by P. J. Fox
“I…I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Please don’t hurt me.”
“Don’t give me reason to.” His tone was firm. And threatening.
She nodded, chastened.
“Perhaps you’d like that water now? Or something stronger?”
“I—alright. Water is fine. Water would be nice,” she added.
He handed her a bottle, first unscrewing the cap. She sipped at it hesitantly, her eyes on him to gauge his reaction. Despite the fact that she’d seen him break the seal, she half expected to taste the metallic tang of a sedative. But nothing: just overpriced water that tasted vaguely of minerals in a square bottle with a picture of Fiji in the background.
She wondered how the mood in the car could have changed so quickly. Not that it had ever been good, but for awhile there she’d felt like she was gaining some sort of control. Which, clearly, had been an illusion. He’d been allowing her to feel that way, like a cat toying with a mouse. But if she pushed too far, he’d shown that he was more than willing to reassert himself. To remind her of what the situation really was.
“We’re passing a checkpoint soon,” he said. “Behave.”
She nodded again.
“No more stunts like at the club. Or I’ll hurt you.” His eyes searched hers. “This is a difficult situation. I understand, perhaps more than you might imagine.” He paused. She waited. She doubted very much that he understood how she felt, but chose not to voice this opinion. “I am in control, however pleasant I might choose to act. And I do want this to be pleasant. For my sake as well as yours. But don’t mistake my manners for weakness.”
“I…hadn’t.”
“I forgave your antics at the club because the situation was no doubt frightening. But as you have more time to acclimatize—”
“It’s still frightening,” she said quietly.
His expression turned, once again, unreadable.
Silence descended.
The border between the Czech Republic and Slovakia was marked with what on first glance appeared to be a toll booth. They’d diverted from the main road onto a small two lane affair that appeared to have taken them into the middle of nowhere. A sign indicated that the nearest town was called Brodské, but there was no sign of a town.
The Cadillac rolled to a halt. Two men materialized out of the bushes. Both were in uniform.
Ash pressed a button and the back window rolled down. From somewhere about his person, he produced a passport—presumably his—and an envelope. He passed both to the guard closest.
“The lady has no passport,” he said in German. “She is…a friend.”
Belle resisted the urge to call out. She was afraid of what might happen if she did and afraid, too, that these men were hardly the heroic types. Her fears were confirmed when the first guard checked the envelope and, turning to his comrade, nodded. Seconds later Ash’s passport was returned. Without being stamped.
Belle realized that he must have diverted to this particular checkpoint on purpose. He either knew the guards, or knew of them. And he’d just bribed them, with how much money she didn’t know. Then the window rolled back up and the car was moving again.
Time passed. Eventually, Belle worked up the courage to speak. She didn’t want to, but she had to. “I…ah, how much longer are we going to be in the car?”
He looked up and, turning his head, met her gaze. He’d been reading something on a tablet, ignoring her. “Quite awhile,” he said. “You might as well get some sleep.”
“But I….” She chewed her lip. “I have to pee,” she whispered.
He considered this. Then, lowering the partition, he said something to the driver in a language she didn’t recognize. She wondered if the driver spoke English. “There’s a town up ahead,” he said, “where we can stop.”
The town came into view a few minutes later, a perfectly preserved relic from the middle ages aglow under the electric light. There were half timbered houses, a scattering of small businesses, and a pub. The pub appeared to be doing a brisk business, even though it must be close to four in the morning. Someone stumbled out, looking confused, a bottle still in his hand. Seeing the unfamiliar Cadillac, he waved.
“Alec will escort you inside,” he said. “And remember,” he added, “Alec isn’t as pleasant as I am.”
Alec—she supposed he must be referring to his driver—turned the car off and got out. He opened Ash’s door and then, coming around to the other side of the car, he opened hers. Humiliation warred with need; she didn’t want to get out, she was naked, but she truly did have to pee. She thought her bladder was going to burst. Her kidneys ached. So, taking a deep breath and steeling herself for the inevitable embarrassment, she got out.
She glanced up at Alec. He was even taller than Ash, his expression settled into frown lines so deep she doubted if he ever smiled. She couldn’t place his nationality. He was white.
“Come,” he said, in English. He appeared to know where he was going, as he led her straight to the bathrooms. He checked inside first, and then held the door open for her. “Don’t lock the door,” he said, “or I’ll cause a scene.”
“You—what? But I don’t want you coming in!”
“If you’re not outside in five minutes,” he countered, “I’ll start singing the Battle Hymn of the Republic.” His face softened into an almost-smile more terrifying than his frown. “I have daughters,” he said.
You have daughters, she thought, and you’re doing this?
Inside the bathroom, she leaned against the door and closed her eyes. She knew she only had a limited amount of time, but she couldn’t help reveling in the fact that she was finally alone. She hadn’t been alone in what seemed like centuries; she barely even remembered the feeling. But here there was no one staring at her, or poking and prodding at her. Alone was a sanctuary. She didn’t want to leave.
Hurriedly, she peed. Whatever else she did, she had to do that first. She tried to wash her hands, but the faucet didn’t work. The bathroom smelled, that strange acidic-sour smell that gas station bathrooms developed. The toilet bowl appeared to be growing some sort of mold; she hoped that her minimal contact with the seat hadn’t given her a disease.
But why, asked the other part of her brain, when he might give you a disease?
Carefully, she examined the bathroom. Escaping through the bathroom was the oldest trick in the book and one that, according to the movies, never worked. So why did people keep trying it? She pressed her hand against the one window in the room, a small square of glass grimed over with who knew how many decades of filth and far too small for all but a toddler to fit through. Because the alternative was to give up. To go back to the car, meek as milk, and thus to agree with her captor that he had power over her. That she was somehow obligated to do as he bid.
The window eased open. Belle peered out into the service alley. Across from her was a dumpster. That might be a good place to hide; she couldn’t picture Ash getting his clothes dirty pawing through trash. And then after she’d hid there awhile—
A hand closed on her shoulder. She jumped. “Nothing funny now,” came Alec’s coarse voice. “Unless you want me to start singing.”
“Why are you doing this?” she asked. “You have children of your own, I mean—would you want them to…would you want this to happen to them?”
She couldn’t even force herself to say the words. Kidnapped. Sold. Used.
“I do as Mr. Singh asks.”
Singh. Belle hadn’t even known his last name; it seemed impossible that a specter like him had a last name. But of course he must; just like he must drink coffee and pay his bills and use the toilet just like everyone else. Even though to her, he barely seemed human.
“I owe him a debt of gratitude. I owe him…a great deal,” Alec finished, this time more quietly.
Great. So she was sharing the bathroom with a giant ape because he felt a debt of gratitude. What had Ash done, bailed him out of jail? Belle could only imagine the sort of favors a person
like Ash doled out.
“But this,” she said, as clearly as she dared, “this is wrong.”
She didn’t know where she’d found her courage—or idiocy, depending on how one interpreted the situation. She knew, and moreover had been shown, that antagonizing these people was wrong. And yet she couldn’t stop doing it, not for more than a few minutes at a time.
Maybe she was hoping that if she pushed hard enough, her captor would just kill her and end this. Death might be preferable to whatever he had in store. A vision of the cage flashed in her mind. Her stomach turned.
And part of her mind rebelled at the fact that her captor—and now Alec—was refusing to treat her like what she was: a prisoner. Ash apparently expected her to talk to him, to pass the time in idle chitchat about Scarborough and the middle ages until he got bored of that and decided to rape her. Or worse. What was wrong with these people?
She’d have felt less off balance if he had locked her in the trunk.
“He’s a good man,” Alec said.
Belle just stared at him.
“You might enjoy his company more, if you were more pleasant to him.”
“Pleasant to him?”
Instead of hitting him, Belle turned and walked out.
THIRTEEN
“Are you hungry?”
“No,” Belle said. And she wasn’t, either. The very idea of food right now was beyond repulsive. Even the smells wafting from the pub’s open door were nauseating: meat and grease and God knew what else. Belle didn’t think she could’ve forced a single forkful of food from that place down her throat if her life depended on it.
Besides, she’d never been to Slovakia before and didn’t know what food was served there. To be brutally honest, prior to this night she wasn’t certain that she’d have been able to find the place on a map. And this town…she had to admit that it surprised her, a man like Ash in a place like this. She’d have thought him far too fastidious for mucking around with the peasants. But, strangely enough, he seemed right at home.
People greeted him as they passed and he greeted them back, perfectly gracious. If only they knew, she thought. They greeted her too, but she just glared. She didn’t have the most positive opinion of bystanders, at the moment. And that was when people had understood the language. She doubted very much that anyone here spoke more than a word or two of English and, given the region’s historic relationship with Germany, she doubted that anyone would be overly anxious to aid a girl who called for help in German. Quite the opposite; they’d probably settle in to watch the show.
Ash paused, but in the end said nothing. She saw then that he’d acquired a couple of twine-wrapped packages from somewhere. She wondered what was in them.
“Get in the car,” he said. “We still have a long drive ahead of us.”
“How long?” she asked.
“Another ten or so hours.”
Alec held the door for her, managing to do so in a way that conveyed her lack of choice in the matter. Her feet hurt and she was exhausted. She felt defeated. She got in. Curling into her customary position in the corner, she drew her knees up under her chin. She felt safest like this.
The car started and Alec pulled away from the curb. Soon they were in darkness again, in the middle of nowhere. Ash handed her one of the packages without comment. His nails were perfectly manicured. He looked remarkably fresh for someone who had to have been up since the previous morning. Considering that the sun would rise soon, that made almost a full twenty four hours. She, on the other hand, felt like she’d spent the last day in a blender.
Uncurling a bit, she examined the package. “What’s this?” she asked.
“Try it,” he said.
Opening the lid revealed a pair of purplish balls, about the size of cupcakes. They were coated with powdered sugar and what appeared to be poppy seeds. Lots and lots of them. Melted butter glistened on the poppy seeds. She stared dubiously into the box. A few seconds later, she looked up. “What is it?” she asked.
“A local delicacy.”
Much to her astonishment, she found herself reaching into the box and picking up one of the odd-looking balls. She took a hesitant bite. Hot, jam-like filling squirted into her mouth. Its tart acidity was matched perfectly by the rich density of the pastry crust. It was good. Still, she couldn’t quite place the flavor. And then it came to her: plum.
She also discovered, with that first bite, that she was ravenous. She was so sure that she’d never want to see food again but tasting the reality on her tongue reminded her that she hadn’t eaten since that morning. And then all she’d had was coffee and toast. She hadn’t purposefully chosen not to eat; she’d just forgotten. She did that, sometimes, when she was busy. She always had, a problem that as a dancer had come in handy.
She took another bite, and another. Soon her fingers were sticky. She didn’t care. She couldn’t believe that she was eating in front of this man but she didn’t care about that, either.
“Thank you,” she mumbled. She had to say something.
“You’re welcome.” He was studying her again. Not smiling. She didn’t think he ever smiled. And why should he? There was nothing in this situation to smile about. In all of recorded history, she didn’t think a stranger meal had been shared. Captor and captive, alone in the back of a Cadillac, eating fried food.
While heading who knew where.
“Call me Ash,” he said.
She hesitated. “I can’t,” she said finally.
“Why not?” He sounded, not upset, just merely curious. But appearances could be deceiving, with him. She remembered what had happened before, the look in his eyes when he’d threatened to hurt her. She didn’t want that to happen again.
She tensed. “It’s…too much like we know each other.”
“I see.”
They regarded each other from opposite sides of the bench seat, the box between them. “They’re called slivkové knedle,” he said after a moment. “Plum dumplings. I’m told that everyone’s grandmother makes them.” He paused. “Although they’re sweet, they’re served as a main course. I thought they might tempt you to eat something. I’m sorry to report that chocolate isn’t a common feature of Slovak cuisine.”
“That was…thoughtful of you.”
“You’ll get to know me well enough,” he said, “soon enough.”
His words were spoken calmly, but they sounded like a threat. Which they were, in a sense. She tried to picture what it would be like, having to…touch him. Having him touch her. She wondered how horrible it would be, and if she could block it out. Maybe if she shut her eyes and pretended to be somewhere else, it wouldn’t be that bad.
He was the kind of man women found attractive. She might have even found him so, under different circumstances. If she hadn’t, from the moment of their first meeting, found him so frightening. Beyond simple good looks, he exuded a sort of dark charisma. He didn’t merely watch her; he studied her, as a snake might study a mouse. Like he wanted, not simply to possess her but to devour her. Everything about him, every line of his posture, was predatory. Which must, she concluded, have been why she’d felt such an uncharacteristic need to antagonize him.
From the beginning, he’d sparked something in her. She, the perennial wallflower, had wanted to push back. To tell him what she thought of him. From a different man, she would have still refused the drink. It didn’t seem right to accept generosity under false pretenses, and she wasn’t looking to meet someone. But she would have been more polite.
Ash…there was nothing wrong with buying someone a drink, an act accepted the world over. But from him it was so offensive. She hadn’t been able to explain why then and she couldn’t now, even though she’d developed ten thousand more reasons to hate him.
He didn’t smell, she told herself. Except for cologne. He hadn’t locked her in a cage. Maybe he’d still let her go, after all. Or maybe, once they reached wherever they were going, she’d have another chance to escape. He couldn’t sleep al
l the time.
“What?” he asked.
“I’m scared.”
The admission, as obvious as it was, hurt. Being vulnerable hurt. The fact that she was naked in his car, covered only with his coat, hurt. She had nothing, it dawned on her now: no clothes, no shoes, not even a pair of panties to call her own. He’d been right, in what he’d said to that man. She had wanted to run down the street, with no money and no identification. Barefoot, through broken glass. And he had prevented her.
That made her dependent on him now, a thought she hated.
“We’re all scared, sometimes,” was his oblique response.
He returned to reading whatever it was on his tablet.
She pulled his coat around her, clutching at the wool with still-sticky fingers. The motion of the car was soothing. Smooth. They’d returned to the highway. Her head resting on the sill, curled up into a ball again, she saw signs for exotic places. Bratislava. Budapest. Oradea, wherever that was. Her eyes drifted closed. She was so tired. She hadn’t realized how tired, or maybe tired wasn’t even the right word. She felt like an operating system that had crashed, and needed to be rebooted. Nothing worked right. Nothing fit. She tried to make connections, but they wouldn’t go through. And, try as she might, she couldn’t escape the feeling of unreality that was settling over her.
Amazingly, astonishingly, as frightened as she was, she fell asleep.
FOURTEEN
She awoke to another world.
Even her unhappiness, and her disorientation at realizing that she’d been asleep—and for so long, too—weren’t enough to overcome her wonder. She didn’t know if Ash had slept and, for the moment, she didn’t care. He’d ceased to exist for her, as she stared out the window.
She’d left earth as she knew it and traveled back in time to the middle ages, or to some fairy kingdom straight out of legend. There was no other way to explain what she saw. Rolling meadows undulated, still rich with the last of the late summer grass. In the background were mountains ominous enough for any dwarf mine. They came together in strange, flat peaks, their faces were a mass of sheer planes. Houses dotted the meadows. Some nestled right in the foot of these planes, their roofs in shadow.
