Page 4 of Love Set Free

I hope they are going to actually feed me. The metal bars are one solid length from the top to the bottom of my cage, with no slot for a tray or plate to be slid in. Although, a cup or thermos would probably be able to pass between the bars. Hopefully, I’ll find out how they plan to feed me once somebody, besides Jackson, makes themselves known.

I do not want to contemplate a situation in which I’ll get desperate enough to repurpose the contents of the only otherthing in my cage besides myself—a small metal bucket that I’ve already used as a bodily waste container.

“Oh, thank God,” Jackson says, sounding relieved. Then he immediately tries to backtrack with a rambling, disjointed outpouring of words. “No. I mean…not thankGod. First, because I’m not a believer. And if I were, I wouldn’t want to blaspheme. But I just meant… I’m notgladyou’re still here. I’m not. What kind of a dick would I be if I were glad you were still here? No. I just meant… I don’t want to be alone. I’ve already been stuck here alone and itsucks. I’d rather, foryoursake, that you weren’t here. But formysake, I’m so glad you’re still here.“ There’s the rustling sound of him shifting around again, then he continues in that smooth, drawling accent of his, “Does that make me a dick, after all? I think it makes me sound like a dick. I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean for it to come out the way it did. And speaking of being sorry…I’m sorry. I want to say that again. About not talking for—“

“Jackson,” I interrupt, using his name to stem his flood of words. “Jackson, stop. You don’t need to apologize. I get that it was a bit of a shock. That you hadn’t realized…”

“It was. Oh God, it was.” A soft sigh, then a quietly muttered, “Two weeks…”

I worry Jackson will lapse back into silence, so I’m relieved when he speaks again. Not that I welcome his renewed attempt to apologize for something he doesn’t need to apologize for.

“Still, I am sorry. I wish I could promise that I won’t do it again, but…”

“Jackson. Seriously, stop.” I inject as much of a commanding tone into my voice as I can. “I’m just glad you’re talking to me now. I was worried… I was worried that you might be hurt. That you’d stopped talking because you couldn’t. Because…” I stop before admitting to my greatest worry. That I’d been afraid Jackson had gone silent because he’d been unconscious. Or haddied. And how not knowing had made me just about ready to climb out of my skin through those long, long hours of the night.

His voice is warm and soothing as he reassures me. “No. I’m fine. You know…relatively. I’ve got a couple cuts and bruises but nothing, you know…nothing serious.”

Just as I’m about to ask Jackson how he’d gotten his cuts and bruises, there’s a squealing metallic screech, a thud, and the sound of footsteps.

“Shh.” I don’t really need Jackson’s implored shush, the evident arrival of our kidnapper or kidnappers is an obvious sign to stop our conversing. However, I do feel a measure of gratitude and anxiousness over his whispered instruction. “Whatever you do… Don’t ask them questions. Don’t make any demands. Just listen and do whatever they tell you to do. And don’t…don’t freak out. Please don’t freak out. I’m pretty sure these guys are always armed.”

The notion that our kidnappers have guns is not unexpected. One would assume that you don’t go into the ransom-for-money business without the necessary supplies of guns, ropes, something to render your victim unconscious, and, in our case, pre-assembled and installed cages.

Not that he can see me any more than I can see him, but I nod my head once in acknowledgement of Jackson’s warning. No questions, no demands, noanything, other than cooperating with the big, bad guys. Okay. I can do that.

Probably.

As long as I suppress my natural inclination to always try to be in control and in charge of any situation. Or the way I tend to argue with and steamroll anyone who stands in the way of me getting that control.

I hear the jangle of keys, and then a clank and clang. I can’t see what’s going on. Fuck, I wish I could know for sure what the sounds I’m hearing mean. I think it sounds as though anothercage is being unlocked and opened. If that is what I’m hearing, that would mean that Jackson is a fellow captive rather than a co-conspirator. Which, despite my more cynical side, is what my gut is telling me.

While the idea of the kidnappers intentionally planting someone in a cage near me to… What? Make me more cooperative? Slip up and pass along crucial business secrets they could leverage to make some extra cash to add to their ransom money? While that idea makes for excellent Hollywood movie fodder, it seems too convoluted of a plot for your everyday, average, real life kidnappers.

So, I’d already been leaning toward trusting that Jackson was swept up in his own ransom scheme. But having possible auditory proof that he’s locked up too? My mind and heart give a pang of relief over having a companion and fellow sufferer in this fucked up situation we’re in.

The kidnapper doesn’t say much as he does whatever it is that he’s doing over by Jackson’s cage. And what he does say, I can’t understand. My foreign language skills are pathetically bad and the few words and phrases I do know are in French, the language I’d theoretically studied in high school. I assume he’s speaking in Spanish or, more likely, Portuguese, as that’s the language spoken by the majority of Brazilians.

Not that I’m automatically assuming my kidnappers are Brazilian; it just seems more likely. They took me soon upon my arrival in that country, instead of nabbing me while I was still in my home state of Rhode Island, or anywhere else in the States. And while I’d probably never know for sure, I don’t have the sense that a lot of time passed while I was unconscious, meaning I’m probably still somewhere in Brazil.

But what does it matter? Why is my mind fixated on debating with myself and trying to unravel the mystery of who my kidnappers are, what nationality they are, and what languagethe man who’d entered the room is speaking? It’s all trivialities. None of itmatters.

What does matter is keeping my wits about me, staying calm, and getting to the other side of this whole shitshow safe and unharmed.

And possibly to help accomplish the same outcome for Jackson if I can.

My sense of time is completely out of whack, but it seems like only five minutes or so that the kidnapper was doing whatever by Jackson before there’s the bang and rattle of him closing up Jackson’s cage. Then he finally makes his way in front of my cage and I see him for the first time. At least, for the first time that I can recall.

He looks to be of average height judging from where I sit in my cage. At least, of a height where his dark brown eyes stare straight dead-on into mine with an empty, emotionless gaze. The kidnapper’s dark hair and medium-toned skin are completely unremarkable. And with no overly apparent distinguishing features—no visible scars, deformities, or tattoos—there’s little to no chance I’ll be able to pick him out of a lineup. He looks like just some average, nondescript, dime-a-dozen, Latino guy in his thirties or early forties.

I expect him to say something to me. A taunt. Some bragging or boasting. Something to show his satisfaction over having so successfully and easily captured me. Gloating. After all, I’m sure he’s anticipating getting an awfully large payday for my return. Something.Anything. I’d heard him talking to Jackson. But to me…he says nothing.

Jackson warned me about it, but I’m still startled when a gun appears in the guy’s hand. He points it at me for a moment. Long enough for me to worry that money isn’t actually what this is all about. Then, turning the gun’s nozzle away from me, he uses it tomotion that he wants me to move away from the bars along the front of the cage.

It’s a request I’m more than happy to comply with. I have no desire to be closer to my kidnapper, and his weapon, any more than I have to be.

I quickly scramble to crabwalk backward to the back corner of the cage—the one that holds my crudely scratched daily tally marks and not my waste bucket—and draw myself into a small, tight ball with my knees snugged up close to my chest.

If I had even an iota less of a sense of self-preservation, I’d probably be embarrassed by myself and how quickly I’ve fallen into the mindset and behaviors of weak and defenseless prey. But even though he doesn’t look like much, there is no question in my mind that, in this situation, I am facing a dangerous opponent.

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