I’d settled on an evening escape. I was counting on there being no one on the other side of the door. The way I figured it, why would it be locked if there was? If I was wrong, it didn’t really matter. They’d kill me just as easily, day or night.
Hearing the telltale sounds of Asmae’s approach, I quickly hid the rucksack I’d fashioned from old towels, and stood by the door in greeting, as I often did.
She smiled warmly when she entered. It nearly broke my heart to know I would soon break hers.
We wandered into the lean-to, where she laid out my meal—tonight a fish tagine with potatoes, tomatoes and green peppers, and a honey cake for dessert. After preparations were complete, Asmae’s habit was to either leave immediately or she would sit. If she sat, which she now did more often than not, it was a sign that she intended to stay, and the evening would eventually lead to her joining me atop the pedestal.
I breathed a sigh of relief when she lowered herself to the ground. If she hadn’t, I’d have had to make my move instantly, swiftly, and with greater force than I hoped would be necessary.
My plan was to gain my freedom that night with the least possible cost to Asmae. Only if she surprised me—with a show of resistance or a heretofore concealed weapon—would I be driven to commit the unthinkable. I had considered this for many anguished hours. How far was I willing to go to win back my liberty? If she stood in my way, would I turn to brutality? Would I murder the hand that had literally fed me?
My decisions that evening will haunt me for the rest of my days. Should I have done what I did? The way I did it? Should I have accepted the generosity of her provision in eating that last supper, the generosity of her heart in accepting her love? As we lay entwined one last time atop the stone pedestal, a mellow bath of moonlight melting over our naked bodies and drawing out hues of umber and cayenne from her skin, I found myself resisting the next step. I put off the inevitable by kissing the top of her head, her cheeks, her breasts, her soft shoulders. I watched, breath bated, as she found the spot where I’d chipped out a chunk of the rock as a keepsake, her tiny fingers questioning the imperfection in an otherwise smooth surface. A small frown passed fleetingly across her face, but she said nothing.
I questioned my resolve.
But there was no other way.
If I could have made her understand the words, “Will you come with me?” would I have spoken them?
I’ll never know for sure.
Instead, as she closed her eyes for a brief rest, I pulled the key from the fabric of her dress, which we’d used to soften our nest. With one last, urgent kiss, like Prince Charming’s awakening gift to Sleeping Beauty, I made my dastardly intentions known.
She opened her eyes.
I held the key aloft, its gold metallic edge catching the light.
Her reaction was startling, immediately plain and clear, and wholly probable and true to her noble, selfless spirit.
Slowly, with great assurance and wordless bounty, Asmae nodded her assent.
Perhaps she’d been waiting for me to do this exact thing all along. Perhaps she’d even told me to do it in words I didn’t understand…or didn’t want to understand. Perhaps this was the secret she had been trying to share with me all this time: Jaspar, you are set free.
PART II
Chapter 29
Sitting outside the modest but charming brownstone in suburban Boston, Katie Edwards was torn. The move she was about to make was a no-brainer. She had to do it. No question about it. But it wasn’t going to be easy—not after all they’d been through together over the past months. She knew friendship and career were uneasy bedfellows; sooner or later, one had to crawl on top of the other.
The weather was bitingly cold. She adjusted the heater in her little car to its highest setting. Along with post-Christmas, mid-winter blues, January had brought with it spitefully low temperatures and almost daily snowfall. Katie blew warmth into the icy cocoon of her hands as she eyed up the house, unobtrusively perched in its peaceful neighborhood. You’d never know that less than six months ago the same lawn had been crawling with cameras, lights, reporters, and gawkers, the surrounding streets clogged for blocks by news vans and police vehicles. You’d never know that this was the home of arguably the most famous—and infamous—couple in all of Boston right now. The celebrated author and his lawyer wife (and Katie’s friend) had been thrust into the glare of ceaseless media attention, thanks to the unthinkable abduction of their thirteen-year-old daughter, followed by an attempted murder shocker and a sizzling, scandal-a-minute trial. Every second of it with Katie Edwards as its public face.
And now this. It was unbelievable, really.
She had to go in there. But how? As friend? Reporter? Both?
Switching off the engine, she tightened the scarf around her neck and straightened the beret on her head. Grabbing her purse, Katie exited the car. She dashed up the familiar walkway and rang the bell.
Jennifer Wills looked awful. Her face was a pale, blotchy mess, her ordinarily smartly-styled blond hair struggling to stay in a topknot. She wore makeup, but today it looked as if it had been applied by a visually-impaired chimpanzee.
Like a marionette let loose from its strings, as soon as she saw Katie, Jenn crumpled into her arms and erupted into tears. Katie gently urged her friend inside, closing the door and bad weather behind them.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d heard yet.” Katie’s voice was muffled by Jenn’s heavy sweater. It smelled of her friend’s favorite perfume and the warm mustiness that comes with being worn over and over again and, quite possibly, slept in more than once. “I came as soon as it started showing up on the news services.”
Jenn pulled back and searched her friend’s face. “What do you know? What is happening? The cops—or somebody—called, but they said they couldn’t tell me much.”
“Come on, let’s sit down,” Katie urged, drawing the other woman into the dim front room. A TV was flashing images of the breaking story, recounted by a young female reporter Katie recognized. Sinking to the couch, hands clasped together, the women listened.
“A local man being held captive in the North African country of Morocco has been identified as thirty-six-year-old Jaspar Wills. Wills is the author of the bestselling novel In The Middle, which inspired the critically acclaimed movie of the same name.
“Earlier today, Maghreb Arab Press, Morocco’s official news agency, and the English language online newspaper, Morocco Newsline, were simultaneously contacted by someone claiming to represent Wills’ kidnappers. Senator Richard Crawley’s office has confirmed that the senator was informed of the abduction by the FBI.
“The kidnappers are demanding the release of Qasim Al-Harthi. Al-Harthi was sentenced to life in prison following a 2012 Marrakech bombing in which thirteen people were killed, including two Americans. Well known Islamist militant organization, Al Qaeda in the Islamic Maghreb, also known as AQIM, were widely blamed for the bombing. Al Qaeda denied responsibility for the blast, and allegations of Al-Harthi’s connections to the organization were never proven.
“Tonight a U.S. State Department representative is calling the kidnapping a “very grave matter” and says “we are keeping Mr. Wills’ family informed of any developments and taking every appropriate step.”
“What does that mean?” Jenn cried, frustration seeping through every word. “They haven’t informed me of anything. What appropriate steps are they talking about?”
“It’s difficult to say,” Katie responded, knowing that the first thing that leapt to mind was not what Jenn needed to hear: the United States government did not negotiate with terrorists. “It probably means they’re trying to contact the kidnappers to figure out how to end this.”
“We all know how well that goes!” Jenn spit out, her bitterness as sharp as claws. “Look at what ‘trying to figure it out’ did for Mikki. We lost her! And now I’m going to lose Jaspar too. Christ, Katie, why is this happening to us?”
Jenn buried her head
in her hands. She hated the sound of her own voice. She was a lawyer, for God’s sake. She was used to being the calm, collected one in times of high stress and tension. She was usually the one laser-focused on facts, logical next steps, resolution techniques. Now, instead, she was being weak, a blubbering mess, withering under pressure at a time when she most needed her wits about her.
“Jenn,” Katie murmured, “we’ll get through this.”
Once again the two women embraced. It was far from an unusual stance for them. Since September, when Mikki was taken, Katie often found herself in the role of comforter—at first alongside Jaspar, and then in lieu of him during the fiercest days of the trial.
Glancing about the shadowy, sullen home, dread and grief pulsating from its walls, Katie thought about how many pots of tea she had brewed here, how many bottles of wine she’d brought over, and pizzas, and tub after tub of ice cream—whatever it took to calm the frayed nerves and anesthetize the anxiety of its inhabitants.
After a few minutes, Katie gently repositioned Jenn so that she was lying back against a pillow. Getting up, she retrieved a blanket from the back of the sofa and covered her friend, who was shaking as if she’d been left outside in an arctic storm. “I’ll make some tea. And where’s the thermostat? It’s freezing in here,” she lied.
“Why would they take him?” Jenn was not yet ready for warmth. “Why Jaspar, of all people? First our daughter is kidnapped, and now him? Is this some kind of crazy cosmic joke?”
Katie shrugged. “Why not him? He was in the wrong place at the right time. Traveling alone. American. Whoever the kidnappers are, they don’t care about Jaspar, or you, or what the two of you have been through. They just care about getting what they want.”
“What do they want? Why take an American? This man the kidnappers want released, he’s Moroccan, in a Moroccan prison. What does that have to do with us? The U.S. can’t do anything about it.”
“Obviously they think we can. Pressure from the American government speaks loudly anywhere in the world. Maybe they’re looking for vengeance, fame, political attention paid to their cause. By involving the U.S., they’re guaranteed exposure. Who knows what they really want? It could be anything.”
“They’re not going to get it, though, are they?”
Their eyes held. The truth was unspeakable.
After a moment, Katie whispered, “I don’t know.” She watched as the other woman disappeared into a ball, knees braced against her chest, face buried in the quivering folds of her arms. “Do you still love him?”
Jenn looked up, her face puffy and patterned with the weave of her sweater. “Of course I do. Why would you ask that?”
“I just thought…with him leaving so suddenly…I thought maybe you two were...”
“Separating? Getting a divorce?”
Katie looked away. She knew it wasn’t the best time for this conversation. But she was a reporter. Good reporters never shy away from asking tough questions in difficult situations, even when extenuating circumstances sometimes dictate they should. Like maybe now. Jenn was in pain. She needed Katie the friend, not Katie the reporter. But, damn it, she and Jenn never tiptoed around each other. It was probably one of the reasons they got along so well.
In the end, Jenn made the decision of whether or not to keep going down this road for both of them. “Because of what I did?” Jenn made it sound like a challenge. “You think Jaspar went to Morocco because I slept with Scott Walker?”
“I don’t think anything.” Katie made a move for the kitchen. “I’m going to get that tea.”
“Wait, Katie. You need to know that I love Jaspar. With all my heart. I have since the first day I laid eyes on him. That’s not the problem. The problem is…I’m afraid…I’m afraid he may stop loving me. He says he understands what happened between me and Scott.” She attempted to hide a nervous laugh by swiping at her nose with a raggedy Kleenex. “But I don’t know how he can. I don’t even know what the hell I was doing, or why. I just…I just went a bit crazy for a while.”
“A lot was going on.” Katie abandoned the kitchen run, but remained standing, looking down at her friend.
“A lot was going on for him too,” Jenn said, “but he didn’t go out and have sex with a neighbor.”
“It sounds like he forgave you.”
Jenn’s head moved back and forth, eyes blindly pinned to the TV screen. “No. He didn’t. But he was trying to. He just needed to get away from all of this. That’s why he went to Morocco. To clear his head, get back to writing. That’s all he was trying to do. And look where it got him.”
A shrill ring ripped through the room, an unwelcome intruder demanding attention.
“It’s them,” Jenn said, staring at the telephone, her voice deadened. “I can tell. It’s like before. They’ll never stop calling.”
Katie knew “them” also included her. The media had caught wind of the news. It had been months since Mikki’s disappearance and the sensational trial that followed it. Everything about the child’s kidnapping had been meaty and juicy, like a plump, well-marinated tenderloin, spitting and hissing atop a piping hot grill. Eventually, as with any story, the smorgasbord had come to an end. Newshounds directed their attentions elsewhere, looking for something fresher and tastier. But now, what a twist: Abducted girl’s famous father kidnapped! Impossible to resist.
“Do you want me handle it?” Katie asked.
Jenn nodded, massaging her throbbing temples as another talking head on TV breathlessly described to a rapt audience the developing details in what was sure to become a major news bonanza.
As Katie reached for the telephone, mentally preparing to take on the familiar role of family spokesperson, her eyes were drawn to the screen. Audiovisual experts had already pulled up an impressive array of stock photography and video—Jaspar being interviewed following Mikki’s kidnapping, Jaspar’s most recent book jacket head shot, Jaspar on a national talk show—the story all the more enthralling because it involved a celebrity, one who was young, handsome, and tragic. Katie knew what sold in the world of TV. This was going to be pure gold.
Chapter 30
Six months later
“In a shocking turn to the story that has captivated the nation since September of last year, when his thirteen-year-old daughter was kidnapped and held for ransom, bestselling author Jaspar Wills surprised the world late last week when he surfaced at a police station in Marrakech, after having been presumed dead following his own abduction by terrorists in Morocco five-and-a-half months ago.” Inwardly, Katie scowled at whoever had written the run-on sentence she’d just recited off the teleprompter. At the same time, she gave the camera a nuanced look, one she’d perfected over the past months: a look that compelled viewers to listen to her, trust her, feel deeply about what she was telling them.
“It’s a complex, heart-wrenching story that tore a family apart. A story that finally has…” she paused here, looking off camera for barely a millisecond, then, “…if not an entirely happy ending, at least the beginnings of a silver lining around a very stormy cloud. Jaspar Wills and his wife, Jennifer, have joined us here today, in their first public interview since Jaspar’s return home this past weekend. Jaspar, Jenn, welcome.”
The camera panned wider to show the couple next to Katie, sitting in separate chairs positioned close together. Katie reached for Jaspar, who was nearest, and squeezed his hand. The audience would not be surprised at this show of intimacy between interviewer and subject—they expected it. Katie Edwards, since the early days of Mikki Wills’ kidnapping, had been their eyes, ears, and heart when it came to anything to do with the Wills. In the beginning, she’d been relatively unknown on the Boston news scene—unless you happened to be one of the handful of people who read her chatty articles published in a fledgling weekly, or caught her late-night weather reports on a local, non-network, basement-budget, ratings-challenged TV station. But that was then. This was now.
A lot had changed for Katie Edwards in the p
ast ten months. To some, it appeared as if she’d been thrust into the limelight with the same urgent, uncontrollable ferocity as the Wills had been—all by virtue of her pre-existing relationship with the couple.
In the not-so-dark corners of bars frequented by reporters, news writers, and all manner of newshounds, the grumblings could easily be overheard about Edwards’ dumb luck at being in the right place at the right time with the right friends, propelling the inexperienced newcomer to dizzying heights of success far exceeding her abilities. The same snarks begrudgingly agreed the rookie had that “something special” that viewers fell for, but there was no excusing the fact that she’d leapfrogged over way too many hurdles way too fast. Hurdles that novice journalists were meant to scratch and claw their way over, as a kind of boot camp, necessary to earn your stripes in the world of serious journalism—and the respect of your contemporaries.
According to these colleagues, Katie Edwards had neglected to pay her dues. She’d become famous overnight only because of her insider access to the city’s hottest story, a story that refused to die. A story that, even in its death throes, had suddenly reinvented itself and grabbed the world’s attention all over again.
Katie did not entirely disagree with her detractors. She knew it was delusional to contend that she’d gone from a nearly bankrupt, nobody freelancer, to a popular beat reporter for a local news channel, to an on-air personality for a major network affiliate, all in under a year, just because of how good she was. Yes, she’d hopped over the velvet rope. Yes, it was because of her close relationship with the players in the juiciest story around. Sure, she’d grasped the gold ring under somewhat fluky circumstances. But, goddammit, she didn’t still have a firm hold on it for the same reasons. She was smart. She was talented. People loved her.
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