ground. Hopewell bent to retrieve them, trying awkwardly to gather the papers in his arms. Some had fallen on a tall boy’s foot. When Hopewell reached toward them, the boy kicked the flyers away and then kicked Hopewell in the backside.

  Others in the group started to laugh nastily and to encircle him. But then we saw another surprise. A girl came charging into the frame—just over one and a half meters tall, curly blond hair. It was Patience, my best friend. She threw a vicious punch at the boy who had kicked Hopewell. Then one of the girls jumped on Patience’s back.

  Albert opened the door and whispered orders to Dessi. “Neve! Give me the vidscreen. You go across the street, double-time! Stop this thing before it gets any worse.”

  Dessi protested, “What can I do?”

  “Tell them to leave those kids alone! You’re bigger than them. Threaten them if you have to.”

  “Can’t you come with me?”

  “I can’t. Those white kids are from The Highlands. They know me. So it has to be you, and it has to be now!”

  Albert took the vidscreen in hand. He leaned out just far enough to keep vidding. I watched Dessi run across the street, shouting and waving his arms. Patience was now wrestling on the ground with the girl who had jumped on her back. Hopewell had gathered up all the scattered flyers. He wasn’t fighting, but he wasn’t running away, either.

  The group turned as one to watch Dessi’s approach. He continued to shout and to gesture at them. The girl let Patience up and pushed her roughly toward Hopewell. Dessi herded Patience and Hopewell back toward the street, placing himself between them and their attackers. The worst seemed to be over.

  Then Hopewell handed a “Taken” flyer to Dessi. I watched Dessi look at the picture and read the words. I watched him shake his head no and hand it back. The big liar. Mantlè! Dessi pointed at the Ford 900D with both hands and talked animatedly until Patience and Hopewell got back into it. Albert turned the vidscreen slightly so we could follow as the big car drove away. I watched until it was completely out of sight.

  Dessi returned quickly, panting. “I did it, Monnonk. The white kids left.”

  “They left?” Albert asked. “Or they went to the next block?”

  “I don’t know. I tried to scare them. I told them to get out of here; that they didn’t belong here; that they’d get hurt here.”

  “Good. Good. Those were all the right things to say.” Dessi climbed inside. Albert shot an angry look at me. “What the devil were those kids thinking of?”

  I told him, “Saving their friend’s life.”

  “Hopewell Patterson. Of all people!”

  “That’s right. Hopewell and Patience Patterson. They’re prime targets for kidnappers, aren’t they?”

  “That’s right. They are.”

  “But they stood up anyway, didn’t they? They stood up for what’s right. Like Ramiro Fortunato.”

  Albert tried to wave my words away. “I just hope they got some sense scared into them out there. Hopewell’s been through it before. He should know better.”

  “He should know better?” I spat out. “Is that what you’re saying? He should know that you should trust your kidnappers? Trust them not to hurt you?”

  Albert’s jaw muscles tightened. Then, without another word, he snapped the vidscreen shut and hurried out of the ambulance. Dessi seemed puzzled by my sudden anger and by his uncle’s retreat, but he didn’t say anything.

  After a few minutes, I had calmed down enough to ask him, as matter-of-factly as I could, “So, tell me something: how did I look on my flyer?”

  He shrugged. “Not too bad. You looked a little younger. And you had braces.”

  “Uh-huh. What did Hopewell say to you?”

  “Something like, ‘Have you seen this girl? She’s been taken.’”

  “Right. And what did you say?”

  “I said no.”

  “Mantlè.”

  “Come on. What else could I say?”

  “Did Patience say anything?”

  “No.”

  I stared hard at him. I knew enough about his face by now to accuse him. “You’re lying again.”

  His eyes flashed angrily. “You don’t need to know everything that she said.”

  “Yes, I do. She’s my best friend. Tell me.”

  After a long pause, he muttered, “You won’t tell Monnonk?”

  “No.”

  “She didn’t say anything to me. But she said something to him.”

  “To Hopewell?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What?”

  “She said, ‘Come on. We’ve got more flyers to pass out.’”

  I started to choke up. I managed to say, “That’s, uh, that’s really brave.”

  Dessi pulled down his seat. “I think that’s really stupid.”

  I didn’t answer him. I reached around the stretcher and undid the latch. Then I lay down, face first, to hide my flowing tears.

  Victoria

  At 18:45, Dessi and Albert were both standing outside, on the driveway. I could see them through the rectangular frame of the open ambulance door as they whispered to each other intensely, like the Dugans with an evil secret.

  Albert looked up at me. Nervously? Suspiciously? I couldn’t tell. All he said was, “It’s time to get ready, Charity. Come on, I’ll walk you over to the bathroom.”

  I pointed to my backpack and answered, as reasonably as I could, “Please. This is beyond disgusting. I haven’t brushed my teeth in two days.”

  Albert thought for a moment. “You’re right. Sorry. Your toothbrush and toothpaste are in there. Bring them along.” Dessi looked down at the ground as I grabbed my nearly empty backpack and climbed out of the ambulance. I didn’t like the look on Dessi’s face. Or Albert’s. What had they been talking about?

  Outside, it was already dark. A bright half moon was rising in the east in a clear sky. The other two houses on the street already had dim yellow lights burning inside.

  Albert walked me back through the house, stepping over wire and plastic to the gross bathroom. I stayed in there for about five minutes. I brushed my teeth and mouth very thoroughly and went to the bathroom, running the water the whole time so Albert couldn’t hear me. When I finished, I opened the door and had a sudden shock.

  I was staring into the dark face of Dr. Reyes, or what I could see of it behind his surgical mask and glasses. He looked from me to Albert and back. He was definitely not pleased that I was in the house, away from my ambulance prison, but he didn’t say anything.

  When Albert and I got back outside, Dessi was already in t
he driver’s seat of the repainted ambulance/fertilizer truck. Albert opened the back door for me to climb in; then he followed. We took our places and waited in silence for two minutes until we heard Dr. Reyes climb into the front cab. Then Dessi backed the truck out onto the street and drove us away.

  Albert continued to stare at the floor, which made me feel very creepy. What was he really thinking? What happened to the optimism of ‘You’ll be free by nineteen-ten’? What happened to ‘You won’t be sorry’ and ‘We’ll get this done’? Were those just more lies? Lies upon lies? I no longer believed what he said. For the first time in my whole ordeal, truly and deeply, I started to fear for my life.

  After we stopped and parked, Dessi joined us in the rear section while Dr. Reyes stayed in the cab. Albert brought up a full-size image on the screen. I saw a field bordered by an overgrown grove of citrus trees. A car was parked in the field, dimly visible by the light of the moon. Albert then opened the ambulance door, and I saw a live version of the same sight. The car was sitting thirty meters away from us. It looked much clearer live, and I could tell right away what it was—my father’s blue Mercedes.

  I tried to control the trembling in my voice as I asked out loud, “Who is sitting in that car?”

  Albert answered, “Ms. Meyers.”

  “Really? With the currency?”

  He didn’t answer.

  I felt my throat go dry.

  I watched Albert activate the split-screen function to bring in the scene at my house. He was not at all happy with what he saw: There was Mickie Meyers, my ex-stepmother, sitting at home in The Highlands. She was staring into the camera like she was about to begin a broadcast.

  Albert actually gasped. “Wait a minute! Something is wrong.” He turned on the audio button at our end, but not the video. Then he spoke in a harsh, raspy voice. “Ms. Meyers! What are you doing at home? You are supposed to be here. Didn’t you read your instructions?”

  If Mickie recognized his voice, she did not let on. She answered evenly. “We read your instructions, and we are cooperating. We have delivered the currency, all of it, in a trash bag, as instructed.”

  “We? Who?”

  “Victoria.”

  I looked harder at the blue car in the field. I couldn’t see anyone moving inside it.