The Big Bad Wolf

CHAPTER 50

MY VERY FIRST IMPRESSION was that Audrey Meek didn’t look at all like herself, not as

she did in any of her publicity. Not now, anyway, not after her terrible ordeal. Mrs. Meek was

thinner, especially in the face. Her eyes were dark blue, but the sockets appeared hollowed

out. She had some color on both cheeks.

“I’m FBI agent Alex Cross. It’s good to see you safe,” I said in a quiet voice. I didn’t want to

interview her right now, but it had to be done.

Audrey Meek nodded and her eyes met mine. I had the sense that she knew how lucky she

was.

“You have some color in your cheeks. Did you get that today?” I asked her. “While you were

in the woods?”



“I don’t know for sure, but I don’t think so. He took me outside for walks every day he held

me captive. Considering the circumstances, he was often considerate. He made my meals,

good ones, for the most part. He told me he’d been a chef at one time in Richmond. We had

long talks almost every day, really long talks. It was so strange, everything about it. There

was one day in the middle when he wasn’t at the house at all. I was petrií he’d left me there

to die. But I didn’t really believe he would.”



I didn’t interrupt her. I wanted to let Audrey Meek tell her story without any pressure or

steering from me. It was astonishing to me that she had been released. It didn’t happen very

often in cases like this one.

“Georges? My children?” she asked. “Have they arrived yet? Will you let me see them if

they’re here?”



“They’re on their way,” I said. “We’ll bring them in as soon as they arrive. I’d like to ask a

few questions while everything is still fresh in your mind. I’m sorry about this. There may be

other missing people, Mrs. Meek. We think that there are.”



“Oh, God,” she whispered. “Let me try to help, then. If I can, I will. Ask your questions.”



She was a brave woman and she told me about the kidnapping, including a description of the

man and woman who had grabbed her. It ?t the late Slava Vasilev and Zoya Petrov. Then

Audrey Meek took me through the ritual of the days that she was held captive by the man

who called himself the Art Director.

“He said he liked to wait on me, that he enjoyed it immensely. It was as if he was used to

being subservient. But I sensed he also wanted to be my friend. It was so terribly weird. He’d

seen me on TV and read articles about Meek, my company. He said he admired my sense of

style and the way I didn’t seem to have too many airs about myself. He made me have sex

with him.”



Audrey Meek was holding herself together so well. Her strength amazed me, and I wondered

if that was what her captor had admired.

“Can I get you water? Anything?” I asked.

She shook her head. “I saw his face,” she said. “I even tried to draw it for the police. I think

it’s a good likeness. It’s him.”



This was getting stranger by the moment. Why would the Art Director let her see him, then

release her? I’d never known anything like it, not in any other kidnapping case.

Audrey Meek sighed and nervously clasped and unclasped her hands as she continued.

“He admitted that he was obsessive-compulsive. About cleanliness, art, style, about loving

another human being. He confessed several times that he adored me. He was often

derogatory about himself. Did I tell you about the house?” she asked. “I’m not sure what I

said here or to the officers who found me.”



“You didn’t talk about the house yet,” I said.

“It was covered with some material, like a heavy-duty cellophane. It reminded me of event

art. Like Christo. There were dozens of paintings inside. Very good ones. You ought to be able

to find a house covered in cellophane.”



“We’ll find it,” I agreed. “We’re looking now.”



The door to the room where we were talking was cracked open. A trooper in a brimmed hat

peeked in, then he opened the door wide and Audrey Meeks husband, Georges, and her two

children burst inside. It was such an unbelievably rare moment in abduction cases, especially

one in which someone has been missing for more than a week. The Meek children looked

afraid at first. Their father gently urged them forward, and joy took over. Their faces were

wreathed in smiles and tears, and there was a group hug that seemed to last forever.

“Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!” the girl shrieked, and clung to her mother as if she’d never let

go of her again.

My eyes filled, and then I went to the worktable. Audrey Meek had made two drawings. I

looked at the face of the man who had held her captive. He looked very ordinary, like

anybody you’d meet on the street.

The Art Director.

Why did you let her go? I wondered.