Set Free

by Anthony Bidulka

  In an instant, the atmosphere in the room changed. The air sparked with electricity, like a storm about to hit—fed by Jaspar, but sensed by all. Katie grew wary, Jenn bewildered.

  “Get the fuck out of here!” Jaspar was on his feet, roaring. “Get out!”

  Jenn’s body pressed back against the sofa, aghast at her husband’s sudden ferocity. Katie leaned in, ears perked, attracted to the outburst, but at the same time thinking: Where the hell is this coming from?

  “Now! Out!” Jaspar menaced, inching closer to Katie as if he was about to physically pick her up and throw her through the front window if she didn’t move. “I want you out of this house. You’re nothing but a soul-sucking user, and I want you gone.”

  “Jaspar!” Jenn cried out as she leapt from the couch, only partially recuperated from her initial shock. “What is wrong with you? Why are you being like this?”

  Katie rose too—slowly, like an attacked animal, instinctively knowing she needed to be on even ground to stand any chance of survival. “Jaspar, exactly what is the problem here?”

  “You know damn well what the problem is, Katie Edwards, star of network news. Haven’t you paved your road with enough of our blood and tears? Isn’t your career big enough yet? Or do you need something else horrible to happen to us?”

  Rows of silent consternation furrowed Katie’s brow. She felt for these people, she really did. She knew Jaspar had been to hell and back and somehow lived to tell about it. But none of that gave him the right to treat her like some kind of predatory bottom feeder. She got enough of that at work and from social media.

  “Ever since Mikki was taken, you’ve done nothing but use us,” Jaspar rallied on. “You’ve built your entire fucking livelihood out of our misery. And now you want to keep on doing it by writing a book about us. Not only do you want to take advantage of my dead daughter and my dead marriage, now you want to take over my dead career too!”

  “Jaspar!” Jenn screamed, tears streaming down burning cheeks.

  Katie was silent, listening carefully.

  “Well, you’re never going to have it. There is no way I’m going to allow you to have any more of this story—for TV, for some fucking book, or in your fucking goddamned dreams—do you understand me? It’s over!”

  Katie understood all too well. She’d have to change the book she’d already started. But that was an easy fix. All she had to do was add one word to the title: unauthorized.

  Chapter 32

  When the phone rang, Katie debated letting it go to message. She’d just gotten in. Spread-eagled on the bed and soaked to the bone with sweat, she wanted nothing more than rest—and hotel air conditioning. It had been a good day. She’d talked to scores of people throughout the medina, leaving them flyers with Jaspar’s picture and her contact information should anyone want to…Shit! She jumped out of bed and grabbed the phone. Her first lead could be calling right now!

  “Hello? Kate Edwards here.”

  “Kate,” the voice on the other end growled. “What the fuck is going on? Did you know about this?”

  It was Carl Daum, her agent. Unlike her employer, he’d fully supported her taking an unscheduled, five-day absence from her on-air responsibilities to fly to Morocco to research the book. She was using up vacation days, so it wasn’t like the station was paying for her absenteeism. Still, they weren’t pleased to have their popular new “face of the evening news” suddenly out of the picture. In conciliation, she’d promised them big things—the least of which was major buzz when their star anchor published a book brimming with first-hand, never-before-revealed details about the biggest story to hit Boston—hell, the whole state; maybe even the country—in a decade.

  People were desperate for juicy, behind-the-scenes secrets. And everyone knew that Kate Edwards was just the person to deliver them. She’d been in the know and on the front lines from the harrowing first hours of Mikki Wills’ disappearance right up to the final hours of Jaspar Wills’ escape from his own kidnapping drama in Morocco. The story had everything. A missing child. International intrigue. Mystery. Celebrity. Violence. Sex. Heartbreak. Betrayal. Could any book be better positioned for the top of every bestseller list in the country? Katie didn’t think so.

  There was only one problem: getting the first-hand, never-before-revealed details. Since that horrible night, when Jaspar made it abundantly clear that he would not be cooperating with her on the book, Katie knew she was on her own. She had to get something new, something flashy, something big. To guarantee the book’s place on every must-read list, she had to dig up intimate facts about Jaspar’s time in Marrakech—something no other blog, current affairs program, or clever reporter had yet uncovered.

  She had one thing going for her: big story or not, times were tough. No one was willing to foot the bill to send a news team to Africa on an exploratory mission. No one, that is, but Kate Edwards.

  This was her next best chance to climb another rung up the ladder of success. Each one had been successively more difficult to reach than the last, but so what? Nothing worthwhile was easy to get. Katie was ready for a big move. No more local hoo-ha. No more network affiliate. It was time to reach for the stars. She wanted permanent national exposure. If her take on the Jaspar Wills story worked out the way she planned, she’d be on her way—perhaps even eclipsing the fame of her subject. She didn’t need Jaspar to make this happen. It would have been easier, she had to admit—but, like everything else she’d accomplished in life so far, she could, and would, do it on her own.

  Five days wasn’t a lot of time. Katie knew she had to go hard. She’d need to shake bushes, dig in dirt, employ feminine wiles or even bribery—whatever worked to achieve her goal. Five days was the longest she could stay away from work, and most definitely the longest she could put off her responsibilities at home. In five days she had to catch a big fish and reel it in. Nothing less than a whopper would be acceptable. She was feeling the stress—and so, apparently, was her agent.

  “Carl, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m on another continent, for Pete’s sake. So why don’t you calm down and tell me what’s up?”

  “What’s up? What’s up? Check your messages, why don’t you? Then you’ll know what’s up.”

  Katie scrambled for her iPhone. “I’ve been out all day, I haven’t…” She stopped short when she saw the unusually long roster of messages on the screen. Publisher. Publisher. Agent. Publisher. TV station. Publisher. TV station. Publisher. Agent. Agent…A cold tremor of worry slithered up her spine. “What is this? What’s going on? Just tell me.”

  “You know the highly-anticipated, behind-the-scenes, tell-all book you’re over there researching?”

  “Carl, if you don’t fucking spit it out right now, I swear…”

  “You got it, sweetheart. That book you’re writing? That book we promised to deliver to the publisher in return for big bucks…of which I get ten percent? That book you’re missing valuable on-air time for? Well, that book is coming out in hardcover next month.”

  For a moment, Katie was too stunned to speak. “Wh-what? Did…how can that be? I don’t even have a first draft finished. How can they publish what I haven’t even written yet? A month isn’t enough time. I’ve never written a full-length book before. You have to negotiate.”

  “Don’t worry about it, sweetheart,” he reassured, his tone anything but soothing. “Because somebody else is writing it for you.”

  “What?” Katie pulled the phone away from her ear, looking at it as if Carl had suddenly begun to spout gibberish. After a long, hot day of dealing with people, most of whom she could barely understand, her patience was wearing dangerously thin. She took a deep breath, swiped a hand across her slick forehead, and then said, “I don’t think I heard you right. What did you say? Exactly who is doing what?”

  “Jaspar Wills, that’s who. Jaspar Wills is writing the book, that book, your book. Now it’s his book.”

  Wedging the hotel phone into the crook between her
shoulder and her neck, Katie frantically began punching buttons on her iPhone. “That can’t be,” she argued. “He swore to me he wasn’t going to write about this. That’s the only reason I agreed to do it. That’s why the publishers agreed. That’s why I’m in this fucking sweat lodge of a country being jostled about by unwashed hordes and eating couscous and lamb tagine until I puke!”

  She stopped dead when she saw it. Amazon. The online retailer was already listing Jaspar Wills’ upcoming book, Set Free, available for pre-order. “Oh. God.” The two words came out as a tortured whisper.

  “I hope you were wearing protection, honey,” Daum said mercilessly. “Because it looks like your best friend and confidant just screwed you royally. And, worst of all, me too. I suggest you forget about your research and the fuckin’ couscous, and catch a plane back here so you can prepare yourself for what you’re really going to do next.”

  Katie fell back on the bed, eyes closed tight. “What’s that?”

  “What you do best, sweetheart: a live, prime time, network interview with Jaspar Wills to talk about his newest bestseller.”

  Katie blanched at the words, simultaneously replaying the vivid memory of being verbally and nearly physically assaulted by Jaspar, right before he kicked her out of his house. And now they were supposed to appear on live TV together? How was that going to work? A few times since the altercation, Jenn had lamely attempted to broker peace between the two, but Jaspar wouldn’t budge. In the weeks that had passed, he’d steadfastly refused to see her or talk to her about the book or anything else. Now she knew why. He was planning to betray her all along.

  “Screw that,” she bawled into the phone. “I’m staying right here and getting my story. There’s something good here, I know it.”

  “Yeah, there is,” Carl agreed. “And Jaspar Wills has a first-person account of it. He was in the front seat of this thing, Kate, not you. How can you possibly do better than that?” he reasoned.

  “I don’t know, Carl. I just feel it. There’s something here. I just have to dig deeper. I know you took a chance on making this deal with the publisher. I’m not going to disappoint you. I’ll be back next Monday like I planned. I’m going to bring back a big story and everyone is going to go crazy over it. Maybe I can’t write and publish a book in a month’s time, but I’ve got millions of people sitting in their living rooms, just waiting to hear what I have to say. If I put this thing together right, if I sell it right, every publisher is going to be shitting their pants wanting to cash in on it.”

  She could hear the big man breathing heavily. She could picture him sitting behind his desk, belly protruding over his lap more than ever since he’d quit smoking cold turkey. He’d given up cigarettes, but not the heavy glass ashtray on his desk—which he was probably caressing right now, a pathetic replacement habit. “Yeah, well,” he grumbled, “you better dig real deep and get something real good, real fast. I’ll get on the horn with the publisher and make nice. I’m sure they’re about as happy as a blind mouse in a cat house right now.”

  Katie smiled. “Thank you, Carl.”

  She hung up just as another call came in.

  “Hello?”

  “This is the journalist, Kate Edwards?” Heavy French accent.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “I am Mehdi Ahmadi. I know about your friend.”

  “My friend?”

  At first Katie worried she’d lost the connection, but then: “Jaspar Wills. I find him.”

  After the news she’d just had, she hadn’t thought she’d be capable of it for a very long time, but Katie was definitely smiling as she mouthed the word: bingo.

  Chapter 33

  Jemaa el Fna, hammam-level steamy even well past dusk, was a dizzying carnival of food vendors, storytellers, snake charmers, acrobats, musicians, entertainers, and petty criminals. Katie struggled through the crowds to one end of the massive market square. She knew calèches congregated there, waiting for someone like her—someone who had no idea how to get to where they were going, and willing to pay a premium to do so.

  The man on the phone, Mehdi Ahmadi, had asked to meet her in the medina. When Katie had first arrived in Marrakech, confident in her typically superb navigational skills, she’d made the newcomer’s mistake of attempting to locate an address within the old city’s writhing mess of narrow streets, twisting lanes, and goat paths. She’d gotten hopelessly lost and struggled to find her way out for hours. Today she didn’t have the luxury of wasting time. Even if the place ended up being only a short distance away, she now understood that traversing a block in the famed medina of Marrakech is not even remotely the same thing as traversing a block in pretty much any other city in the world.

  Particularly during peak periods, drivers of the horse-drawn cabs were notorious for turning down short-haul fares in the hope of securing something longer, like the medina wall tours that tourists were suckers for. Money was the only key to getting what you wanted. Katie marched up to the first man in line and immediately handed over one hundred and twenty dirham—about twelve dollars—no bargaining attempted. Along with the money, she gave him a sheet of paper indicating the address she was looking for. He shrugged, barked something at the next guy in line, and then helped her into the cab.

  As the sorry-looking pair of horses skillfully maneuvered the chaos of other carriages, speeding motorbikes and scooters, donkey-led delivery wagons, jostling locals, and overwhelmed tourists who weren’t looking where they were going, Katie sat back and pulled in a deep, calming breath, the first of the day.

  In the failing light of early evening, the calèche appeared deceptively cheery. Its brightly-painted exterior was festooned with beaded streamers and clusters of plastic flowers, the interior made cozy by patchwork throws tacked to the walls and strewn across bench seats. The telltale light of day would reveal the artifice. The carriage was rickety and in poor repair, the inside torn and faded and filthy from scores of dusty journeys through the city’s sun-soaked streets. Still, there was something magical about the experience. A ride in the calèche was like floating inside a bubble. From within its unruffled, relaxing parallel universe, one could idly observe the pandemonium and tumult of the massive market square outside, all of it whizzing by as if in double time.

  The driver was no slouch. With generous fare already in hand, it behooved him to deliver Katie to her destination as fast as possible. The sooner he dumped her, the sooner he could return to the medina and the possibility of flossing another silly American tourist. Instead of driving through the colorful circus, the calèche operator immediately directed his horses out of Jemaa el Fna and down the quieter perimeter road encircling the orange-red clay ramparts of the old city, only zipping back inside when nearing their destination. Within fifteen minutes the carriage shuddered to a stop.

  “Is this it?” They were halfway down a narrow, poorly-lit street. Katie was not at all certain she should get out.

  The driver pointed to a door in the nearest building and grunted something she couldn’t make out. Only half-turning in his seat, he returned the paper with the address on it, swiveled back, and yanked up the hood of his djellaba. Quite clearly their time together was over. Gathering her courage, Katie stepped out of the cab into the street. Only as the horses and carriage moved off did she wonder: How the hell am I going to get back to the hotel?

  She’d have to think about that later. For now, she had plenty of other things to worry about.

  Despite lights and reasonable foot traffic at either end, the street itself was dark and eerily noiseless. The door the driver had pointed out bore no distinguishing markings or numbers matching the address Ahmadi had given her. With no obvious alternative, Katie knocked on it—timidly at first, and then stronger.

  What do I do if no one answers? Where do I go for help? She checked her phone. No bars. Shit.

  Trying to ignore the mistake of not having done so a wee bit earlier, Katie reviewed her predicament. Was all of this pure idiocy—agreeing to meet a
stranger, in a strange place, at night, without telling a soul where she was going? It wasn’t like her to allow herself to spin so far out of control. It was, she realized, a sign of how desperate she’d become. She needed to find something, anything, to make her trip to Marrakech worthwhile—to redeem herself in a plot gone bad.

  When there was no response after a full minute, she tried the doorknob. It turned. She pushed and found herself entering a miniscule alcove with barely enough lighting to see her hand in front of her. To the left was an opening with improved illumination. Gentle, rhythmic drumming, and fragrant wafts of something delicious being cooked nearby, beckoned her.

  She stepped forward, placing each foot carefully in front of the other. As the space revealed itself, Katie came to realize she was in some kind of restaurant. She stopped at what might be a hostess station, and waited. Seated on a low stool nearby was an elderly man, gnarled fingers dancing across the top of a small, round drum. He was accompanied by a second, younger man, strumming a strange-looking stringed instrument. Katie’s mouth watered as the symphony of spicy aromas grew stronger.

  The greeting came first in Arabic, then in French, and finally in broken English.

  “I was told I’d find Mehdi Ahmadi here?” Katie responded.

  Not knowing what else to do, she thrust the paper with the address on it toward the young man who’d approached her. Briefly studying it, he looked up, his smile dazzling in the dim surroundings. “This address is for the back door. I show you.”

  That wasn’t the back door?

  Katie’s head swirled with unhappy thoughts as she followed the man outside and down an alley she hadn’t noticed before. It was barely wide enough to pass through without turning sideways. Once again, Katie began questioning the wisdom of what she was doing.