“They’re on strike,” comes a low voice behind me, and I gasp. Charles gives me an apologetic smile. “The taxi drivers. Only a matter of time before they get violent.”
I watch them rock the Expedition back and forth on its wheels. “That’s not violent?”
“More violent,” he amends. “It’ll be hell getting out of here”
Anxiety grips my chest. “What should I do?”
He pauses, seeming almost embarrassed. “You could get a train. Or… look, I hesitate to say this. I don’t want you to think I’m hitting on you. Again, that is. But I have a towncar waiting. One fo those things you schedule before the trip. They wait in a different lane than taxis.”
Relief is a steaming cup of coffee on a terrible morning. “God, that sounds—no, I couldn’t. I mean it sounds wonderful, but I couldn’t inconvenience you that way.”
He nods, once. Then turns, as if to walk away. Then looks back. “Where are you going? It might be on the way to where I’m going. Maybe.”
Hope sparks inside me. “The embassy. The American embassy.”
A pause. He rubs a large palm across his jaw, and I can hear the scrape of his growth from here. “I believe that’s in central Paris. Where I’m heading. Listen, are you in some kind of trouble? We could look for a cop around here. I’m sure we can find one.”
That’s what decides me, that genuine note of concern in his voice. “No, I’m not in trouble. It’s my sister. She’s been missing a week already. I have to go to the embassy.”
His brown eyes soften. “I can get you to central Paris. Then you can grab a cab.”
“Thank you. God.” A stone smashes a window. “So much.”
He takes the handle of my suitcase before I can object. Then he’s wheeling it over a bumpy sidewalk crossing. I struggle to keep up with his long strides. We round a corner, and everything becomes suddenly quiet. It’s almost eerie, the way sound doesn’t travel around this building. As if the riot a few yards away was a dream.
There’s not a neat row of black towncars. There’s only a lonely road. And a dumpster.
I do a little skip to eat up the pavement. “Are you sure this is the right way?”
“I’m sure,” he calls back, not slowing for an instant.
Nervous energy hits my body like I’ve run into a wall. Sparks in my ches. A thud at the base of my skull. I suck in air through a straw. I can’t trust him, this Charles Bisset. That might not even be his name. My step falters, but he has my suitcase. All my things. My clothes. Pictures of my sister. Her birth certificate. What if I take it from him? What if I rip it out of his hand and run back to the cabs? Part of me feels ridiculous for even thinking it. He’s done nothing wrong. All he did was walk fast. That’s not a crime. Twenty four years of social conditioning tell me to act normal. Act nice. The persistent rat-tat-tat of my heart warns me that something is wrong.
“Excuse me? Mr. Bisset. Charles. Wait.”
He doesn’t wait. He just keeps walking, and that’s when I know, when I know, that I’m in trouble. I stop mid-step. I need what’s in the suitcase. How can I make my way in a foreign city without clothes? But I can’t follow this man into—where? I take a step back.
The screech of a tire snaps me to attention. A white van bumps onto the curb. The man inside wears a black ski mask. Time slows to a crawl. Gravel sprays from the thick black tires. The protestors dim to a low roar. They won’t hear me if I scream. I turn toward Charles, as if he might protect me. And for a moment, he does. He pulls me close to him, shielding me. He murmurs in my ear, “Don’t fight, mon cherie. It will only make this harder for you.”’
My eyes widen. Then something black and thick covers my head. Hands drag me toward the van, and I fight, blind and in shock, lashing out at nothing before my arms are caught behind my back. Then I’m shoved roughly into something in motion. Something hard hits my face. The floor. I’m slammed to the side. A sharp pain behind my head. And then darkness.
* * *
My eyes open to pitch black.
I wait for my bedroom to come into focus. Nothing happens. This is the complete kind of darkness, the kind without even shadows. My lungs burn, as if I’ve been holding my breath. I gulp down damp and moldy air. I curl my fingers against stone. Faintly slick. Biting cold.
Where am I?
Memories drop into my mind like rain in a puddle. I remember the long flight and fear for my sister.
I remember the man with the movie star smile.
A shudder works its way through my body, lingering in aches and bruises, waking up pain as it goes. I move myself to a sitting position with a soft groan. The floor feels slightly uneven, almost like a natural rock formation. A cave or something.
I crawl forward. Something hard meets my face. My fists close around iron bars.
Not completely natural, then.