Set Free

by Anthony Bidulka

  Creating her own opportunities was nothing new for Katie. Ever since she’d single-handedly turned her pitiful high school newspaper into must-read material, Katie knew she had a knack for identifying the stories people really wanted to be told and how to tell them.

  “I know this is going to be difficult for you,” Katie told the couple, soothing and sympathetic, “having to re-live everything you’ve been through for our audience. I want to thank you for agreeing to do so. I know our viewers appreciate it too.”

  Jaspar cleared his throat and responded, “We know people are interested in our story. We’re grateful for the support they’ve shown us, all the messages and prayers. But Katie, we want to be clear: this will be the last time we speak about this publicly.”

  “All we want is to go back to our normal lives,” Jenn added. “Now that Jaspar is home, we want to try as best we can to move on.”

  Katie’s gaze slid into the camera. “Sadly, Jaspar and Jenn will be moving on without their beautiful daughter, Mikki, at their side. For those of you just joining us, or unfamiliar with their story, I’m here with Jaspar and Jennifer Wills. Last September, while walking home from school on a sunny, tree-lined street in the safe, upper middle-class suburban Boston neighborhood where she lived with her parents, thirteen-year-old Mikki Wills was abducted.” Katie knew that behind her and on TV screens across the country, a cornucopia of visual gems was being displayed. Images of a beautiful, golden-haired princess: Mikki Wills. Gone. Vanished. Only the hardest hearts would be left unaffected.

  “Ten months later, Mikki is still missing. During the course of negotiations, communication with Mikki’s kidnappers was suddenly and inexplicably cut off. Jaspar and Jenn never heard from Mikki or her abductors again.” She waited a beat to allow the devastating facts to soak in. “In January, Mikki’s father traveled to Morocco, where another unthinkable tragedy awaited. But first, Jaspar, can you tell us about the purpose of your trip—and why Morocco?”

  Jaspar responded with his carefully prepared statement. “Of course. I made the trip to Morocco for work, to research a new book I was planning to write.”

  Katie nodded, giving the camera a few seconds of silence to feast on the author’s wan, hollowed-out face. Once again the experts behind the scenes knew just what to do. They’d moved to a split screen, one half showing the ravaged man currently sitting next to Katie, the other showing a slideshow of images—at first playing up the handsome, hardy, famous author everyone knew from ten months earlier. Then, as the story progressed and grew grisly and disturbing, so too would the images of Jaspar Wills. They would show the series of pictures released by his kidnappers in an effort to convince the U.S. government to do their bidding. Pictures of a sad and frightened man, a man bound and bloody and beaten to within an inch of his life. The metamorphosis was nothing short of shocking.

  “Can you tell us what happened when you first arrived in Marrakech?”

  “I’d arranged for a car to take me to my hotel. When it didn’t arrive, I hired a taxi.”

  Glancing at the camera, Katie reported: “In the taxi, Jaspar eventually began to realize he wasn’t being taken to his hotel.” Doing little to disguise a shiver, she added, “I know for anyone who’s ever traveled to a foreign country, this is their worst nightmare. You expect things to work the way they do here in the United States. You expect a cab driver to take you where you ask them…pay them…to. You expect to be safe. Jaspar, tell us what happened next.”

  “I’d never been to Marrakech before, so I was unfamiliar with the city and where we were going. But eventually I started to wonder if something was wrong.”

  “What was it that made you suspicious?”

  “The trip was taking too long. We were heading into a part of the city where it didn’t seem likely a hotel would be.”

  “What were you feeling at that moment—the moment you knew something wasn’t right?”

  “Well, at first I was irritated. I thought, this guy is taking me on a joyride to up the fare. I asked him where we were going. But he wouldn’t answer me. It was hot. I was exhausted from the long trip. I thought maybe I was being paranoid. But as time passed, I became increasingly concerned and…”

  “Were you frightened?”

  “Yes.”

  “What then?”

  “Again, I confronted the driver. I asked him where he was taking me. When he wouldn’t answer, I demanded to be let out of the car. Which, as it turns out, was a mistake.”

  “Why was that?”

  “He had a gun. He hit me on the head…I think with the gun. I must have been knocked out cold, because the next thing I knew I was waking up in a dark room.”

  “Were you in pain? Had you been beaten?”

  “Yes…no. I mean yes, I was in pain, from the wound on my head where he’d hit me. But the real beatings didn’t start until later, for the proof-of-life photographs…”

  Katie interrupted. “For our viewers who may not be familiar with proof-of-life photographs, what can happen in these situations—when someone is kidnapped and demands are made as conditions of release—a common first step is for negotiators to establish that the kidnap victim is still alive. The abductors are asked to prove this, often by means of what is known as a proof-of-life photograph. Somewhere in the photograph will be a dated document, like a newspaper, to prove the victim is alive as of that date.” Behind Katie the scroll showed Jaspar, worsening in condition with each passing photograph, holding up a newspaper. “In Jaspar’s case, the kidnappers were demanding the release of a young man named Qasim Al-Harthi.

  “Back in 2012, a bomb exploded in a popular café in Marrakech, the same city where Jaspar Wills was abducted,” Katie announced, now in full reporter mode. “The blast killed thirteen people, including two Americans.” On screen, images pulled from archives followed the narrative. “Soon after the bombing, six suspects were apprehended near the café and charged with the murders. Among them was twenty-three-year-old Al-Harthi, who was later tried and sentenced to death.

  “Al-Harthi’s family and supporters, however, believe the young man was convicted based on eyewitness reports manufactured by the police. They claimed that none of the witnesses brought forth by the defense were allowed to testify. They suggested the Moroccan government was only interested in a speedy conviction in order to mollify the United States and other home countries of victims killed or injured in the explosion. To this day, they contend that the real criminals were never apprehended.” Katie’s attention shifted back to Jaspar. “Were you aware of any of this while you were being held?”

  “No. During my initial incarceration, the only people I was in contact with were my captors: two men, neither of whom spoke English. I had no idea what was going on. When they took the first proof-of-life photograph, I guessed there had to be some kind of ransom involved. But I had no way of knowing what they were asking for, from whom, or why.”

  Katie’s eyes hinted to the audience that what was coming next wasn’t good. “As frustrating as that must have been for you, things were about to become considerably worse, weren’t they?”

  “Yes. To say the least. Throughout the ordeal, I was in a constant state of uncertainty. I feared what might happen next. It was like knowing you’re going to fall, but not when or how far.”

  “Horrible.”

  “Yes, it was. Sometimes I wouldn’t see the two men for a day or more. Sometimes their visits were only hours apart. But each time, I could tell by their faces and voices that something was going wrong. Of course I couldn’t understand them, but it was obvious to me that they weren’t getting what they wanted. That was when the beatings began.”

  “Until then, had they treated you well?”

  Jaspar shrugged. “I wouldn’t go that far. I had very little food or water. It was extremely hot in the room. I often felt as if I was about to faint. And I probably did. I can’t be sure, because after a while time became a blur. Especially once the beatings began. There was no time to recove
r between attacks, so the pain and my wounds just got worse and worse. Each time they beat me was more violent than the last. They wanted blood and gore; they wanted whoever was seeing those pictures to know they meant business.”

  Perfectly timed, the final proof-of-life picture America ever saw of Jaspar Wills filled viewers’ screens. Although many of the people in the studio that day had seen the image before, an inaudible shockwave reverberated through the room, followed by a gasp, and then pulsating silence.

  Immediately prior to the broadcast, the network had issued a warning declaring certain content about to be aired to be graphic and not suitable for all viewers. The bloodied, bloated, bruised face before them now was why.

  Oddly enough, the image was less familiar to its subject than to most of the rest of the country. Jaspar studied the larger than life face staring out at him from the screen behind Katie, and tried to remember wearing that mask. But nothing came. Perhaps if he’d seen himself in a mirror at the time—that horrifying image, the wasted face and dead eyes—the memory might have been stronger. Instead, for him, the day that photograph had been taken had been just another in a string of days that, by then, he was convinced were leading to his death. This was a picture of a man who was dying. His mind, heart, soul—everything that had once been Jaspar Wills—was entirely disengaged, exorcised from the crumbling physical shell. This was a man prepared to face whatever came after life.

  Hearing a stifled sob next to him, Jaspar dragged his attention away from the thing on the screen and comforted his wife as best he could.

  Katie, eyes glistening, lips tight, swung back toward the camera dedicated solely to her. “The final, public statement by the American government on this matter came as a shock to everyone—especially Jaspar’s wife, Jenn. It read as follows: ‘…while the United States, along with Moroccan government officials, have cooperated fully in talks with the hostage takers in order to secure the release of American citizen Jaspar Wills, communications have been abruptly cut off and all further attempts to resuscitate them have failed. Exhaustive investigations by the U.S. military and intelligence communities, while still ongoing, indicate that Mr. Wills is irretrievable.” Katie visibly winced as she looked at her two guests. “Irretrievable,” she gravely repeated. “Jenn, that must be one of the most devastating words to hear about your missing husband. Can you tell us about that?”

  Jenn nodded. “I can’t even begin to explain how it felt. Basically they were telling me that my husband was dead, they had no idea where he was, his body was lost, never to be found, and there was nothing they could do about it.”

  Katie turned to Jaspar. “Your wife and family are at home, believing you are dead, planning your funeral. Jaspar, can you tell us what really happened next?”

  Jaspar fixed Katie with a direct gaze, and stated: “I died.”

  Chapter 31

  The screen went black.

  “Jaspar?” Jenn shifted in her regular spot on the sofa to look at her husband. Sitting on the coffee table in front of them was a half-empty bottle of red wine and a pizza, homemade by Katie, uneaten and nearly cold. “Why did you turn it off?”

  “Some of the best stuff is coming up,” Katie pressed. She was sitting in an armchair, re-positioned next to the couch for better viewing of the television. “The story about the Berber woman who saved your life, and then how you hitchhiked into Marrakech and turned up at the police station. It’s terrific stuff, Jaspar, really good.”

  “I don’t want to see it,” he responded, leaning over to refill his wine glass. “I meant it when I said that interview was the last of it. It’s over. We need to forget about all of this. We have to start letting it go.”

  Jenn’s response was a guffaw weighed down by heavy doubt. “I think we’ll be waiting a while before that happens. Unless we completely stop watching TV, using our iPhones, listening to radio, reading newspapers. After Katie’s broadcast tonight, it’s all people will be talking about for weeks.”

  “I know,” Jaspar relented. “And I know we had to do it. But the beast will only get bigger if we feed it. Otherwise it eventually starves and goes away. Isn’t that right, Katie? You know how it works.”

  Katie’s look was noncommittal. “Eventually,” she allowed. “I totally get what you’re saying, Jaspar. After a year of this shit, and everything you’ve been through physically and mentally, you need to let this go.” She picked up a limp piece of pizza, then immediately put it back. “I want you two to know how grateful I am that you trusted me to tell your story. Besides, the more people who associate me with the story instead of you, the better it is, right?”

  “You should have some before it gets stone cold,” Jenn indicated the pizza. “After all, you made it. You should get to eat some.”

  Jaspar rose and switched on an overhead light to brighten the dreariness that had settled over the room. “I’ll get more wine.” He headed for the kitchen.

  Katie waited until he was gone before asking, “Do you think he’s doing okay?”

  Jenn shrugged. “Hard to tell. He just got back. This is all happening so fast. Too fast. But he’s the one who wanted it done this way. You know I wanted to wait before doing the interview. But he wanted it over and done with.” She took a thoughtful sip of wine. “Still, he’s not talking much. And then of course there’s the elephant in the room.”

  Katie was mildly surprised at this admission of the elephant’s existence. She thought she was the only one who could feel its trunk tightening around the house, squeezing out every last bit of air, making it almost impossible to breathe. “You mean whether or not he’s going to stay? Here? With you?”

  Jenn nodded. “I guess it’s a good sign that when he came back, he came back here. But really, where else does he have to go? Is he here because he wants to be, or because he has to be? Right now, I don’t think I want to know the answer. So until he’s stronger, I don’t want to push things.”

  Katie had sensed the push and pull between the couple—two people whose love for one another had always been abundantly obvious to anyone who spent time with them. But now, after months of tragedy upon betrayal upon physical separation, it was a miracle they were able to hold things together as well as they were. “Maybe he wants to be pushed,” she tried. “Maybe it’s like the interview. Maybe he needs to deal with all this shit right now. Get it over with, then get over it. Maybe you both need that. Push him, Jenn. It’s time.”

  Jenn stared at her friend, surprised at the comment, caught off guard by the idea. Katie had come to her a year-and-a-half ago as a new client, fresh from a bad break-up with a long-term boyfriend who’d left her high and dry. He’d taken everything, even their cat. She didn’t care about the “stuff,” she’d said, but she really wanted that cat back. Unfortunately, with Massachusetts not recognizing common law relationships, there was little Jenn could do for her. From that frail beginning, their short-lived professional relationship had somehow morphed into friendship. During that time, Jenn had come to suspect that Katie had a dark, wounded side when it came to men—and here was another sign of it.

  Jaspar was back, topping up glasses. No one was touching the food.

  “Jaspar,” Katie began, “this might not be the right time to bring this up…or maybe it’s the perfect time, I dunno.”

  Jenn nearly choked on her freshly-poured wine as she listened to the words spilling out of Katie’s mouth. She’d thought they’d been talking in abstractions, possibilities for an uncertain time in the future—not right now.

  Katie kept on. “It kind of goes along with what you said about wanting to wash your hands of all this. It mainly concerns you, Jaspar, but I wanted to bring it up with both of you here.”

  Jenn, a questioning eye searching the other woman, held on to a sigh of relief until she was certain it was deserved.

  “First, you should know the idea wasn’t mine. I was approached by someone.”

  “What’s this about?” Jaspar, as confused as Jenn, asked while settling
into his seat.

  “Of course I immediately thought you’d be the best person to do it, not me. But now, well, maybe that’s not the case.”

  “What idea are you talking about?” Jenn asked, swallowing more red wine than she probably needed.

  “A book.” Katie let the two words sit in the room for a second or two, using the time to gauge reactions. If there was one thing she was good at, it was measuring the mood of her audience. Jenn was perplexed, Jaspar uncomfortable.

  “What are you talking about?” Jaspar’s voice was uncharacteristically harsh. “What book?”

  “Your book,” Katie said. “Yours and Jenn’s. And Mikki’s. Your story.”

  “Somebody asked you what exactly?”

  “If I’d write it.”

  “What?” Jenn knew she sounded incredulous, but didn’t care. “You?”

  “I know,” Katie quickly countered. “Crazy, right? Jaspar’s the famous author. He should do it. Of course he should do it. That’s what I told them.”

  “My publisher already asked me,” Jaspar said, downing a healthy swig. “Not recently, of course, but after the trial. They wanted the story even back then, before the rest of this crap happened. I told them no. Then I tried to write it anyway.”

  “You did?” Jenn asked, still not sure what was happening. She wondered if maybe she’d had too much to drink.

  “I tried. I couldn’t do it then. I can’t do it now.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking,” Katie chattered on. “Not that you can’t, but that you shouldn’t. Not if you want to get away from all of this. But you know how it works, Jaspar—they’re not going to let it go. It’s too good a story. For a book. Even a movie. If you don’t do it, someone else will.” Katie hesitated, counted to five, then: “Maybe… maybe it should be me. With your help, of course. I’d need your input.” She turned to Jenn for support. “And yours too. We’d only put out there what you want out there. It’s the perfect way to end this, once and for all. On your terms, but without having to relive it all over again.”