“Jamey, I…” she whispered, but the words that could ease his suffering and hers died in her throat. All of the emotion of the past few days, the past few hours, seemed to choke her.
“Well, then, last segment.” Hilary signaled to the cameraman, glancing at the couple briefly as she sat down, then glancing back again. What had happened in her short absence? What had she missed?
They sat in exactly the same place, J.D.’s arm still rested on the back of the sofa behind his wife. But where she had previously leaned forward and away from him, she now leaned back, her neck pressed against his forearm. As Hilary watched, Maggie slid her right hand behind her to rest upon his, and he touched her neck with the side of his thumb. She did not pull away as she had done earlier in the show, and some unspoken communication passed between them, her to him, as they locked eyes. Gone was the hostility, the bitterness, the anger.
Well, goddamn it, what the hell is going on? Hilary glared at the both of them, neither seeming to notice. In the remaining ten seconds Hilary made the decision to go for the jugular. They had been the worst guests she’d ever had. These people had been uncooperative all evening, shutting every door she’d tried to open. J.D. had directed the course of the interview as if it had been his show, boring her half to death with the boring little snippets of their boring little life, so artfully steering away from the areas of his life he wished to avoid. I’ve had enough, Hilary told herself angrily. I’m going to finish this show with a bang.
“Well, we’re winding down tonight’s show,” Hilary smiled. “You know, J.D., all things considered, you’ve shown us a very ordinary life tonight.”
“We’re very ordinary people, Hilary,” he said simply. “We’ve always tried to keep things very low key.”
“Why is that so important to you?”
“Because it’s what we are. Small-town people, both of us. We enjoy our family and have always made our children, our homelife, our priority. And because we never wanted our children to think they were special simply by virtue of what their father does for a living.”
“How very admirable,” she said dryly. “So tell us, what does the coming year hold for you? Any new music we should watch for?”
He relaxed, anticipating the show’s conclusion.
“Well, I’ve been playing around with some songs I wrote over the years for the children, lullabies and such, and I’d thought maybe I’d record them and release those next year.”
“How charming. A kiddie album.” She smiled acerbically, then added innocently, “Any political causes you’re supporting these days? Any superstar benefit concerts you’ll be participating in?”
He froze, realizing how prematurely he’d dismissed her.
That’s why she’s played along all night, why she let me ramble about the unimportant things. She was waiting…
“J.D.?” she said his name to tell him she expected a response.
“I do not get involved in political issues, Hilary.” He was suddenly sweating, his head pounding as if some tiny drummer had moved into the space between his ears. “And I do not participate in benefit concerts.”
“Not since 1988.” She deliberately held it before him. “Since Anjjoli.”
“I have nothing to say,” he told her flatly.
“Come now, J.D.” She smiled her sweetest, giving a little coaxing one last chance.
“I have nothing to say,” he repeated, making eye contact with her but refusing to blink.
“Look here, J.D., I’ve been uncommonly kind to you this evening.” Her voice rose slightly, the patience forced, an exasperated mother veiling her anger as she reprimanded her child in a public place. “You didn’t want to discuss Lindy Burton? We didn’t discuss Lindy Burton. Maggie doesn’t want to talk about the child she lost? We let it drop. Rick Daily’s drug abuse—which you know as well as I do was more than rumor—I let that slide. But not this, J.D. The concert at Anjjoli became an international incident. Twenty-two of the most prominent musicians from eight different countries were held hostage by terrorists. The entire world held its breath for twenty-four hours to see who would walk out alive. Every other survivor, including your buddy, Mr. Daily, has spoken publicly about the experience. So when J.D. Borders—and only J.D. Borders—continues to say ‘No comment,’ one has to ask why.”
She spoke rapidly, firing off the barrage of words, which he met with the blankest of expressions.
“It is none of your business.” And with no further explanation, J.D. rose from the sofa, turned his back on the room, and walked through the French doors into the garden.
Hilary sat in shock, absorbing the fact that he had, in fact, walked off the show before its conclusion. She regrouped quickly and turned to Maggie, who, to Hilary’s horror, was herself rising, a faraway look on her face as she searched through the darkness outside for a glimpse of her husband.
“Sit down,” growled Hilary, no longer concerned with appearances. “This interview is not over.”
“It would appear that it is,” Maggie told her absently as she started toward the open doors.
Hilary signaled frantically for a commercial break.
“You agreed to a two-hour interview,” Hilary screamed at Maggie’s back, “and the two hours are not over. You may not walk off this show. You have no right—” Hilary stamped her foot like a child in the throes of a tantrum.
“You have no right,” Maggie spun to face her, “to open wounds that took a very long time to heal.” Her calm was the starkest of contrasts to Hilary’s furor. “You may remove your equipment and your people and yourself from our home.”
Maggie passed from the brightly lit and now chaotic scene into the warmth and fragrance of the night. She stopped at the end of the first row of roses, acclimating herself to the dark. She scanned the garden, then sighed with relief as she saw him seated on a bench in the shadow of the far wall. He was leaning slightly forward, his head in his hands.
She knew with absolute certainty that he was reliving it all over again…
The concert at Anjjoli had been organized by Artists for International Relief, a group comprised of recording artists who performed annually to raise funds for Third World countries that were experiencing undue hardship, whether due to famine, drought, or other devastating acts of nature. The organization was in its fourth year, and upon the suggestion of the current president, Hobie Narood, Anjjoli would be the proud host of the prestigious event.
It had been the most heavily publicized concert in history, and the tickets, priced outrageously high, had sold like hotcakes. The new luxury stadium in the capital city was completely sold out. The Anjjolan president, Makubo, was delighted. What better way to show off their new city with its fine hotels and gourmet restaurants? The international crowd would discover that Anjjoli had indeed come into the twentieth century, its new resort areas as glamorous as Monte Carlo and Rio.
The chartered plane from London carrying musicians and their wives and equipment had a carnival-like atmosphere. Rick had suggested a full Daily Times reunion onstage, and it had been billed as a headline act, eagerly awaited both by longtime fans who had loved the group in its heyday as well as the younger rock aficionados. The video that was to be taped promised to be a best-seller.
J.D. and Maggie found their hotel accommodations to be heaven. The huge suite overlooked the beach, the deep blue ocean a stone’s throw from the balcony. J.D. had thought it would be good for both of them to have some time away together, the past year having been hectic and emotionally trying. Maggie, in particular, had had a rough time of it; both of her parents had been hospitalized for life-threatening conditions. Now J.D. hoped Maggie would be able to relax and have some fun, see some old friends, and forget her worries for a bit.
They ran into Hobie at rehearsal on the morning of the concert. Oddly, he seemed surprised to see her.
“I had not realized you would attend,” he said stiffly.
“Now, how could I pass up the opportunity to see my three f
avorite guys perform together?” she said with a grin as she embraced him. “The one and only Daily Times reunion. And of course, I’m dying to see Aden.”
“Aden is not here,” he told her.
“Not here? How could she not be here?” Maggie was genuinely disappointed at the unexpected news.
“My wife left the city this morning.” He appeared preoccupied all of a sudden. “A sickness in the family, an aunt. Aden is tending to her.”
“Will she be back in time for the concert tonight?” Maggie asked hopefully.
“I fear she will not, but I will, of course, tell her you had asked for her.” Kissing her cheek, Hobie excused himself.
“Well, honestly, Jamey, did you ever…” She stood in shock at the brusque departure.
“He was a bit abrupt,” he muttered, then added, “but I’m sure it’s just the pressure, Maggie. Hobie’s organized this thing; he’s responsible for pulling it off. There are probably a million things on his mind right now. He’ll be his old self once this is over. Look, maybe we can hang around for a few extra days, maybe Aden will be back in the city by Monday and you can have a nice visit.”
Hobie’s odd behavior was dismissed.
The concert, which lasted almost sixteen hours, was an incredible success, both musically and as a fund-raiser. The finale, which brought all the performers together for a series of all-star encores, went on for a full thirty minutes. When the last note had been played, all those onstage were escorted onto a bus that would return them to the city for a party that promised to last all night.
What a night this has been, J.D. thought as he settled back into his seat. What fun to be performing all those old songs again with the original group. Wasn’t sure I could still hit those high notes in “Thief in the Night,” but it was all right. Actually, it had sounded great. Makes me wonder why I resisted it all these years, every time Jack or Colin had suggested we all get together again. And I hadn't realized that neither of them had fared quite so well as Rick or Hobie or I had. Well, maybe their luck will change.
He closed his eyes, thinking about the evening ahead. He’d arranged to meet Maggie back at the hotel, where he’d take a quick shower, then they would spend the rest of the evening dancing in the moonlight. Maggie had hitched a ride back to the hotel with Maura, Colin’s wife, and hopefully was already there, waiting for him.
The bus lurched suddenly to one side, catching everyone off guard, as the tires had seemed to leave the roadway and embark upon bumpy terrain. Seconds later, the interior lights, which had blazed festively as the jubilant group had begun their celebration en route, were extinguished. The passengers became awkwardly silent in the unexpected darkness.
“Okay, okay, very funny. Now turn ’em back on,” someone called out with exaggerated patience.
“Someone ask the driver what the hell he’s doing,” a second voice called. “He’s gone off the goddamned road!” Angry voices were hushed as the lights flashed back on. Eyes readjusted, then focused without comprehension on the three men who stood across the front of the bus. Dressed in identical khaki, the security guards who had boarded with the performers were silhouetted against the broad windshield. The green bandanas previously worn around their necks were now tied around their foreheads like sweatbands. Each was armed with an American-made semiautomatic weapon.
“What the bloody hell…” someone hissed to break the silence.
“Ladies and gentlemen”—one of the men stepped forward slightly, speaking perfect English in the deepest voice imaginable—“we are pleased to tell you that you are now guests of the Anjjolan Liberation Coalition.”
The twenty-two passengers on board each scrambled to process the words.
Steve McEntee, an American seated toward the front, called out cautiously, “What does that mean, ‘a guest’?”
“I think it’s another term for hostage, mate,” Rick answered from somewhere behind J.D.
“Very good, Mr. Daily,” the spokesman said, nodding in Rick’s direction.
For a moment no one moved or spoke, then chaos erupted as several in the group rose from their seats and started toward the front of the bus. Three shots rang out from behind, and almost as one, the entire group turned to face the rear. Four more men, green bandanas around their heads, stood side by side, a solid wall of khaki, their guns prominently displayed.
“I would suggest that this is not to be a night for heroes, gentlemen. Please be seated, and remain so,” instructed the man who stood directly behind the driver. “We will reach our destination soon enough.”
“Where’s that?” someone asked in a voice that trembled mightily.
“Soon enough” was the abrupt reply.
The crowd was hushed, each individual trying desperately to understand the implausible twist their lives had just taken.
Holy mother, J.D. thought, how can this be happening? Sweet Jesus, let it be a dream…
He felt a slight change in the motion of the bus. It no longer rocked as it had moments before as it had navigated what he had assumed to be the ruts of a dirt road. A smooth surface was now underwheel, he felt certain of it, and up ahead in the distance were lights. He watched as a structure of glass and steel rose before them out of the darkness. From somewhere in the distance he heard the engines of a plane. Of course, he thought, the airport.
The bus drove onto the runway and stopped directly behind a plane that looked as if it was being prepared for takeoff. The four men who had stood silently in the back of the bus now marched wordlessly up the aisle and disembarked. They converged about the steps to the waiting plane, then boarded.
The passengers on the bus waited in terror. Were they to be flown someplace with these fanatics?
Several long minutes passed before the instruction was given for them to leave the bus, single file, and walk directly to the plane. They were herded on legs wobbly with fear and ushered rapidly aboard the plane, taking the first seat available to them as they had been commanded to do.
“You are wondering, of course, what is happening here,” the spokesman addressed them when all had been seated, “and quite naturally, you are concerned for your welfare.” He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, taking his time, knowing the terror would grow along with the suspense. “Your fate is now in the hands of President Makubo. Whether you walk off this plane to your freedom within a few hours is up to him.”
“What does that mean? What’s this all about?” a voice inquired. “What is it you want?”
“The release of the nine Anjjolan Federation elders who now rot in Makubo’s prisons. When they are set free, so too shall you be.”
“And what if they’re not?” someone asked tentatively.
The spokesman frowned, as if pondering the possibility for the first time, then replied with considered nonchalance, “That would be most unfortunate. This plane will take off in precisely twenty-four hours, its destination the bottom of the Atlantic.”
“Why us?” The question, a sob, hung in the air.
“Why indeed. You are all internationally famous. Would the Americans risk your demise, Mr. McEntee? And Mr. Daily, it is said that you have inspired a generation of guitarists. Would not the British government intervene on your behalf? And you, Mr. Narood, our own pride and joy. Would Makubo turn his back on the most well-known Anjjolan of all time? I think not.” He grinned with satisfaction, then added darkly, “For all of our sakes, I hope not.”
Their captor turned and walked into the cabin where the pilot sat in terror, a gun held to his head, ensuring he would make no valiant attempt to use the radio.
It had seemed to J.D. that the man’s brief speech had lasted a lifetime. He sat enveloped in his own dread, heart pounding loudly and furiously, wondering how in the name of God he could have been caught in so absurd a predicament. No one dared speak, each man or woman having escaped into his own private world of fear.
Several hours of bleak and desperate silence had passed before the spokesman appeared before them to a
nnounce that the women on the plane—seven of them, a Swede, two Brits, and four Americans—would be released immediately. A buzz of relief filled the plane as the grateful women rushed toward the doorway, none of them meeting the eyes of those left behind. They were directed toward a doorway, some sixty feet from the plane, in which stood an Anjjolan soldier. The remaining hostages held their breaths, praying their colleagues would make it across the runway, that it was not a trick.
And so they sat through a night of terror, frozen with the unvoiced fear of what was still to be.
The sun rose and soon the interior of the plane began to heat up in its increasingly warming rays. Water and food had been distributed, but no news of the negotiations for their release was forthcoming. The anxiety increased as the day progressed, but there was no communication from their captors. By the end of the day, eighteen hours into their ordeal, the unwilling passengers were beginning to fall apart, little by little.
The onset of dusk brought some small relief as the air inside the plane cooled slightly. Food and water were once again offered, and the hostages were told to walk to the front of the plane in order of their seats to receive their evening rations.
J.D., seated toward the rear, was among the last to make his way to the simple concession. As he walked back down the aisle with his bottle of water, sandwich, and fruit, he noticed Hobie, sitting alone and staring out the window. He slid into the vacant seat next to his old friend.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” he asked, unwrapping the sandwich, which was two thick slices of bread with some type of thick yellow substance between. “You don’t know when they’ll feed us again.”
Moments In Time Page 31