THE ABDUCTION OF CASSANDRA

by William Melden

  “We’re through. Thanks again. I’ll stop by your dad’s office and thank him, too. Take care, Chad.”

  He stood up, gave her a forced, tight smile, and walked out of the room.

  She shook her head. He didn’t ask me a single question about Cassandra, or what progress we’re making. Not even if we had any news. It was all about him.

  She sighed and pushed away from the table.

  * * * * *

  The same room. But everything hurts! Is this the . . . yes! I’m on the floor! Did I fall out of bed?

  Cassie managed to pull herself out of a deep, dreamless sleep, her eyes seeing the black chamber from a new perspective. The bed was at least ten feet away. This floor is cold! She slowly unwound from the fetal position in which she’d been sleeping, if you could call it sleep. Every motion caused a pain somewhere in her body. Ouch. . . . What did they do to me? What was in that needle?

  She sat up straight and glanced down at her body. What’s wrong with my wrists? . . . Oh, of course! She rubbed her forearms, right above the hands, where the bright red abrasions told the story. She looked up at the wall above her. The manacles! They must have had me hanging in those things! But why . . . and who let me out? Who unlocked them? Probably Skip. Of course it was Skip!

  Trembling a little, she managed to stand up on unsteady legs and looked down at her body, still wearing the gym shorts and t-shirt from her workout. She grimaced when she saw the ugly reddish-purple welts on her thighs. How did that happen? I don’t remember. . . . She looked at her arms. More ugly welts on her biceps. These would be deep bruises pretty soon.

  Once again, just like the day she was locked in the car’s trunk, she felt sore all over. But no headache this time, she noticed. Just everywhere else. . . .

  She walked into the bathroom, one careful step at a time. Small stinging sensations from the cuts on her feet, but nothing too bad. She flicked the bathroom light on and looked at herself in the mirror. My face is okay, she thought, leaning over the sink. But these bruises! Had they beaten her while she was unconscious?

  Wincing with pain, she stripped off her t-shirt. She gasped when she saw the welts on her belly and ribcage. She pulled up her sports bra. At least they didn’t hurt my breasts. Turning around, looking over her shoulder, she tugged down the gym shorts in back. Sure enough, her backside, and the backs of her thighs, had the same sort of purplish stripes, throbbing and slightly swollen. Why? And when did they do this? Was it while I was hanging from those . . . things . . . or before? Leaving the bathroom, she changed into a pair of sweatpants and a fresh t-shirt.

  The door to the white room was ajar. Curiosity propelled her to the doorway, and she pushed the door open. Watch your feet. Remember the broken glass. She stepped into the white room on her tiptoes.

  But there wasn’t any broken glass. Is that the same video screen on the wall? No, they must have replaced it. The white carpet looked like it had been vacuumed. Was it all a dream? She absent-mindedly rubbed her sore wrists. Dumb question. The welts and the pain are real enough. Then she noticed the changes.

  The couch was still there. She padded over to the big, ebony table that had replaced the glass-topped piece she’d destroyed. Not much chance of picking that up and throwing it, she thought. She looked around the room. Two small but very solid chests of drawers, made of the same dark wood, sat on either side of the video screen. Each had two drawers, and was perhaps 36 inches tall.

  She walked over to the closest one, and pulled open the top drawer. Empty. She held the edges of the chest in both hands, trying to wobble it. It wouldn’t budge. I won’t be picking up that one. Those tables look heavy, too. She closed the drawer and tried the bottom one, but it was locked tight. Then the video screen crackled to life.

  “Snooping, are we, Cassandra?” She glanced up and saw Dayle’s now-familiar image, smug as ever. “That’s not very polite. I thought you might have learned some manners by now.”

  She backed up a few steps, staring at the screen. “What’s going on here? And why did you beat me up? Or was it Skip?” Unconsciously, she rubbed one of her sore arms, carefully avoiding the wrist.

  Dayle sighed, like a disappointed teacher whose student is impossibly dense. He looked exactly the same as before, playing with his fountain pen, the ever-present bottle of Fillico water sitting on its coaster. “Skip didn’t beat you up, Cassandra. She merely administered some much-needed discipline.” He held up a black stick of some sort, knotted leather, about eight or nine inches long. “Have you ever seen one of these? It’s called a billy club. Or a ‘sap.’ Police often use them. Just a thick leather handle, with a pound of lead in the end. It can leave an ugly bruise. . . . By the way, child, you’re not looking very well. I trust you’re all right?”

  She clenched her teeth, glaring at him until she was ready to reply. “I don’t think she broke any bones. Was she supposed to?”

  “Certainly not. The bruises are enough. Incidentally, Cassandra, we were considerate enough to wait until you’d . . . gone to sleep . . . to do it. You didn’t feel a thing. You could express some gratitude.”

  “Yes, thank you so much for knocking me out before you beat me,” she replied, her eyes flashing. “I’m overwhelmed by your kindness. I thought you said that you weren’t interested in hurting me physically? Remember that?” She held her hands up toward the screen, the

  abrasions on her wrists bright red, speckled with small flecks of clotted blood.

  He took a sip of water, and smiled. “I lied.”

  She stifled the rage and confusion coursing through her. “You lied. Like when you said you’d let me go? Like when you said you wouldn’t kill me?” Tears of anger flooded her eyes.

  “No no no, that was different. I’m not going to kill you. Neither is Skip. As for letting you go . . . well, we’ll see.”

  “What do you mean, ‘we’ll see?’ Haven’t you got your precious ransom money yet?”

  The man flipped the pen into the air and barely caught it. “Whoops! I must be getting rusty. No, I haven’t gotten the money yet. I could be cruel, and say that your parents wouldn’t pay, but that’s not true. I haven’t contacted them since we made that first video.”

  “Oh, I know you’d never be cruel,” Cassie replied, trying to fight off bitterness. “Not like shutting off that news report right when my dad was trying to talk to me. You enjoyed that. You’re really a psycho, aren’t you?”

  “On the contrary,” he said, quite seriously. “I wasn’t even present when Skip administered your . . . discipline. I don’t have any taste for that kind of thing. Speaking of television, how do you like the new screen? That was such a childish stunt you pulled, smashing the other one. But it gave us a chance to make some renovations, as you can see.” He glanced downward from the screen, as though looking at the new furniture.

  “Yes, I see. What is all this stuff, anyway?”

  “Well, Cassandra, we want to make your visit here as pleasant as possible. So, from time to time, we’ll be putting some small gifts, unexpected surprises, in these chests for you. But the drawers will be locked until I unlock them from in here. Go over to the chest on your left and open the top drawer. I promise there’s nothing in there that will hurt you.” She heard a small click as the drawer unlocked.

  She looked at his image warily, then walked to the chest. She paused, her hand on the drawer. “Why should I believe you?”

  “Why not? I don’t lie all the time, Cassandra. But if you don’t want your little surprise, don’t bother.”

  Her curiosity got the better of her, and she pulled the drawer open an inch at a time. She saw what was inside, and lifted it out. A wicker basket full of some kind of fruit, sealed in cellophane. Still fogged from a refrigerator somewhere. Oriental characters on the wrapper … but not Thai or Vietnamese. Must be Chinese or Japanese. She’d been to enough restaurants to recognize the difference in alphabets, at least. She backed up, looking at the “surprise” suspiciously, then picked it up and peeled
back the cellophane. “Strawberries?”

  “Yes,” he replied. “You don’t like strawberries? You’re not tired of fast food?”

  She took one of the berries in her fingers, and sniffed it. “It doesn’t smell like poison, anyway,” she muttered.

  Dayle laughed. “Cassandra, you’re so naïve. You really need to get out in the world and learn something besides what mommy teaches you. If I wanted to poison you, I’d use something that didn’t smell. Go ahead, take a bite.”

  For a moment, she felt like Eve in the Garden of Eden. But these strawberries aren’t forbidden, she thought. She nibbled at it, and her mouth filled with saliva. She thought her taste buds would explode from the natural, fresh sweetness. She eagerly bit off the rest of the fruit at the stem, chewing it slowly, savoring it.

  “You seem to be enjoying it,” Dayle commented. “You should. Those strawberries are imported from China. A box of them, delivered fresh, costs about $2,500. Extraordinary, aren’t they? The one you just gulped down was worth a hundred dollars.”

  She tried not to choke on the thought. “Are all of these for me?” There were 24 more in the basket.

  “Yes they are, Cassandra. But you’d better eat them in the next 48 hours or so. Without refrigeration, they don’t last long.”

  She carefully wrapped the cellophane around the basket again. “Okay, you’ve impressed me. With your fancy drinking water and these strawberries, you’ve obviously got more money than you do sense.” Her bruises and welts seemed to scream, Be careful! Don’t provoke him again! She watched his face. His smile didn’t change. “So why the kidnapping? Why do you need my dad’s money?”

  “Did I say I needed his money?” he asked. “But let’s make things clear. You’re a stubborn little donkey. Those strawberries? The other gifts that you might receive? They’re the carrot. The billy club and manacles? They’re the stick. Are we clear?”

  “I understand you,” she said, her face suddenly hard. “You’re trying to control me. Good luck with that. If you think you can buy me with some fruit, I’d rather have the stick. Shall I take the strawberries into the bathroom and flush them?”

  He frowned, then smiled. “Do as you please. It’s only money.” He glanced down at the billy club, lying on the desk, and moved it in slow circles with one fingertip. Watching it, as if talking to himself, he spoke again. “It’s only money,” he repeated, “and it’s only a basket of fruit. But think, Cassandra. Those strawberries are called ‘Dianxue,’ which means ‘snow that melts like fire.’ Isn’t that lovely? When you buy them, you get a certificate signed by the man or woman who harvested them. So far away, in China, close to Beijing.”

  He looked up at her again, folding his hands. “This world is full of things, and people, that you’ve never even dreamed of. I know that there’s disease and poverty and war, of course. But it’s a beautiful world, and it’s real. It’s not a fairy tale, like your Jesus. There’s art and music and wonderful, amazing people, and adventures just waiting to be enjoyed. You’ve had so many advantages. You can make your life whatever you want it to be, without some ancient religion holding you back. The world is yours, Cassandra. Think about that.

  “So, flush the strawberries if you like. But you might save them for your visitor. He might not be so ungrateful.”

  “Visitor?” Her heart pounded in her chest. No, stupid, don’t get excited. Whatever this is, it’s not gonna be good. “You don’t mean Skip. As far as I can tell, Skip isn’t a ‘he.’”

  Dayle smiled. “I don’t mean Skip. Yes, you’ll soon have some company. And it’s a ‘he.’”

  She studied his face. What is this?

  “Now, Cassandra, since you didn’t appreciate the strawberries, perhaps I can offer you something else. You asked for reading material. Any preferences?

  The voice came back, inside her head, from what seemed like a lifetime ago. Gabriel Terrena. Remember!

  “Yes. I want a Bible. Please.”

  He laughed, deep in his throat, and shook his head sadly. “I should have known. Very well, Cassandra, if it’s a Bible you want, a Bible you shall have. And maybe something more practical, too. They’ll be in the unlocked drawers you find . . . tomorrow. In the meantime, I suggest you think about what I said. And you might freshen up, for the sake of your visitor. You’re a mess!”

  The screen went black.

  Cassandra stared at the basket of strawberries, not really thinking about them. What “visitor?” she asked herself. No answer came.

  CHAPTER TEN: Romance and Confrontation

  The doorbell rang, interrupting Esther Mendel’s concentration as she sat at her computer, writing the monthly newsletter of the Jewish Homeschoolers’ Association of Tennessee. She pulled off her reading glasses and pushed back from her desk to answer it.

  She smiled when she opened the front door and saw the slight young man standing on the porch. Barely 5’6, probably no more than 125 pounds, unkempt blonde hair framing his face, the boy always made her want to laugh, or give him a hug. He needs a haircut. But Livvie won’t care. So, I won’t either. “Good morning, Ethan. How are you today? Come on in.”

  “Hi there, Mrs. Mendel. I’m doing great, thanks,” he grinned. “How are you and Mr. Mendel? Is Livvie home? I mean, I know she’s home. I texted her before I came over. I think she’s expecting me. Is she? Expecting me? I think she is.” He blushed.

  The older woman laughed. Jabbering like a magpie, as usual, she thought. His head’s so full of ideas that his mouth can’t keep up. Ethan and Olivia had been best friends since their preteen days, when she was a gawky tomboy, and they’d been inseparable. Now that they were both young adults, they were . . . something more.

  “She’s here, and you’re right, she’s expecting you. I think you know how to find her room?”

  “Yes ma’am. I mean, unless she’s moved it. Has she moved it? Her room?”

  This time she did laugh. All the self-confidence of a chipmunk. “No, she’s still in the same room. Go on up.”

  He beamed. “Thanks, Mrs. Mendel. I’ll do that. Oh, you look real nice today,” he added as an afterthought.

  “Thank you, Ethan. I appreciate it.” He tries. He’s a good kid. Ethan stepped past her and headed for the stairs.

  He quickly reached Olivia’s room and paused, standing in the doorway. She was huddled over her craft table, shielding something from view with her arms. “Wait! Don’t look!” she cried.

  He stepped back in surprise. Isn’t she dressed? Sure she is. I saw her. What’s she doing? He glanced away from her, his eyes scanning the room. Everything seemed the same as the last time he’d been here: the unmade canopy bed, the dressing table with the computer, the art posters on the walls: Degas ballerinas, Hockney’s “Nichols Canyon,” a poster of Middle-earth. Typical girl room, he thought, then silently laughed. Like you’d know. It’s the only girl’s room you’ve ever seen. She’s so classy and sophisticated. . . . He grinned as he glanced upward.

  Except for those. So cool. Suspended from the ceiling on thin wires, strategically placed around the large room, were carefully constructed plastic or wooden model airplanes. How long has she been making these? he mused. I don’t remember. I don’t see any new ones . . . Japanese Zero, Sopwith Camel, Israeli F-16 Barak, Boeing 707 . . . oh, there’s a stealth bomber. That’s new. He almost laughed. Like all of the models, this one had been customized, Livvie-style: the fearsome black bomber bore pink peace symbols on the bottoms of its wings.

  “Okay! You can look now. Come on over, Ethan.”

  He joined her at the table. She turned and smiled up at him, holding out her arms for a hug. He bent and awkwardly embraced her, then looked at the object she’d been hiding.

  “How do you like it? I spent a lot of time on this one. Kinda made it more feminine. It had a girl’s name.”

  He had never thought of an airplane as being masculine or feminine, but he saw what she meant. Made entirely of balsa wood, the squat, unsightly little biplane had a
single propeller in front and a clear plastic canopy. The upper and lower wings were made of silk, fitted to wooden frames. Olivia had painted the body of the plane silver-gray, with a single red stripe behind the cockpit, and painstakingly added the appropriate markings and insignia by hand, instead of using decals. But the silk wings were of a soft pink and blue paisley.

  “It’s pretty,” Ethan muttered. “But it’s real old, huh? What is it?”

  “Her name was Fifi. She was a Navy fighter from the 1930s. The FF-1 . . . Fifi, get it? They didn’t make very many. The Canadians used them, too. And the wings really were made of cloth, but the body — the fuselage, I mean — was metal. I just wanted to use balsa wood for this one. Isn’t she cute?”

  “She’s beautiful,” he said seriously. Olivia moved her face up and gave him a quick kiss.

  He wanted the kiss to last forever, but he never pushed. At sixteen, a year younger than the girl, he was very uncertain of himself, and didn’t want to make any mistakes. Instead, he simply breathed, “You’re beautiful. I can’t believe . . . well, I just can’t believe my luck.”