Chapter 18
THE PRISON’S KITCHEN WAS HUGE, a commercial space filled with stacked ovens, bakery-quality mixers and endless miles of stainless steel counters. The kind of kitchen meant to serve hundreds of people in an overcrowded cafeteria. It was fully stocked with pots, pans, bakeware, mixing utensils, measuring cups, etc., though it appeared Z and his crew had replaced the knives with plastic utensils.
Our first test, the team leader informed us. If we wanted to eat, we would cook. Enough for all six of us. Z cut the zip ties binding our wrists, allowing the three of us to stand together, unrestrained, for the first time since this ordeal had begun. While the knives had been removed, the kitchen still held cast-iron skillets, graters, peelers, rolling pins. Plenty of options for violence, if we felt motivated enough.
Z stated this directly, standing loosely before us, his back to a rolling, stainless steel island. He had the Taser stuck in a leather holster around his waist. Other objects protruded in discreet black leather pouches attached to his belt. I had a feeling we didn’t want to know what was in those other pouches.
I noticed that when Z spoke, his dark green snake tattoo seemed to undulate around his head, the scales moving sinuously beneath the too bright overhead lights. As if the cobra were advancing. As if the cobra would come for us next.
Mick would simply kill us. Z, on the other hand, would hurt us in ways that would make us wish we were dead.
Z finished his friendly reminder that should we choose to cause trouble, our punishment would be immediate and include but not be limited to a loss of food privileges for the remainder of our incarceration.
He said it just like that. The remainder of our incarceration. As if we were somehow serving hard time, maybe life without parole.
I felt like giggling, but I didn’t.
The commandos had procured supplies. Not much in the way of fresh produce—again, because we were serving a life sentence?—but an impressive array of canned foods, bagged lentils, and dry goods. Enough to fill several long shelves in the twelve-foot-by-twelve-foot walk-in pantry. I tried not to think about how much food was present, how long this supply could conceivably last and what that might say about our kidnappers’ plans, as I worked my way through the pantry, trying to assemble enough ingredients for a credible dinner.
For our first night of gourmet prison dining, I went with pasta with tomato sauce. We had plenty of cans of crushed tomatoes, olive oil, dried herbs, and garlic cloves. I added a jar of olives, a jar of pearl onions, then canned carrots and baby corn to the stack on the stainless steel island. Without fresh produce, we were reduced to a diet of processed vegetables, terrible in taste, nearly deadly in sodium content. Not much I could do about salt levels, but incorporating items such as carrots and corn into a marinara sauce would help supplement the nutritional content without totally sacrificing edibility. The olives and onions would assist with flavor, creating a sauce that might not win any awards in the North End but would be medal-worthy inside a state institution.
Z seemed intrigued that I would know such things. I didn’t feel like telling him about my life with my mother in the projects. That not only could I cook out of cans, but I could clean a toilet with Coke and remove grout stains with bleach and baking soda.
Justin was put to work preparing two pounds of pasta. My husband could cook. Very well, in fact, if there was a grill involved and some choice-cut fillets. But for now, he tended spaghetti while Ashlyn and I assembled the sauce. My daughter went to work opening cans, then diced up mushy carrots and slippery onions with a plastic knife. I used a second plastic knife on the olives. At least with canned vegetables, a sharp-edged blade was hardly necessary.
For a while, none of us spoke. We worked, and working felt nice. To have a purpose again, a focus and direction. Ashlyn’s stomach growled as the scent of boiling noodles filled the air. Twenty hours without food? I tried to do the math, but my brain wouldn’t go there. So I chopped more, stirred together, played with herbs, started the simmering process. Cooking was something I’d been doing my entire life. Motions that could be performed on autopilot.
The problem started when Justin asked me for a spoon.
He wanted to test the cooked noodles. Could I pass him a spoon?
I stared at him, standing in front of a saucepan of stewed tomatoes, and for the life of me, I couldn’t remember…a spoon, a spoon, a spoon?
“Libby,” he said.
I stared at him, more and more curiously.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Burner’s too hot.” He reached in front of me, turned the dial down. That made sense to me. The dial controlled the fire, the fire controlled heat, and I didn’t want my sauce to burn.
But then Justin ruined the moment, by asking me again for a spoon. I turned to him in near exasperation.
“I don’t have a sfpoof,” I heard myself say.
“A what?”
“A sfpoof.”
That didn’t sound right. I frowned. Ashlyn was staring at me. Z, too. My head hurt. I put a hand to my forehead, and realized I was now swaying on my feet.
Z approached me.
“Tell me your name,” he ordered.
“Kathryn Chapman,” I said tiredly.
My husband paled, though I wasn’t sure why.
“Mom?”
Z touched me. I flinched, couldn’t help myself. That cobra, those fangs, those gleaming scales…
My back hit the hot-burning, bubbling sauce.
“Libby!”
Justin jerked me to the side, away from the stove. Then Z placed his fingers around my eyeball and steadily pulled my eyelids open.
I think I whimpered. Someone did.
“How hard did that fucker hit you?” Z murmured. “Count to ten.”
I stared at him blankly, trying to disappear into my husband, who stood beside me solidly now, arm around my shoulders for support. I wished I could turn in to him. When we were first dating, I’d loved to tuck my body into him, the feeling of his hard planes against my softer build. Two pieces of a puzzle that clicked into place. He had made me feel safe then, and I could use a feeling of safety right about now.
His fingertips curled around my shoulder. A subtle squeeze of reassurance, and I felt the weight of his earlier promise. He would keep Ashlyn and me safe. He had sworn it.
“One, two…,” Z prodded.
“Eight?” I whispered.
“Ah, crap.” Z stepped back, looked at Justin. “I think your wife has a concussion.”
“I think your psycho gave it to her. Can’t you control your own men?”
“Apparently, no more than you can control your own family. No matter. Radar’s a crack medic. He can handle her.”
Z made a motion with his hand toward the camera in the ceiling. An electronic eye to go with the snake’s eye, I thought, feeling my mind spiral further away. Justin led me to a stool, telling Ashlyn to please stir the sauce. Then, he left me, and I was once more all alone, watching the overhead lights bounce crazily off miles and miles of stainless steel, and I was going to be sick except what was the point? In the past twenty-four hours, I had thrown up way more than I’d taken in. I tried to explain that to my churning, twisting stomach, as I sat and watched my husband lift the heavy pot of pasta off the stove, carry it to the sink and dump it into a colander. Then Ashlyn, voice sounding stilted, said the sauce was done, except she was staring at me, not the sauce at all, and in her eyes I saw worry and anger and fear, and that made my head ache more. I didn’t want my child worried and angry and afraid. I was supposed to take care of her. Wasn’t I?
Justin and I against the world.
Justin clicked off the burner and Radar walked through the kitchen doors.
He looked me up and down, seemed to study my eyes, then nodded to himself.
“Can you walk?” he asked.
“Spfoof,” I said.
“Excellent. I’ll help get you there.”
“We’ll all go,” Justin started.
“You will sit,” Z instructed firmly. “Your daughter will sit. Eat. Last chance you’re gonna get. Radar, tend to business.”
The kid put his shoulder under my arm, helped me to standing. I only swayed once, then the world righted itself. Walking wasn’t so hard. No need to think, just place one foot after the other.
Except my footsteps carried me away from my family. I felt like I should say something. Try to communicate some message of hope, reassurance. Or maybe even love. It shouldn’t be too hard, should it? On this eve of our lives falling apart, shouldn’t I be able to call out across the void, I love you, I’m sorry, I love you.
Forgive me.
I left my husband and daughter sitting at the stainless steel counter.
And as so often was the case these days, none of us said a word.
IF THE MOTHBALLED PRISON had an impressive commercial-grade kitchen, the infirmary was equally state-of-the-art. Radar led me straight into an exam room, complete with stainless steel sink and locked drawers filled with all sorts of interesting equipment. The bed appeared bolted to the floor. Maybe so you didn’t float away.
Radar checked my pulse, my blood pressure, then shone a pinpoint light straight into my eyeballs. I bit my lower lip to keep from screaming in pain. Next, he started to inspect my skull with his fingers, working them through my unkempt, uncombed, dirty-blond hair. I felt self-conscious until his fingers landed on a spot behind my ear. This time, I did cry out, and he hastily withdrew his hands.
“Could be concussion,” he muttered. “Could be contusion, could be straight-line fracture. Do you know what the Glasgow Coma score is?”
I didn’t answer. He mostly seemed to be talking to himself.
“I’d put you at a ten, which is better than an eight, but still… You need a CT scan. Toys here aren’t quite that fancy, but we can start with a basic X-ray.”
New room. Definitely not walking so well now. Sweating. I could feel my pulse starting to flutter. Pain, agitation, distress.
I wished… I wished Justin were here, his arm once more around my shoulders.
X-ray machine. I got to lie down on a table. Radar positioned a heavy mat over my chest, then a cover over my eyes, then a machine over my head.
“Close your eyes. Don’t move.”
He left. A buzzing, then a flash.
Radar was back.
“Digital system,” he announced, as if that should mean something to me. “But gotta wait a bit.”
“How did you…learn, all this?” I managed to wave my hand around the room.
He stared at me straight-faced. “In school, I applied myself real hard.”
“Doctor? Is that what you studied?”
“Doctors are pansies. I’m a field medic. We have real skills.”
“In the military? Army?”
Kid didn’t say anything, just stared at me.
“What’s your name?” he asked after another second.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out, so I closed it again. “He tried to kill me,” I heard myself say.
Radar rolled his eyes at me. “Pretty fucking stupid thing to do, Tase a guy twice your size. Take it from me, your survival skills could use some work.”
“Bigger they are, the harder they fall,” I murmured.
“Yep, and the faster they crush your skull.”
“Are you friends?”
The kid shrugged, shifted uncomfortably. “We know each other. That’s enough.”
“There’s something wrong with him.”
Radar shrugged again. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“He would’ve killed me. Then my husband. Then my daughter.”
“Z stopped him.”
“Is he the boss?”
“In any grouping of more than one, there is a boss.”
“Can he control Mick?”
“Z?” Radar laughed. “Z can control the world. Question is, does he want to?”
“I think I’m going to vomit now.”
“Now, see, you tell that to a real doctor, they run away. I, on the other hand, already have a bag.”
The kid held up a plastic grocery bag. I rolled slightly to the side, and threw up a small stream of water. Then I dry heaved, then I fell back, holding my aching stomach. Radar wasn’t impressed. “You need to drink. Look at your skin.” He pinched the back of my hand, then shook his head. “Already dehydrated. What do you think, you’re on a pleasure cruise? First rule of thumb in an adverse situation: Tend to your own health. You need fluids. You need food.”
“I need my purse.” I whispered the words without thinking, already licking at my cracked lips.
“Can’t,” the kid said levelly. “No Vicodin as long as you have a head injury.”
“How did you…?”
“Some people limit themselves to going through life using all five senses. Then, there are guys like me. Prescription painkillers, right? Ritzy housewife from Back Bay, no way you’re hitting the hard drugs yet—that would imply a real problem. But popping Percocet, oxycodone, pills prescribed by your own doctor, that not’s so bad, right? Meaning you’re going on twenty-four hours without a hit… Bet you’re really tired right now. Just barely hanging on. Like the world is an ocean dragging you under. You know you need to pull it together, focus for the sake of your family, but of course you can’t. You’re suffering from depression, abdominal cramping, agitation, constipation and nausea. Oh yeah, and now a knock on the head. But other than that, sure, you got your shit together.”
I didn’t answer.
He spread his hands. “Might as well tell me everything. Just you and me here, and at the rate you’re going, we’re going to have a lot of quality time together. More you tell me, more I can maybe help. ’Cause you’re kind of useless right now. FYI.”
“Water,” I said.
He crossed to the sink and poured a little in a plastic cup. I used the first sip to rinse my mouth, then spit in the puke pouch.
I thought Radar looked like his TV namesake—too young to sound so old. Too fresh-faced to appear so cynical. But then I thought of Z and I thought of Mick and I wondered how innocent he could really be while hanging with the likes of them.
“Ten,” I said. “I try to limit myself to ten a day.” Or fifteen.
“Oxycodone or Percocet?”
“Hydrocodone. It’s for my neck.” I said the words straight-faced. He didn’t correct me.
“Dosage?”
“Ten milligrams.”
“That’s the opiate dosage. So you’re taking at least another five hundred milligrams of acetaminophen per pill. Times ten… How long?”
“Couple months.”
“Stomach bleeding?”
“It hurts.”
“When you drink alcohol?”
“Hurts more.”
Radar looked at me. “So you take another pill.”
“If I could just…my purse.”
Radar shook his head at me. “You live in that house. You got a husband, a pretty daughter. Seriously, what the hell are you escaping from? Maybe you need to spend more time in the slums. Or, hell, military barracks. That’ll teach you a thing or two.”
He got up. Left the room. Probably had to check the X-rays, or maybe I disgusted him that much. I didn’t bother to correct him, to tell him I had once lived on the other side of the tracks, and, yes, I understood the advantages of my new and improved station in life.
Maybe I was a romantic, however. I’d never wanted the big house, the Back Bay address. I’d just wanted my husband.
Except that wasn’t entirely the truth, either. From the moment I’d taken that first pill…
Once upon a time, I’d lost my father. And then, still too soon, I’d lost my mother. And I had borne it, I’d been strong. Until That Day, realizing I was going to lose my husband, hearing him whisper the truth about his affair with another woman, realizing that this family, too, was doomed to self-destruct…
It turned out, a giant well of emptiness had always existed inside me. A void so deep and black and ugly, I wasn’t just empty, I was hollowed out by the losses in my life. Until there were days I didn’t dare go outside because I worried the wind would blow me away.
The pills became my anchor. And sometimes, knowing something isn’t right still doesn’t change anything. You are who you are. You need what you need. You do what you do.
I wondered if Justin told himself the same when he was having sex with that girl. I wondered if afterward, he felt as guilty as I did, while still knowing he was going to do it again. And again. And again.
I had thought love would make us better people. I was mistaken.
Now I curled up in a ball, trying to ease the cramps in my stomach, while closing my eyes against the ache in my head.
Door opened. I didn’t open my eyes, just waited for Radar to make his pronouncement. Would the patient live or die?
Instead, a hoarse voice whispered in my ear, “I’m gonna kill you, pretty white bitch. But first, I’m totally gonna fuck your daughter. You can hide down here as long as you want. I got time. I got patience. I got a whole prison, with three hundred and forty-two places where I can jump out and yell boo!”
I didn’t move. Just lay there, as if I were sleeping. Mick departed. Radar reentered. Informed me I had a concussion. Told me I needed to rest, drink more fluids and bone up on omega-3s, building blocks of the brain. He handed me two fish oil capsules, then said he would return me to my family, who would monitor me overnight.
I said nothing, just accepted the gel capsules, then the support of his arm, as we made our way slowly down the corridor. I could tell from the smell when we neared the kitchen.
What had Radar said? The first rule of thumb…tend to your health.
“Could I eat a little dinner?”
Radar eyed me dubiously.
“Maybe plain pasta. Something simple.”
He shrugged, as if to say it would be my problem later.
I accepted that. A lot of things, it seemed, would be my problem later. But now I had to pull it together. Find some way to get myself to stop drowning and start swimming, to think of my husband and daughter and put their safety first.
Justin had sworn to protect Ashlyn and me. But I already doubted he could take on a professionally trained psycho like Mick all alone. We needed to come together, him, me and Ashlyn. Hate a little less. Love a little more.
Once upon a time, inside one of the most luxurious town houses in Boston, our family had fallen apart. Now, inside these harsh cinder-block prison walls, we needed to find ourselves again.
Because Mick didn’t strike me as the kind of killer who made idle threats. And trapped inside this prison, it’s not like we could get away. He was the predator. We were the prey. And there was no place left for any of us to run.