by Dawn Steele
A broad smile spreads across the man’s face.
“I am Jai,” he says. “Perhaps we can come to a negotiation then.”
KURT
You see, I always had this stinking suspicion that this island we are on holds a lot more secrets than water. We are still Jai’s prisoners, as evidenced by the way they make us march down the stretch of beach with our hands clasped behind our heads.
There, around the bend, is a wooden house on stilts. An honest to goodness wooden house. It has several sections, from what I can see of it, and it is sturdily made. The bottom halves of the stilts are dark with moss and seawater, and it is apparent why the house needs to be elevated. The tides must wash in a lot here.
“Get in there,” Jai says.
The narrow steps to the entrance creak as we ascend into the interior. My pulse is pounding against my neck – tic tic tic. I’m not sure what I’ve gotten us into, but I sure as hell am ninety percent sure Jai wouldn’t order us killed now.
The other ten percent is for bad behavior.
Inside, there is a spartan sitting room with a surprisingly clean sofa set and a table and some shelves with audiovisual equipment. There’s a TV, a laptop computer, several cellphones which I am sure are hooked up to satellite connections and several guns and bullet cases. More crates line the walls. One of them is split open at the top, and I can see some packets of white powder being stacked inside.
Shit.
We have literally walked into a drug runners’ den. Unless they are pirates, of course, in these pirate-infested waters. Or smugglers. Or white collar criminals evading tax.
“Sit.” Jai gestures to the floor.
OK, we don’t merit any chairs.
Two men approach us. They seize our arms and tie our wrists behind our backs with tight ropes. Only then are we allowed to sit on the floor, right in the middle, without any support. Rebecca is quaking. I can tell she’s very scared.
To be honest, I’m scared for her as well. The men – ten, eleven of them – are all staring at her face and breasts and bare legs. Rebecca has lost a lot of weight, and she would not be considered plus-sized anymore, though she was perfectly delectable when she was bigger as well.
Jai pulls a chair and seats himself in front of us, like a warlord.
“So how much compensation are we talking about here?” he asks.
I actually don’t know my net worth. I left it all to my accountants to handle, and I suspect it’s increasing by the minute. One of our albums has just gone platinum.
I say, “Uh, how much are you looking at?”
Jai smiles. “That would depend. I need some time to confer with my partners.”
I nod. “OK.”
What else can I say? He has partners in this line? Whatever floats his boat, in a manner of speaking.
Jai leans forward. His eyebrows are ferociously bushy and he smells of tobacco. At least it’s only tobacco and not the weed he is obviously smuggling.
He smiles again. His teeth are perfectly white against his dark face.
“You must be hungry. Perhaps you would like to eat and change out of those clothes.”
Perhaps it’s the way he says it, but there is an air of menace around his words. A prickle of unease makes the hair on the back of my neck rise.
“Uh, thank you. When do you think you can arrange for our transfer back to mainland?” I ask.
“When we are good and ready. And when we have gotten the money you promised us.”
A thought strikes me. I would give him the money, he would bank it into the Cayman Islands or somewhere, and he’d still opt not to release us.
It is a very distinct possibility.
Jai claps his hands. “Fetch them some food, drink and new clothes. Then get me Faora. She would want to see these folks for herself.”
Faora. I wonder who that is. I dart a glance at Rebecca. She has calmed down a lot, and she does not say anything – to her credit.
Two of the men seize us both up by the arms and march us to another section of the house.
REBECCA
“You know, I don’t trust them an inch,” I say to Kurt.
We are locked in a small room with a table and two chairs and little else. There is one window that looks out to the jungle side of the island but it is fortified by rusted iron bars. I can’t help staring outside it. I’m not sure if we have exchanged one sort of nightmare for another.
Sometime during the hours we spend in there, idle – not daring to make love or show too much affection with each other because we don’t know who might be watching – we hear the sounds of motorboats out on the coast. Plenty of activity going on out there.
At least they have untied our wrists so that we can eat.
“I don’t either,” Kurt says.
We have been fed a meal of rice and beans and some sort of mystery meat. Although it is very far from burgers and fries, we fell onto it like rabid hyenas.
“Most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted,” I declare, wiping my mouth. Our plates are scraped clean.
“I know.” He stares at his shiny empty plate longingly. “Since we’ll be paying through our nose, I wonder if we can ask for seconds.”
I reach out to take his forearm across the table. “Hey, you don’t have to do all the paying. I’m involved here too. I will pay you half of it back.”
He shakes his head. “We’re talking ransom money here.”
I know. The thought of it makes me rueful. We may be talking millions and millions of dollars. I’m not sure what Kurt is worth, but this is going to cripple him badly.
The bolt outside our door shoots open. We tense and look up. I quickly take my hand off Kurt’s forearm.
The man who very first stumbled upon us in the jungle stands there with his rifle.
“Jai wants you,” he says abruptly.
*
What Jai wants, Jai gets. We are ushered to the living room again. This time, in addition to the same motley crew, a tall black woman awaits us. She is seated on an armchair, and she has an imperious air about her. Her hair is done up in a carefully wrapped scarf, and she wears a long, flowing caftan. She seems, for all purposes, a Caribbean queen.
I take it that this must be the infamous Faora.
Jai is there as well, arms folded, grinning like a cat who has just snuck into the creamery.
“Faora, meet Kurt Taylor and Rebecca Hall,” he announces. He turns to us. “This is my sister, Faora.”
Faora’s eyes light up as soon as she sees Kurt. Me – not so much.
“So this is the famous Kurt Taylor,” she says. She has a musical lilt. “I must confess to be a fan.”
A fan. Great. This is what we need.
“Uh, pleased to meet your acquaintance,” Kurt says. I suspect he must be feeling as much at a loss as I do.
Faora turns her gimlet gaze to me. “And are you his girlfriend?”
I glance at Kurt. He licks his lips, not knowing what to say. We are damned if we confess to one thing and damned if we don’t, I suppose.
“Yes,” Kurt says.
I don’t know why, but my heart soars to hear that. And to hear his declaration for the first time in such dire circumstances.
Still, Kurt Taylor has openly declared that I am his girlfriend!
Inside me, something joyous squeaks and explodes.
I don’t know who has the upper hand – Jai or Faora – but he seems to be deferring to his sister here.
Jai says, “We have discussed it, my sister and I. And we have come to an agreement.”
Oh good, we’re getting somewhere. I cringe. I’m not that attractive, but I have seen Jai and the guys eyeing me as though I were a piece of juicy horseflesh. I hope my putting out doesn’t come as part of the ransom deal. I like being desired as much as the next female, but by guys like Kurt, thank you very much. It isn’t as exciting as it sounds to be a drug smuggler’s object of desire.
Jai and Faora both focus their entire attention on us.
>
Faora says, “We think your freedom is as important to us as it is to you. How much do you price your life? That is not the only question. The bigger question is: how much does the world price your life?”
Huh? I squint. What the hell exactly does she mean?
Kurt is just as apprehensive as I am.
“I don’t understand,” he says.
“How does the tune of one hundred million dollars sound to you?” Jai says, grinning.
My eyes go round.
A hundred million? He has got to be fucking kidding.
“Kurt doesn’t have a hundred million dollars,” I blurt out. I toss a look at Kurt. Uh, does he?
He shakes his head.
“I don’t have a hundred million dollars,” he says desperately. “I just started in this business, for Chrissake! Look, I’ll give two million dollars, a sum I can honestly say I have if my agent and manager haven’t taken their cut from it already. Two million dollars is a tidy sum for you to build a bigger wooden house on stilts, if you want to, and buy a retirement home.”
Faora laughs. “Two million dollars is chump change to us. Is that your American expression? Chump change?”
“Chimp change,” Jai argues.
“No, I’m sure it’s chump change,” his sister replies.
I don’t believe they are arguing over the semantics of two million dollars, a sum I will probably never see in my entire life.
“Chump change or not,” Kurt says, “it’s still all I can spare.”
“Oh, I’m sure your friends can spare a lot more than that.” Faora smiles. It is not a pleasant smile.
“I don’t think my friends are going to shell out any money for me. Not that much anyway.”
I’m certain Kurt doesn’t know how much his friends are worth either. They are probably worth more than him, seeing as they have been in the business for a longer time. But one hundred million dollars? That’s Britney Spears type of accumulated earnings! (Or maybe a fraction of what she has.)
“Not only the friends you know and have on your private Facebook,” Faora explains. “But all the friends you have in the world.”
She’s really got me stumped.
Huh?
“You got where you are through a reality TV show,” Jai adds. “Then let a reality show decide whether you will live or die.”
KURT
The next few days are surreal. The whole devious plan unravels before our eyes.
This is how it works, in a nutshell:
Jai and Faora set up a website using a proxy server, and have it maintained by an associate from Barbados
They then record me, hands tied up behind my back and wearing artfully torn clothing. I am kneeling and staring at the camera aperture of the laptop. They have purposefully cleaned me up and left my hair flowing wildly around my shoulders. They want me to look as appealing as I possibly can.
“Speak,” Faora orders.
I have no choice but to say the words they want me to say, especially since they have a gun trained at my head. The black barrel of the gun is very obvious in the screen shot, and it is pointing right at my temple.
I say: “Hi. I’m Kurt Taylor. I have been missing for twenty days together with my girlfriend, Rebecca Hall, ever since we both fell off a cruise ship. As you can see, I’m still alive after being stranded on a deserted island. But I have now been kidnapped.”
I pause dramatically. It would have been farcical if I weren’t convinced they would pull the trigger on me. Or if not on me, certainly on Rebecca.
“My abductors want me to raise a hundred million US dollars to set me free. If I don’t raise that money in ten days, they will blow my head off live on YouTube.”
The muzzle of the gun lowers to my cheek and caresses my skin. I wince. The gunman squats and lets the camera capture his masked face. He is wearing, perhaps aptly, the mask of The Joker from Batman.
“The clock is ticking for me,” I say with feeling. It’s true. I’m every bit as desperate as I sound. “They have set some milestones for the money to be raised by intervals. Every day, ten million dollars will have to be raised or they will begin cutting a part of my anatomy off. Beginning with the little finger of my left hand.”
And I’m guessing they will actually go through it.
“So please . . . if you want to set me free to walk amongst you alive and well so that Red Velvet can be a full quartet again and make more albums, please donate to the ‘Keep Kurt Taylor alive’ fund at the ‘PAY’ button you see on the website. You can donate by Paypal, Visa, Mastercard or any means you like. All currencies will be automatically converted.
“If you want to see how I’m doing, please check in periodically on this website again to see the Livecam.”
There is a close-up on my face. My pleading eyes. The Joker behind me grabs my hair and thrusts my entire face into the camera. My throat is spread wide open and he lovingly runs the muzzle of the gun down it.
“Please,” I say as a final word.
And then we wink off.
After that, it is pandemonium.
*
They let me and Rebecca watch the proceedings unfold on a monitor without a keyboard. So we can only observe whatever is playing on their laptop outside the room, but we are not given the opportunity to Facebook or email or Twitter anyone.
In a matter of minutes, someone uploads the video from the ‘Keep Kurt Taylor alive’ website (www.keepKurtTaylorAlive.com) onto YouTube. Thereafter, it rapidly becomes viral. The video is embedded in a million Twitter and Facebook feeds overnight, and the number is growing by the second. The news portals like CNN and Fox and Al-Jazeera take it up and start reporting it around the world.
With the technology we have today, it is very possible to go global in a matter of hours.
The interviews and debates start.
“Should we allow kidnappers to dictate to us what to do?” a newscaster is saying. “What if it’s all a bluff?”
“I vote that we do not give in to threats,” says a spokesperson from CNN.
“It could all be a scam perpetuated by Kurt Taylor himself. It could be a publicity stunt to kick-start a troubled career,” says someone from one of the online gossip rags.
Huh? A troubled career? If he is referring to my community service aboard the Princess Alexandria, shouldn’t that be considered a blip in an otherwise meteoric rise?
The news portals begin to interview my band members.
I watch, both apprehensive and fascinated, fingers entwined with Rebecca’s, as people I know begin to pour out publicly what they really think of me:
*
From NBC news:
STEVE: He was always a bit of an odd duck. He never really fit in with us. Guess we’re all a generation older. But he was a good dude, so we figured he would ease into the flow, you know. So when he went missing, we thought it was a prank. To be honest, I’m still not sure if this whole shindig is a prank.
*
Thanks a lot, Steve.
*
REPORTER: So was he the wild type, Alex?
ALEX: Wild? He was the wildest of the wild, man. I can tell you some of the wild things he has done. Why, on the night he was arrested for DUI, he was fucking three women at one go. He was certainly the wildest of us.
*
Huh? What am I missing? My eyes pop out with incredulity when I hear this.
Rebecca notices this and gives my hand a squeeze.
“I don’t mind whatever you did in your sordid past,” she assures me.
“The trouble is that I didn’t . . . don’t . . . have a sordid past,” I splutter. “And I wasn’t fucking three women at one go. I only fucked one. I was performing cunnilingus on the other.”
Like, duh.
“That was before you met me,” Rebecca says.
“Uh, I kind of met you when we were both in high school.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean.” I squeeze her hand back, s
o glad I have such an understanding girlfriend.
Girlfriend!
I still can’t believe Rebecca is my girlfriend. Deep down inside, I realize I have always been kind of waiting for her.
*
REPORTER: So what are you guys going to do about the situation, Tyler? Do you think Kurt’s abductors would really kill him if the one hundred million dollars is not collected by the end of the ten days?
TYLER: Anything is possible. I mean, there are a lot of bad people in this world. Like that chick who claimed I fathered her triplets. Can you imagine me fathering triplets? Twins don’t even run in my family.
REPORTER: Uh, back to Kurt Taylor. Are the band members of Red Velvet pooling any donations to his ransom fund?
TYLER: Are you kidding me? Of course we are. I’m personally donating five million dollars, and so are the guys. Britney Spears said she would throw in three million. Madonna would not be outdone with four million. Usher and Ne-Yo and Pitbull and Nicki Minaj are all passing round the hat as well. We haven’t gotten Justin Bieber yet. I think he’s somewhere in Germany with his pet monkey.”
*
Tears spring to my eyes.
Whatever they have said and done, the guys are really OK. Honestly, truly OK.
“Wow,” Rebecca says. “How much is that so far?”
“They will need some time to mobilize the money,” I reply. “I don’t know if we are going to make that first day milestone.”
We keep watching the money counter. The website has a ticker as to how much money has been collected. These kidnappers/drug smugglers/whatever they are . . . they are good. Money keeps getting mobilized from all over the world.