Set Free

by Anthony Bidulka

  Jaspar and Jenn exchanged a not-so-private look that now questioned that decision.

  “In the book, you state that on the night you were moved, you believed you were being taken out of the city, into the Atlas Mountains.”

  “Yes,” Jaspar confirmed.

  “It’s astounding how, despite being battered, emotionally-overwrought, and frightened, you were able to deduce that.”

  Jaspar gave her a blank look.

  “How did you deduce that?”

  Jaspar cleared his throat. “Of course I couldn’t see a thing. But I could hear traffic patterns, the change in sound the tires made when we moved from pavement to gravel. Based on how long it took us to reach the final destination, I made an educated guess.”

  “Well, you are a writer,” Katie responded, her tone sunny and complimentary. “I suppose you’re used to observing and researching and using clues to get at the truth.”

  “Uh, yes, I guess that’s true.”

  “Of course, it wasn’t until much, much later, when you finally made your escape from the place you’ve called ‘the rectangle,’ that you knew you were right?”

  Jaspar shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Jenn laid her right hand over the fingers of his left, which were franticly at work on the keys Katie had given him earlier. “That’s right,” he agreed.

  “You describe—in the book—the area as being remote, somewhere in the foothills of the High Atlas Mountains.”

  “Yes.”

  “After your escape from the rectangle, you wandered aimlessly until you found a small Berber village, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  Katie inspected Jaspar with a keen eye, curious but not entirely surprised by the typically eloquent man’s sudden lackluster ability to elaborate. She tried again with another leading question. “You found help in the village and eventually hitched a ride back to Marrakech?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jaspar, I know this may be difficult for you, but I wonder if you’d mind taking us back: to the time before you escaped, to the time you spent inside the rectangle. Why did you call it that, anyway?”

  “The rectangle.” Jaspar repeated the name, eyes and voice deadened, the only liveliness coming from his left hand as he manipulated the keys, threading them under and over his fingers like some kind of parlor game. “It was shaped like a giant shoe box,” he finally uttered, “four walls with a metal grate for a lid. Like someplace you’d keep a hamster.”

  “Is that how you felt? Like a pet? Being kept in a box for the kidnapper’s pleasure?”

  “No. Pets are cared for, played with, loved. I was just…being stored. Until they could figure out what to do with me.” Jaspar allowed Jenn to pull the keys from his hand. His eyes followed to where she placed them at rest on a side table.

  “But things were different in the rectangle, compared to where you were held in Marrakech?”

  “Yes. The rectangle was considerably larger. The grate roof allowed in light, sunshine, fresh air. My restraints were removed. I was free to walk around. The beatings stopped. There was more food and water. Eventually a lot more, as you’ll read about in the book.” Why isn’t she talking about the book?

  Katie referred to her notes and recited a list: “No TV, no internet, no books, no real bed to sleep in?”

  “I had none of those things.”

  “For months.” Katie’s voice communicated her incredulity.

  He nodded. “For months.”

  “Do you—and I’m sorry for having to ask you this—but you’ve talked openly about your battle with maintaining sanity in what, I know everyone watching tonight will agree, were dreadful circumstances,” she said, wanting to circle back to the topic she needed him to talk about. “Jaspar, as you sat there—in the rectangle, day in, day out, waiting for who knows what, scared for your life, worrying about Jenn, about your friends and family back home, knowing they probably thought you were dead—do you believe this was when you slowly began to slip away from sanity? When you began to escape into what you’ve referred to as dreamscape reality?”

  Having lost confidence in his responses, Jaspar considered his answer carefully before making a reply. “I don’t know if it was an escape so much as a crucial mental adjustment. My dreamscape reality became a necessity of life. It was as essential as breathing and eating and sleeping. I needed to allow my brain to do what it needed to do…” Momentarily overcome, Jaspar swallowed hard, attempted to continue, swallowed again, then: “…so I could make it through another day.”

  Jenn watched her husband through silent tears.

  Katie nodded. “So even though your physical body was healing, even though you were being fed more, you weren’t tied up, you had more space and light, despite all of that, there really was nothing—other than being set free—that could even begin to heal the extreme emotional and mental damage that had been inflicted upon you. And I’m not just talking about the kidnapping and torture,” Katie hesitated here to emphasize her point, “but everything that had happened to you. To Jenn. To your daughter. For months and months and months.”

  Jaspar kept his eyes on Katie, cementing them there, as if letting go would surely mean he’d be set adrift and forever lost. She was doing something to him, he knew that much. Either he needed to trust her, and hold on for dear life, or let go and get as far away from her as possible.

  Chapter 41

  “Do you believe your daughter is still alive?”

  “I do,” Jaspar announced without hesitation.

  “Of course she is,” Jenn forcefully agreed, frowning at the other woman as if to say: why the hell are you asking?

  “I do too.” Katie’s words, without a hint of insincerity, instantly diffused the mounting awkwardness. “Jaspar, I wonder if you would tell us a little about the part in your book where you describe spending time with Mikki, while you were still being held in the rectangle.”

  A tremulous sigh escaped his lips. He nodded. But no words came out. Jaspar felt Jenn’s hand land on his. He felt warmth, reassurance and—worst of all—trust.

  “Are you alright?” Katie asked, laying her own hand on his free one, a striking pose the cameras were quick to hone in on. Before the moment was over, a screen shot of the devastated author, the two most important women in his life comforting him, all three faces etched in shared grief, began causing a sensation on social media.

  Jaspar nodded. Simultaneously, the two women released their holds as he leaned forward to reach for a glass of water. He took two careful sips. When he was done, he began.

  “She was never the same, on the nights she came to me,” he recalled. “Sometimes she was exactly the girl I last saw. Grown up, a teenager, her hair carefully styled, her clothes perfect, wearing too much shiny lip gloss because we weren’t letting her use makeup yet. Other times she was only a little girl, with pigtails that never kept their curl, and ice cream stains on her dress. Sometimes she was a baby, impossibly little, helpless, couldn’t even talk yet. She would lay in my arms and gurgle and coo.”

  “You’re talking about when you went to sleep every night, atop the pedestal? That’s where Mikki would visit you?”

  “Yes,” Jaspar agreed, suddenly very aware of the audience on the other side of the question. “On the pedestal.”

  “You talk a lot about the pedestal in the book. I have a vivid image of what it must have looked like.”

  This time Jaspar didn’t need further urging. “It was in the middle of the rectangle,” he told her. “I don’t know why it was there. I suppose it might have been some kind of support column, when there was an actual roof. It became a habit. Every night I’d crawl on top of it, to be as close to the outside world as possible. It’s where I’d go to sleep. And every night, Mikki would…every night I’d imagine Mikki would visit me. Just like when she was a little girl. We’d curl up and I’d tell her a bedtime story.”

  “Is that what happened, when she’d join you on top of the pedestal: you’d tell her a st
ory?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “What else would you talk about?” Katie urged, wanting to go beyond what the book described.

  “Sometimes we talked about everyday things. Sometimes we talked about what was happening…what had happened.”

  “To you, or to her?”

  The unexpected clatter of keys falling to the floor was immeasurably louder than it should have been, reverberating through the room with startling intensity. They’d somehow ended up back in Jaspar’s hands and now he’d dropped them. The jarring sound put everyone on edge, as if a bolt of lightning had cracked across their heads, highlighting the escalating tension in the room. No one bothered to pick them up.

  “Both,” he responded, as if further explanation was unnecessary.

  “Did you talk about the eerie similarity between what happened to her and what was happening to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I know one of the most grueling parts about what happened to Mikki was not knowing how…how things turned out…not knowing what really happened to her.”

  “Yes.”

  “Incredibly, only months later you found yourself going through the same thing.” She pushed harder. “What was that like?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did you find that going through the same thing Mikki had was helpful in dealing with what happened to her?”

  “Yes.”

  Jenn gasped.

  Jaspar did his best to ignore his wife’s reaction. “Of course it was helpful,” he hastily added, his manner showing signs of confusion. “Now I knew what she’d gone through. Now I could tell her not to worry, to not be scared.”

  Katie eyed Peggy, stationed behind the nearest camera. The producer was taut as a wire, arms tightly crossed over her chest, teeth biting into her bottom lip, face bloodless. She knew where Katie’s questions were leading.

  Katie pressed on. “When you and Mikki would talk at night, atop the pedestal, when she appeared to you as the little girl she was years before any of this happened, would you tell her about what was going to happen to her? About the kidnapping? You’d warn her?”

  “Not warn her, just…try to explain…tell her not to be frightened. I, I suppose I was warning her in a way. I don’t know,” Jaspar said, sounding increasingly unsure of his words. “I just wanted to tell her how it would be. I wanted her to know that even though it would be really difficult at first, things would get better. That the people who took her would take care of her, and maybe…maybe even love her.”

  “Like Asmae cared for you? Like Asmae loved you?”

  Jaspar flared: “How do you know about that?”

  Katie eye’s darted toward Jenn, on to Peggy, then back to Jaspar. Her words were gentle as she said, “You wrote about Asmae in the book, Jaspar.”

  Jenn let out a strangled sound. She had to intervene. This interview needed to stop.

  Surprisingly, Jaspar shook his head and chuckled. “Oh, God, you’re right. I didn’t know what I was saying there for a second. I’m sorry about that. Of course, Asmae.”

  “Which isn’t her real name,” Katie said, visibly glad to see Jaspar recover his senses. It would make what was coming next easier. “It was a name you gave her.”

  “No. It’s true she couldn’t speak English, and I couldn’t speak her language. But I did understand that much. She told me her name was Asmae.”

  “But other than that, you couldn’t really communicate with one another, isn’t that true?”

  “That’s true. Not with words. As you can imagine, like any writer, I love words. It’s how we tell our stories. How we reveal ourselves. But we—Asmae and I—found other ways to communicate.”

  With an imperceptible nod from Peggy, the cameras panned out. A set worker rolled in a portable screen, setting it next to Jenn. The Wills stared at it, then at Katie. Instead of responding to the obvious question, Katie rotated in her seat to face the camera head on. “When we return, the woman who helped Jaspar Wills through his ordeal will join us, live from Marrakech, to tell us exactly what happened next.”

  With another anticipated nod from Peggy, who looked as if she was about to shed her skin, the cameras zeroed in on Jaspar Wills, his face blanching to deathly white.

  Chapter 42

  The moment the cameras went to black, Katie hopped off her chair and headed for Peggy, as if urgently needing to discuss something with the producer. But Jenn was too fast for her. Catching up, she grabbed Katie’s arm and swung her around.

  “What the hell are you doing? Why didn’t you tell us about this?”

  “Jenn, everything is going to be all right,” Katie responded, her voice cool and soothing, as if applying aloe to a festering burn. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but we didn’t know if it was really going to happen. We only received confirmation after we went to broadcast. Frankly, I’m as surprised as you are.”

  Jenn stared, doubt painting her face.

  “It’s going to be okay, Jenn. Really.”

  Something new began to replace the doubt on Jenn’s face. Katie stepped back. Was it suspicion? Realization? All she knew for certain was that it was something potentially dangerous.

  “I don’t believe you,” Jenn murmured, more to herself than Katie. “Why would you invite this woman to be on the show? To shame Jaspar? To embarrass me? You want to see what happens when I come face to face with the woman my husband slept with while he was kidnapped? What next? Are you going to trot Scott Walker out here?”

  Not a bad idea, Katie thought to herself as she squared her body and braced, as if waiting for impact. Over her shoulder she could see Jaspar, still seated, eyes dazed, looking like a wax replica of himself. Cautiously she placed a hand on each of Jenn’s slender forearms, and fixed her with a serious gaze. “Jenn, I would never do that. I would never intentionally hurt you. You have to trust me on this. I know it may be uncomfortable, and it might even hurt a little, but this needs to happen. You have to believe me. It’s for the best.”

  Jenn pulled back, attempting to break free of the intense connection. “What are you talking about? Why does this need to happen? You told us this interview would be simple and straight-forward. Us telling our story. Promotion for Jaspar’s book. That’s it. But you’re turning it into some kind of exposé.”

  “You’re wrong. I’m simply telling the story. The true story.”

  Jenn’s head moved slowly, side to side. “You were my friend. Our friend. But now I think…I think Jaspar was right. You’re just using us. You don’t want to help us. The only thing you want to help is your career.”

  Katie looked stricken. “You don’t know what you’re saying, Jenn. Believe me, when this is over you’ll thank me. Please. Just take your seat and stick it out. It’ll be over sooner than you think.”

  Peggy, watching the exchange from nearby, stepped between the two women and announced: “We’re back in less than a minute.”

  Imploring the other woman, Katie said: “Jenn, don’t you think Jaspar would want the opportunity to reunite with the woman who saved his life? To say thank you?”

  Jenn’s beautiful mouth curled into snarl. “As long as it’s on TV, sure, why not?”

  “Oh crap,” Peggy groaned.

  Katie and Jenn turned just in time to see Jaspar stumble as he lurched out of his seat.

  Jenn dashed to her husband’s side as he unsteadily made his way off set. He didn’t get far, collapsing into the nearest chair, head in hands.

  Alarmed, Jenn knelt next to him and cried: “Jaspar, what’s wrong, honey? What is it?”

  “Thirty seconds, Katie,” Peggy anxiously announced, tapping her bare wrist where a watch should have been.

  Quickly assessing the situation, Katie hissed instructions to Peggy: “We keep going. Confirm the live feed is cued. Reposition camera two on Jaspar. And for God's sake, make sure his mic is still functional.”

  Peggy nodded and rushed off. Katie took her place just as the camera’s “on” indicator ligh
t beamed red.

  Katie’s mellifluous voice filled the studio. After a brief recap of what had transpired so far in the broadcast, she flawlessly moved into new territory. “While investigating in Marrakech, a mysterious man by the name of Tarek made himself known to me. He introduced himself as an agent for the people who owned the building where Jaspar Wills was first held captive.” Behind Katie, an illustrator’s rendering of Tarek-as-super-villain glowered at the viewing audience with malevolent eyes.

  “Eventually, information provided by this man, Tarek, took me to the small Moroccan village of Asni, high in the Atlas Mountains,” Katie reported to viewers, doubtlessly breathless, as the special broadcast continued. Refraining from looking at anyone or anything but the eye of the camera, she chose her next words carefully. “Although we will likely never know exactly why, with hopes of having their demands met by the American government dashed, the kidnappers decided to move Wills out of Marrakech. It was here, near Asni, where acclaimed author, grieving father, and kidnap victim Jaspar Wills was taken. It is here where most of Set Free, Jaspar’s bestselling account of his ordeal, takes place. It is here where Jaspar first met a woman by the name of Asmae. A woman who, in his estimation, saved his life. She cleaned him, fed him, cared for him, and loved him…until the day she set him free.”

  Undetectable to all but those watching the closest, Katie’s eyes flew off camera for a millisecond. Long enough to confirm that Jaspar and Jenn, although not returned to their seats next to her on set, were still in the studio, and that camera two had moved into position to capture their presence. Complexion wan and eyes devoid of life, Jaspar appeared to have fallen into some kind of stupor. Jenn was frantically whispering into his ear, anxiously attempting to figure out what was wrong with her husband and how she could help him. Katie took little pleasure in knowing that soon it would be Jenn who would need help. For she, and the rest of the world, were about to get the shock of their lives.