THE ABDUCTION OF CASSANDRA

by William Melden

  * * * * *

  Cassie knelt by the bed, her face buried in the mattress, holding the pillow over the back of her head, trying to isolate herself from the chamber and Yorkville and the whole world. Lord, I don’t understand any of this. I know that I haven’t been all that you wanted me to be, but I’ve tried. . . . Well, maybe I haven’t tried very hard. People think I’m smart, and they even think I’m a good Christian, but you know the truth. You know about the shortcuts and compromises and stuff. . . . I’m just Cassie, Lord. I want to go home so bad, so bad, and this man . . . he might be lying about not killing me. He might do that no matter what. But he wants me to turn away from you. I can tell that’s what he wants! But I can’t do it, Lord. I love my family and home and all, but . . . you’re all I’ve got, Lord. You’re the only thing nobody can take away from me. I don’t even know what to pray. . . . Abba? Father? Am I babbling? I guess you understand, even if I am. Please show me what to do, and what not to do, okay? And is there some way you could get me a Bible? I always took it for granted. I’m not taking it for granted now. And Father . . . you said “in everything give thanks.” So, um, Lord . . . this is so hard . . . thank you for letting me get kidnapped. And thanks for Gabriel Terrena, whether he was real or just a dream. In Jesus’ name, for Jesus’ sake, amen.

  She tossed the pillow aside and straightened up, still on her knees. Little by little, her mind returned to her circumstances. She stood up, went in the bathroom, and washed her hands and face. The tears and the mucous were gone.

  Mom and Dad would have gotten the new message by now. Are the police getting any closer? Is everybody okay? Am I going to die here?

  “Cassandra, come to the white room. Your visitor has arrived.” Dayle’s voice crackled out, as usual, without warning.

  She sighed. What’s this going to be? What game is he up to now? She straightened herself up and walked into the white room.

  As soon as she entered, the far door burst open. She had never seen it open before. She heard Skip’s strange, muted voice. “Get in there, brat! And don’t do anything stupid!”

  A young boy, probably sixteen, came stumbling into the room, his shirt bloody, a red welt across his face. He staggered back against the white wall, gasping. Then he saw Cassie.

  She and the newcomer spoke simultaneously. “Who are you?”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN: A Bloody Visitor

  The boy’s legs gave way, and he slumped to the floor, his back against the wall. He rubbed the back of his hand across his face and winced, smearing the blood from his nose across his cheek. “Who are you?” he repeated. “What am I doing here?”

  Who is this boy? Cassie wondered. And what did Skip do to him? “Hold on just a minute,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

  She ran into the bathroom. I’m glad the hand towels are still clean. I’ve only used the bath towels. . . . Quick, soak one in cold water and wring it out. He’s bleeding. Now get the dry one and go. She hurried back to him and squatted down, examining the damage to his face. “Just sit still. Don’t talk.” As gently as possible, she reached out and wiped the blood from his cheek with a corner of the wet towel. He yelped when it touched his nose.

  He cursed. “That hurt.” He pushed back against the wall, his body trying to escape further pain.

  “Cussing isn’t gonna make it feel any better,” Cassie chided. “Just try to relax. I’m trying to help.” One finger inside the towel, she dabbed at the bridge of his nose. It wiggled, and he banged the back of his head against the wall. “Owww!”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s . . . I think it’s broken. Now, be still. We gotta get you cleaned up. Grit your teeth or something.” Barely touching him, she wiped the blood from his nose and upper lip, as he groaned. “I’m Cassie. Cassie Hixson,” she told him, trying to get his mind off the pain. Once the blood was gone, she patted his face with the dry towel, again only using one finger.

  “Broken!” the boy exclaimed, then winced. Talking made his nose hurt more. “Why did . . . that person . . . do this to me?”

  Cassie sat back on her haunches and looked in his eyes. “That’s just the kind of thing she does. Look here.” She pulled up the hem of her sweatshirt a few inches to reveal the bruises on her belly and ribs. “These are some nasty people. She used a billy club on me.”

  He stared at her. She’s better looking than I expected, he thought. That guy said she was just a blah, mousy, religious girl. I expected a real Plain Jane. “Wait a minute,” he mumbled, trying not to move his face any more than necessary. “You’re that girl who got kidnapped, right? It’s been all over the TV and radio.”

  “Yeah, that’s me,” she frowned. “Anyway, what’s your name?”

  “Brandon . . . Brandon Fox. Does this mean I’ve been kidnapped, too?” A trickle of blood dribbled down his lip. Cassie dabbed it away.

  “I don’t know,” she replied. “You’re the first person I’ve seen since they got me, except for the two of them, that is.” She paused, still examining him, trying to remember the first aid that her father had taught her over the years.

  Then she recalled something else. “Um, I think I can fix that nose. Temporarily, at least. My dad’s a doctor. Want me to try?”

  “No! Well . . . maybe. Will it hurt?”

  “Yes, it’ll hurt really bad, but only for a minute. Then it’ll feel better. It’s up to you. But if I don’t fix it, it’s gonna keep on hurting.”

  I’d better not tell him where I learned this. It sure wasn’t from Dad. She had gone to one of Royal’s fights at the Yorkville Memorial Auditorium, and when Roy broke his opponent’s nose, she saw the boy’s trainer twist it back into place. The boy had fought for two more rounds before Roy knocked him out. This is exactly why I never wanted to spar.

  “Well . . . if you really know what you’re doing . . . okay.” If it’ll stop the hurting. . . .

  She nodded. “Sit up straight, if you can.” He pushed away from the wall and sat perfectly erect. “Now, grab the backs of your thighs and hold ‘em real tight. Don’t let go.” He looked confused, but complied, his hands gripping his thighs.

  You really have to help me, Lord, she prayed silently. Moving closer, she rolled up the dry towel. “Open your mouth and bite down on this,” she said. She wrapped her left arm around his shoulders and held him tight. She took his nose between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand. “Are you from Yorkville, Brandon?”

  He mumbled through the towel. “Uh-huh, ah’m — unnnggghhh!” There was a small crunch as she snapped his nose back into place, starting a fresh flow of blood. She removed the towel and held the wet one under his nostrils. “I know that hurt,” she said. “I tried to distract you. Here, you hold the towel.” She released his shoulders and sat down, facing him. Tears of pain ran down his face.

  “That’s really gonna swell up,” Cassie warned him. “A doctor would put a bandage on it, to hold it in place. I don’t have anything like that. But if you don’t touch it, and you sleep on your back, it’ll heal. Crooked, maybe, but that’ll just give you character.”

  The video screen flickered to life.

  “Well, well, how charming,” came Dayle’s voice. “I see you two have met. Cassandra, what have you done to that poor boy?”

  Brandon stared up at the big screen. “Who’s that? And how can he see us?”

  Cassie squeezed his shoulder, then stood up. “That’s our host,” she replied. “I don’t know his name, but whoever kidnapped me — and probably you — that guy’s the boss. There are hidden cameras and microphones all over this room. Don’t try to find them. I’ve been looking for days and days, and can’t figure it out.”

  She stepped to the middle of the room and looked up at Dayle’s smirking image. “Am I right, Mr. Wonderful? Have you kidnapped this guy, too?”

  Dayle smiled, playing with the fountain pen. “Of course I’ve kidnapped him. I told you that you could expect some company. And watch the sarcasm, you whelp, or you might have another visit
from Skip.”

  “They did kidnap me,” Brandon exclaimed. “Who’s Skip?” He stood up and moved to Cassie’s side, holding the towel to his nose.

  Cassie never took her eyes off the screen. “Skip is some Goth freak who does his dirty work. She’s probably the one who broke your nose. He’s not man enough to do it himself.”

  Dayle snorted. “You’re being even more impudent than usual, Cassandra. I suppose having a visitor gives you some sort of childish courage.”

  “I didn’t have any visitors when I wrecked this room,” Cassie answered. “I didn’t have any visitors when Skip came at me with that needle, and I probably could have held her off.”

  “What about me?” Brandon interrupted. “What’s all this kidnapping stuff? Why did you come after me?” His battered face was a mask of fear.

  Oh, this boy is a great actor, Dayle thought. We made a good choice. “See there, Cassandra? You’ve frightened him.” He shifted his eyes, to make it appear that he was looking at Brandon. “I’ve kidnapped you for a ransom, of course. Your father only makes $165,000 a year as a federal judge, but he built up quite a nest egg when he was practicing law, didn’t he?” His eyes moved back to Cassie. “Incidentally, Cassandra, you might want to watch how you talk about Skip, after all the things she’s done for you. Typical, constant ingratitude. Anyway, it appears that you’ve introduced yourselves to each other.”

  “This girl helped me!” Brandon exclaimed. “If you’ve got cameras around here, you probably saw that.” He pulled the towel away from his face and looked down at it. The hemorrhage had slowed to a tiny trickle.

  “Don’t talk too much,” Cassie whispered out of the side of her mouth. “It’ll start the bleeding again.”

  “Is that what you were doing, Cassandra?” Dayle smirked. “I thought you were just seeking some male attention.”

  Cassie actually managed a small laugh. “‘Some male attention.’ Yeah, that’s me, all right. You’ve got it all figured out. Anyway, I have a boyfriend. He’s a football player. If he ever got his hands on you. . . .”

  Dayle’s smile widened into a grin. “Oh, Cassandra. How you flatter yourself. I know all about your precious Chad Walker. But I’m afraid his hands are too busy for me at the moment. See how heartbroken he is over your absence?”

  He pushed a button on the unseen control panel, and the image on the video screen split again, as it had when he showed her the newscast. On the right side, Dayle’s face. On the left side, a silent video of the Pavilion, taken from some distance away. The lens of the camera zoomed in, so many familiar faces flashing by, until it focused on Chad and Madison holding hands at the picnic table . . . Chad and Madison walking to the snack wagon, hand in hand, leaning against each other . . . Madison’s arm around Chad’s waist. Then the scene shifted. The outside of the Andrews house at night, Chad and Madison going in the front door. After a few minutes, the light coming on in Madison’s bedroom window. A few minutes later, the light going out, the entire house dark. Then the images disappeared, and Dayle’s face filled the screen again.

  “Well, let’s give them some privacy,” he said. “Skip’s pretty handy with a camera, isn’t she, Cassandra? And that lovely young lady . . . one of your deeply religious church friends, I suppose? Just trying to ‘comfort’ poor Chad?”

  Wow, Brandon thought. This guy plays dirty. But I still don’t understand why that woman slugged me. . . .

  Cassie stood perfectly still, resisting the impulse to bite a fingernail, processing what she’d seen. Extinguished. Am I surprised? Really? No. In a way, it’s a relief. Chad and I don’t have to pretend any more. She realized that, throughout this entire ordeal, Chad’s company was the thing she missed least. Unbidden, another verse bubbled up in her mind, learned so long ago: Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on thee: because he trusteth in thee.

  She smiled up at Dayle’s image. “No, she’s not one of my church friends. She used to go to Saint Veronica’s, but I think she’s what they call ‘lapsed.’ Anyway, I’d say she and Chad make a perfect couple. Am I supposed to be kicking and screaming now? Is that the best you’ve got?”

  “Way to go,” Brandon whispered. This girl is something. That’s gonna make my job harder. . . . She can really roll with the punches. So far, anyway. Dayle simply stared out from the screen.

  “What’s the matter, genius?” Cassie laughed. “‘Cat got your tongue?’ Now, where have I heard that before?”

  * * * * *

  “Burgess here,” the agent answered as usual, cradling the receiver against his shoulder as he transcribed some of his notes to the computer. “Can I help you?”

  The girl’s voice, so young and yet so self-assured, took him by surprise. “Agent Burgess, my name is Olivia Mendel. I’m a friend of Cassie Hixson. I spoke with Agent Maclean a couple of days ago, and she gave me your card. She suggested that I call you if I thought of anything we hadn’t covered, and . . . well, I’ve thought of something. I don’t want to waste your time, but could we possibly meet for just a few minutes?”

  Burgess automatically began to flip through the folders on his desk, trying to find Maclean’s interview with the girl. “Of course, Olivia. I’m free right now, if you are. Where are you calling from?”

  “I’m at my father’s store, J.B. Sanders Jewelry. Dad and I just had lunch together.”

  “Really? That’s very convenient. Our office is on the seventh floor of the Federal Building, just two blocks from you. Would you like me to come to the store, or would you prefer to come here?”

  “I’d be glad to stop by your office,” the girl replied. “I have to walk right past it to get to the parking lot where I left my car.”

  “That sounds fine. I should be here for at least another hour or so.”

  Olivia’s brown eyes sparkled with excitement. “I’ll be there in ten minutes. Thank you.”

  Burgess hung up the phone and stood up, slipping into his jacket. He sat back down and was pecking away at the keyboard when, in what seemed like only five minutes, the phone beeped. “There’s a Ms. Mendel here to see you, sir. She says she’s expected.”

  “Thank you, Janelle,” he said to the secretary. “I’ll be right out.”

  He walked to the door between the office suite and the visitor’s area and pressed a button, unlocking it. Stepping through, he smiled and extended his hand as the girl stood up. “Olivia? I’m Donald Burgess. Pleased to meet you.”

  She squeezed his hand. “Likewise, Agent Burgess. Thanks for taking time to see me.”

  “Let’s go to my office. Oh wait . . . sorry.” He gestured to the metal detector standing in the middle of the room. “May I hold your purse?”

  “Sure,” she replied, handing it to him. “I’ve already been through one of these things downstairs.” As Burgess quickly glanced into the purse, she stepped through the detector, and a red light flashed on. A rude beep sounded. “That happened downstairs, too,” she said. “I think it’s my earrings. They already took all my firearms.”

  He laughed, glancing at the dangling baubles. “I’m sorry for all the precautions. I’m sure you understand.” He held the door to the office area. “Thank you,” she said, walking past him. He gave her back her purse, and guided her to his office.

  “Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk. As she sat down, she glanced around the room. I never expected to be in a place like this, she thought. Not very exciting . . . big FBI insignia hanging on the wall, some service awards, a college diploma, and a picture of him, squatting down in front of a bunch of little boys in baseball uniforms . . . desk piled with files, a computer monitor and keyboard . . . nothing very intimidating. She looked across the desk at him. “You coach a Little League team?”

  “I did twenty years ago,” he replied. “Tee-ball, really. Not enough time now, and anyway, my son would look pretty silly in the uniform. He’s twenty-six.” Pausing for her laugh, he sat back in his chair. “So, what do you have
for me, Olivia?”

  She fidgeted with one of the wooden bracelets on her wrist. “Maybe nothing, but I had an idea. I talked with Mrs. Hixson about the latest message from the kidnappers. Please don’t be upset. Mrs. Hixson isn’t a gossip or a blabbermouth. But for some reason, she and I have gotten very close since Cassie disappeared.” The agent nodded; if he was alarmed, he didn’t show it. “Anyway, she told me about the Hamlet reference. She didn’t show me the message. She just mentioned that it had included the quotation, and asked if it meant anything to me. See, I’m really interested in Shakespeare.”

  “Excuse me, please,” Burgess interrupted. “I can see why Mrs. Hixson would want to talk to you. You seem exceptionally mature. But this is very, very important. Did she tell you the context of the reference? I mean, where the Shakespeare quote came in the actual message?” Did she tell you about the new e-mail set-up? That it was an account name? He held his breath.