Chapter 7

Here I am again, in Irene’s apartment and there is another knock on the door. It’s locked and I fear I’m going insane. It’s dark out. I can’t see the moon through the skyscrapers on seventh street, and the streets are invisible. The pollution is becoming more and more intense, and I look around at the art.

“Hello?”

“Hello. It’s Marcuson. The man who speaks five languages.”

A shiver ran down my spine.

“The Seven Social Sins are:

Wealth without work.

Pleasure without conscience.

Knowledge without character.

Commerce without morality.

Science without humanity.

Worship without sacrifice.

Politics without principle.

From a sermon given by Frederick Lewis Donaldson in Westminster Abbey, London, on March 20, 1925.”

― Frederick Lewis Donaldson

“I am here to tell you that we have your life’s savings in our own hands. You are coming into the Mercedes Benz, and, if you don’t, we will kill you.”

I pick up my phone, shivering, and call 911, but there was no reception.

“We’ve taken care of that. You won’t be able to call anyone.”

Crap. Why does Irene have to be out for groceries right now. Why the fuck did I open the door? How stupid!

“May I got the bathroom.”

“Whatever.”

I could climb out the window…

I went to the bathroom and the walls were high, tiles that looked like stone. There was a red towel and a bit of blood on the toilet bowl, but I figured that was probably only because Irene had been menstruating.

That would make the most sense.

That’s before I looked into the shower...there was...a woman there. She was dead. Her corpse was cold and it was too damn much to bear. I tried to escape through the window but I can’t because there is a mirage of guards there, probably people who work for the man who speaks five languages. I lock the door and stay in the room. The bathroom. That was that.

I stayed there, staring at the corpse and wondering who on earth it could be. There was no one staying with us and no one had visited us recently. As I looked closer, I saw the locks of black hair, the glassy brown eyes that used to be so full of life, and then I realized it: the rose on her shirt and the pendant with her husband there. She never traveled without it.

Holy shit...This probably happened the night I was gone...I had slept in this morning. Was Irene actually okay this morning. Did she actually go grocery shopping or...what the fuck happened this morning? What the fuck happened?

I’m shivering at this point, phone in hand. I’m not sure what to do. The man barges in and picks me up, shoving me into his Mercedes. He shoved me into the trunk after putting some shit on my head and I could hear him driving off. At first, the familiar sounds of New York City kept ringing in my ear. Then I started hearing less and less of it. I started hearing coyote howls, and, soon enough, different types of birds. I heard the kidnappers talk about how much they loved the birds.

Damn assholes. They don’t love birds nearly as much as they loved women. God I hope Irene is okay. I hope she’s still alive. I hadn’t had the chance to see if her car was still there, just assumed. That’s all I can really do.

Finally, the car stopped and the guys got out. They took me out of the trunk and I then they put me back into the backseat and they tied me there. I continued looking around, trying to get my bearings. There were so many stars. I hadn’t seen them in so long. I listened to the man and the passenger, plus the other man sitting next to me. I noticed they were all quite handsome, but caught myself, reminding myself that they were kidnappers. They kept speaking in Spanish. They got out and peed, then came back into the car.

We were driving through what seemed like paradise: Daffodils were blooming, but my mouth widened as I realized that we were heading into the forest, deep into the forest, and guess what? There wasn’t a body around. They could choke me, shoot me, rape me, and no one would know the better for it. Not in a million years.

There we were, heading down the winding road. There was this beautiful cabin and, with awe and a pit in my stomach, I realized that’s where we were headed: the only cabin in the woods. That was it. There were no other house. No other people. Just long stretches of woods, that is all it was. That’s everything that was there.

Oh my God. What the fuck am I doing? What will they do to me? I have to figure out how to get away from these people.

I try to practice empathy. I am a Buddhist and I know that there is nothing unbelievable about the human beast: We can do this well. We can do it all. We know what to say and what to do, and then, if we are smart, mean, or both, we reject conventional wisdom, lie, cheat, and steal. If we are geniuses, we simply lie creatively. Isn’t that what a story is, a lie?

“I was amazed as people must be who are seized and kidnapped, and who realize that in the strange world of their captors they have a value absolutely unconnected with anything they know about themselves.”

― Alice Munro, Lives of Girls and Women

I am here now. I am being dragged into the cabin and died to the bed, probably for their sick pleasure. I rack my brains, wondering why on earth these people are doing this to me.

“What do you want? You have my money?”

“I want your keys.”

“My keys.”

“You know what I’m talking about. Give me the keys! Now.”

“Well I don’t have them.”

“Bullshit. You always have them.”

I look down and I remember that I wear the keys around my neck: the keys to the beverly hills house.

Why did they kill Eduardo’s wife? Did they know?

“Why?”

“Why do you think? We want money. I need money for my mother. She has cancer. She needs drugs.”

“So you steal from me? You already have four mil.”

“They’re expensive.”

“How much do you need?”

“5 mil, and I know that house is about that much.”

“Well, I actually got it for $900,000.”

“Close enough,” the man who speaks five languages, Andres, says and rips the necklace off of her neck.