Set Free (3 page)

Zero to sixty. Suddenly everything changed. Darkness turned into blinding light. Silence into uproar. I was ripped from uneasy sleep, fingers digging into my armpit, hauling me to my feet. My eyes watered. My ears burned from the barrage of unintelligible words being screamed at me with such ferocity I thought I might lose my hearing.

Two men had blasted into the room. One of them, slender and young, stood back, near the door, saying nothing. The other, much older, was creating all the commotion. They were both dark: hair, complexion, eyes… hearts? Arabic if I had to guess. The language the same. Once I could keep my eyes open for longer than a second or two, I could tell the older man wanted me to do something, and was growing increasingly frustrated the longer I didn’t comply. He yanked the gag from my mouth and yelled some more. 

“What? What is it?” It felt good to be rid of the sodden, dirty rag, to use my voice again.

He screamed back at me, dotting my face with stinging spittle.

“I don’t understand what you want me to do!” I shouted back, meeting loud with loud, anger with anger.

More yelling.

“What the fuck do you want?” I roared back, the savagery in my voice, the uncharacteristic swearing, surprising even me. Unusual circumstances call for an unusual response. My glare moved from the older man to the younger, quieter one, with the dim hope he might understand English. No such luck.

After more bawling me out with no change in my response, the old guy shouted an order at the young one. In response, he left the room, returning seconds later with a wooden chair. He shoved it behind me and, with surprising gentleness, pushed me down into it. The touch of his hand on my shoulder, its unexpected tenderness, filled me with optimism. I searched his face, desperate for something more. I was badly in need of compassion, comfort. I needed to believe I wasn’t about to be killed—or worse, tortured. But the young man would not look at me. He had a job to do. He wanted to do it and then get the hell out of there.

I felt something being shoved into my chest. I looked down.

Oh, God.

Now I knew what was happening.

The young man murmured something. I think he was encouraging me to take hold of the item. The old guy continued to bellow unintelligible instructions.

It was a newspaper,
Assabah
, an Arabic-language daily.

I was about to have my picture taken. Not just any picture: a proof-of-life picture. The newspaper would display the date, proving to whoever saw the photograph that, at least as of today, I was alive. Anyone who’s read a book or watched a movie about kidnapping would know what was going on. I’d been kidnapped—which wasn’t breaking news—the kidnappers had made their demands—which remained a total mystery to me—and, in return, negotiators would have asked them to prove I was still breathing.

My mind raced to consider what they could be asking for. Did they expect a big payday out of the pockets of a celebrity? Had I been foolhardy to think I could come to Morocco and no one would know who I was? With the internet’s proliferation around the world, I should have known that not even here in Northern Africa could anyone remain anonymous.

Maybe this is what these guys did for a living: hung out at airports, grabbing the first public figure or rich person they recognized. The Moroccan version of Somali pirates, but instead of tankers and yachts, they went after people with fame and fast cash.

I could never have imagined something like this happening to me. Of course I’d aspired to fame and fortune. Who doesn’t? Especially writers of a certain ilk. But, deep down, I never truly believed I would become someone who might be kidnapped for money. Nothing about how Jenn and I started out would lead me to such an outlandish conclusion.

By the time we had finished college, Jenn and I knew we wanted to be together forever. She was from Phoenix, I was from Portland. We decided the best thing was to start our joint lives somewhere completely different. May as well piss off both sides of the family instead of just one.

Being the more marketable of us, Jenn led the charge. We ended up in Boston, where she’d been offered a decent internship. I was still keen on writing for a living, but keener on eating, so I took an entry-level position at a bank that offered reasonable hours and wage and little else. That was fine with me. A dead-end career allowed me time and energy to devote to my real passions: travel and writing.

For a while it was the perfect life. We were young and in love and having adventures in a new city. Every six to eight months we’d somehow scrounge together enough cash and vacation days to head off somewhere exotic and cheap. I’d come back with renewed inspiration, and Jenn would return with renewed energy to dive back into what was turning out to be a dirge of a career. The pay was crap and the caseload staggering. She adored every second it—especially her work in family law. The messier the better. Something about bringing logic and reason to situations of high drama and irrationality turned her on. In my spare time, I’d write articles about our experiences and eventually started selling a few to local newspapers and travel magazines.

Then came baby.

We started out reeling in shock from the latex industry’s epic failure, and ended up rejoicing in the considerably more epic result. Our lives were busy, Jenn working long hours developing her career, me trying to create mine. But none of that mattered when we brought home six pound three ounce Michelle Catherine Wills.

It took about half an hour before we were calling her Mikki and canceling plans so we could stay home and spend every waking moment with our new daughter. At one point during the transition from unencumbered hipsters to homebodies, smarting from the loss of our freewheeling pre-baby life, a wise young parent explained parenthood to me this way: don’t see it as giving something up, but as willingly exchanging one thing for something you want more. I got it.

Along with our bundle of joy came a serious discussion. In the end, with Jenn’s income potential being greater—and less fictional—we concluded that I would stay home with Mikki until she went off to school. Ironically, this somewhat unorthodox arrangement turned out to be the biggest boost of my writing career. First off, we were blessed with a really good baby. She started sleeping through the night by five months, and when she was awake, she was mostly content to burble and gurgle and smile. We couldn’t travel like we used to, but I had more time than ever to write. Once I had my stay-at-home-daddy routine down, I began submitting short pieces to magazines and anthologies. With some regularity, I came away with small checks, big accolades, and even an award or two.

Adjusting to our lack of freedom and flexibility to take off for a week to backpack in Europe, explore a desert, or hike a mountain range—adventures which had heretofore fueled my travel writing—I tried my hand at writing pieces that focused on Boston’s robust tourist industry. Turns out I had a flair for that sort of thing. I soon landed regular gigs writing columns and reviews for a handful of local newspapers, a monthly glossy or two, and even a high profile national magazine. It wasn’t quite what I’d hoped for in terms of a writing career, but I was an adult now, making adult decisions, and doing what I needed to support my family. Best of all, I was raising a great kid.

Some of the credit for what happened next goes to my parents. Still avid travelers, in love with their granddaughter and wanting to spend as much time with her as possible, Mom and Dad invited the three of us to join them on a trip to Australia. There was no way we could have afforded a trip like that on our own—even if we’d wanted to, which we weren’t exactly sure we did.

Mikki had just turned two. I know. We’ve all suffered through long flights with the unholy screeching of an unhappy infant scraping out the insides of our skulls. Jenn and I swore we’d never be one of those couples, dragging baby along on a trip with no regard for how it would affect others. But my parents can be very convincing. Before we knew it, we were on a flight to Sydney, baby in tow.

To offset our concerns, I’d pored over the internet for tips on how to best prevent a two-year-old from driving fellow passengers, hotel guests, or tourists to self-immolation. What I found was that there was astonishingly little guidance to be had. Since I couldn’t find it, I made it up and hoped for the best. Several weeks later, I penned an article unimaginatively titled: “How to Travel with a Two-Year-Old and Survive.”

The title may have been insipid, but sometimes in-your-face clarity is exactly what’s called for. The article was a massive hit for the magazine that published it, having succinctly served up information that its demographic of well-heeled, well-traveled, well-read YAWKs (young adults with kids) were desperate for. This led to a commissioned series of related articles. There were nearly endless permutations of the theme: tips for traveling with children of various ages by various transportation modes to various destinations. Suddenly, my career was on fire.

By the time Mikki was enrolled in first grade, I was signing my first publishing contract. The book would present all my articles under one cover, accompanied by photographs and quippy narrative from me.

Although not a major blockbuster, the book did become an immediate bestseller in several key markets. More importantly, it became the impetus for Jenn and me to shelve our original plan. With Mikki in school, instead of me going back to the bank, I would attempt to make a living—or something close to it—from writing. Jenn was still working hard at the same firm, but now making more money since being taken on as a partner. With Mikki needing less of my attention, the timing couldn’t have been better.

Six years later, lightning struck. Well, no, I take that back: it wasn’t lightning, it just felt like it. Lightning hits you out of the blue, no matter where you are or what you’re doing. In my case, I wasn’t exactly standing out in a rainstorm with a metal-tipped umbrella, hoping to be zapped—but I wasn’t inside hiding, either. I wrote a second book.

In the Middle
was a (mostly) fictionalized account of an everyday guy who takes a year-long leave of absence from regular life to travel the world. An early reviewer described the book as “gut-wrenching, side-splitting, surprisingly heartfelt, a must-read for anyone wading through the mess of midlife.” When the New York Times called it “the
Eat Pray Love
for middle-aged men and the women trying to love them,” sales exploded.

In the Middle
hit every major top ten list and was a New York Times bestseller for over forty weeks. Just like that, I was famous. My life had changed. Instead of spending my days making lunches for Mikki and late dinners for Jenn, I was flying cross country doing radio, TV, and internet chat show interviews. Whenever fatigue or homesickness caused me to balk at the crazy schedule, my no-nonsense agent with a knack for hyperbole would remind me to “make hay while the sun shines, because the wind is picking up and the clouds are coming.”

The more promotion I did, the more requests that followed. Apparently I photographed well, had a semblance of charm, was likeable enough, and managed eloquence and good humor under pressure. I’d done publicity for my first book, but it had never amounted to much beyond the local market. In due course the public interest had died off, and the book slipped and then disappeared off lists and bookstore shelves, quickly followed by the media attention. Event opportunities dried up like popsicles in the desert.

This was different. The frenzy began to feed off itself in a way that was inexplicable to me and my permanently-grinning agent. Before I knew it, Hollywood took notice and a film version of the book was green lit, financed, and hit screens to respectable box office returns. My career became something I scarcely recognized. But everyone recognized me. Even in Marrakech.

When I realized that the sound—raw, guttural, ugly—was coming from me, I wasn’t surprised. I’d heard it before. And worse. This asshole, my captor, whom I’d nicknamed Hun (as in Attila), wasn’t going to get the worst out of me. He wasn’t going to break me. I was broken long ago.

My hands were tied behind me to the chair. They didn’t do this to keep me from fighting back or escaping, but to stop me from falling over until the beating was done. It was easier for Hun to get in his licks while I was upright.

I’d never been physically beaten before. The sensation was what I imagined being in a car crash would be like. With each landing of Hun’s fist, adrenaline made my entire body feel as if it was being sent flying in the opposite direction of the impact. Which was odd because I was attached to that damn chair and going nowhere. But in my mind’s eye, I was floating away, with no control over limbs or other body parts. Then, as the power of the blow’s force dissipated, the propulsion would too and I’d come to a stop, hovering there, looking down at my body. For a brief second I’d be at peace, weightless, almost euphoric. Then the next hit would meet its mark and I’d slam back into the chair, absorb the pain, and fly off in another direction.

I was acutely, painfully, achingly aware of every inch of my body and every single strike against it. I could sense each individual cell and bursting blood vessel, every nerve ending as it blasted out electric shocks and chemical responses, each bloom of bruise or tear of skin. I could hear my faithful heart, beating as if its rightful place was in my ears instead of my chest.

My vision, at first blurred from the blood pouring into my eyes, became tunneled. Hun’s face appeared as if held at bay at the far end of a telescope. I expected to see pure evil, hatred, anger—whatever it takes to do this to another human being. Instead I saw self-loathing. And pity. For me? For himself? I was astonished to realize that Hun didn’t want to do this. For some reason still unknown to me, he was forcing himself—forcing himself to be a monster.

As my eyesight adjusted, so did my other senses, inexplicably amplified. The scent of blood was overpowering.

When blood is moist, the older it is, the sweeter it smells. When dry, it smells musty, even rancid. I was smelling fresh, wet, warm blood. My blood. Sprayed around me as if by a demented abstract artist gone wild with red paint.

One summer, Jenn accidentally dropped a pair of pruning shears on her big toe. It bled with a fervor and flow I’d never seen before. She’d come running into the house, yowling with pain, blood trailing her like a crimson tail. As I set to work on the wound, attempting to stanch the bleeding, I remember noticing a metallic, coppery scent in the air. It has something to do with the proteins in blood plasma transporting copper to bone marrow in order to create new red blood cells. Back then I’d detected only the faintest of whiffs, but now, sitting in that chair, the same scent nearly overwhelmed me, as if I’d just snorted a line of wet iron filings.

Even my taste buds were in on the game. Not just the ones on my bloodied tongue, but thousands more lining my upper esophagus, soft palette, epiglottis, every one detonating like a firework. Sour! Sweet! Savory! And with every proclamation, globs of appropriately flavored saliva sluiced down my throat.

As Hun’s fist met my face again and again, the sound of skin against skin was oddly intimate. In the background, I could hear every syllable, every small tic of intonation of the whispered prayer being offered by my tormenter between each ragged draw of breath. The one thing I suddenly couldn’t hear, had stopped hearing—blocked out?—was the sound of my own agony.

Only when Hun was finished did I cease to be the superhuman with psychedelically heightened senses. I was just a beaten man, blood dripping off me onto the floor, mixed with sweat and tears.

With great effort I forced my chin up from my chest. Only when I’d completed the painful movement did I urge my eyes open. Only one responded, the other too swollen to comply. Even with that, I could barely manage an abbreviated view.

I was stunned.

Hun stood before me a destroyed man. He was staring at his raw, bloody fists as if they couldn’t possibly be his. His chest and shoulders heaved up and then down, like the bow of a ship on troubled waters.

We stayed like that—me on the chair, him standing before me—for a long time.

Finally, Hun opened his mouth. He called for someone, his voice strained.

The second man, young Hun, appeared in the doorway, little more than a blurred shadow to me. They exchanged a stream of words I didn’t understand. Young Hun approached me. With a trembling forefinger he lifted my chin, which had begun to slide back toward my chest. I knew what he wanted.

He wanted me to look straight ahead.

Into the camera.

Again.

“He…is…father.”

What?
The three words had come from young Hun. Stumbling, stilted, nearly unintelligible, barely a whisper—but I heard them. What did they mean? What was young Hun telling me in his broken English? That Hun was actually his father, leaving him powerless to stop what was happening to me? Or was he trying to rationalize the older man’s behavior—telling me that Hun was a father, just like me, and that, despite what he was doing to me, he empathized with my pain? Is that why Hun appeared tormented by his own actions? Or had I imagined the whole thing? Was it nothing more than wishful thinking? Desperately, I searched young Hun’s face for something more, but he was already pulling away. The moment was over, gone, as if it had never happened. Had it?

Stepping back, the young man held up an iPhone and pointed it at me. Every time it was a different one. I could tell because of the changing case covers. This was the fourth or fifth picture they’d taken of me. Each one using a new phone, probably stolen from an unsuspecting tourist in the
medina
. They’d take my picture, send the file, and toss the phone.

But something was different this time. Something important.

Aside from the day of my arrival, I had never been hurt. The previous pictures had shown me bound, gagged, unshaven, scared, but otherwise okay. This was the first time I’d been beaten. The message they wanted to send to the photograph’s recipient—my parents, Jenn, the media?—was clear: meet our demands, or else. The kidnappers were escalating their game.