There were bars on the windows. My hosts were so worried I would try to leave they barred the windows and strapped me to a bed. They needn’t have bothered. I was too apathetic and so addicted to morphine by then, that I no longer fought the nurse who dosed me twice a day. When she left me, the turbaned man would enter and demand to know what I had done with his sari.
My mind, being a cheese grater at this point in the game, could no longer distinguish between reality and fantasy. I’m afraid I didn’t tell him what he wanted to hear and received many a punishment for my lack of cooperation. The man in the bowler hat would sit in the corner, yawning, and would only intervene if his associate decided I needed more than his version of gentle… persuasion.
“That’s enough, Zalim!” he barked, storming over, and dragging the man away. “You’ll kill her before we extract the information.” He stared down at me in abject pity. “Did you have to bruise that delicate skin?”
“You treat her as if she were a kitten!” Zalim grumbled resentfully. “We haven’t much time. The auction—”
“I know the date, Zalim. I arranged it.”
“If she does not know where it is, then perhaps your… counterpart does.”
“I thought we agreed we wouldn’t bring Scotland Yard into this.” The man’s mustache twitched in disdain. “They’re like roaches. Where there is one, then surely there is another.” He gave a shudder. “They are also highly protective of their own. If we harm a hair on that well-oiled head, they’ll rain down God’s wrath and more besides.”
“Is that my problem?” Zalim’s rheumy eyes sparked with hatred. “I’ll give you a week to extract what we need. If you have not obtained the information by then, then I will take my money and my… influence elsewhere.” He straightened his turban, bowed slightly, and left.
I was left alone with a man whose face was familiar, but his name eluded me. He was overly fond of his mustache, keeping it waxed and always neatly trimmed. I don’t think I ever saw a hair out of place. He was also fond of garlic, often reeking of the pungent plant. So much so, the nurse avoided close contact with him, keeping him at arm’s length when she was required to restrain me for his nightly interrogations. I surmised he regarded himself as a gentleman from the way he maintained his hair and clothing.
But to me, he was a mockery of what the word signified.
“Well, Miss Gibson,” he was saying, approaching the bed. Today, they strapped down both my arms and legs. I thought the leather straps were a nice touch. Chains were so last… 13th century. “What have you to say for yourself?” He threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, I forgot. You can’t speak! Isn’t that a shame?”
My lips may not have been able to form words, but my eyes spoke volumes. His smile lessened somewhat when he realized what I was thinking. “That’s not very nice, Miss Gibson,” he sniffed, rolling up his sleeves. “Such language!”
I made a guttural sound in my throat, struggling against the restraints. But he shook his head. “Not until you reveal the location of the sari. Now, given your lack of speech, I am inclined to accept a location on a map. The next time we speak, you will kindly point out the exact location. If not, then I’m afraid I shall have to let Zalim persuade you. And we don’t want that, do we?”
Suddenly remembering an obscene gesture, my fingers politely indicated what he could do to himself. Shocked, his mouth dropped open. “And where did you learn that, my dear? A gutter?”
I don’t remember where I saw it, but I had a faint idea of who may have taught me how to manipulate my fingers in such a vile manner. Joshua always had a way with words, either spoken or otherwise. “No matter,” my mustached host said, reaching over to wipe a trickle of blood from my swollen lips. “You’ll get no lunch today. Perhaps that will jar your memory.”
He left me in a sweltering room with all the windows closed, no food, and a defiant brain screaming every foul word I had ever heard. When the words were exhausted, I lay back with tears streaming down bruised cheeks where they would leave traces of my anguish upon the starched white muslin.
* * *
They brought out a large map—one of those you pin on the wall—and loosened my restraints. The nurse yanked back the bedcovers, forcing me out of bed. I wore only a thin cotton nightgown and thought the lack of a robe was far more undignified than anything they had subjected me to thus far.
“Here,” the nurse snapped, shoving a thumb tack into my hand. “Just place it on the map. And don’t try anything.”
Still too weak to stand on my own, she braced me with her body and sounded annoyed when I grew confused at all the places on the map. Even if I knew the exact location, I wouldn’t have been able to tell them. My mind was not my own. I glanced at Zalim, the mustached man I now knew as Mr. Anderson, and frantically racked my brain for an answer. Where would be a good place to stash a sari? Ireland? Scotland? I grew nauseated from the lack of food and finally made an educated guess.
I shoved the pin into the northern coast of Ireland and called it a day.
When Zalim stepped forth to examine the area, I could no longer hold back and vomited all over his embroidered leather shoes. Receiving a punch to the gut for this impertinence, I was escorted downstairs and left to sit in the pouring rain. As water cascaded over my head and soaked my nightgown, I thought it was just as well. I opened my mouth and drank.
At least I wouldn’t perish of thirst.
* * *
“She’s lying,” I heard Zalim complain a few days later. I was back in bed, strapped in as usual, and wishing I knew how to kill a man with a butter knife. “That area is completely devoid of landmarks!”
“Who says?” Mr. Anderson chortled, mocking him. “Have you been anywhere beyond Punjab?”
“Do not toy with me, Prescott,” Zalim warned softly. “I will leave you here with your mustache if I do not get what I want.”
“You threaten me?” Mr. Anderson choked. “Might I remind you who found your precious sari? Without me, you’d have nothing!”
“I still have nothing! Look at her!” Zalim’s eyes passed over me with loathing. “We ought to cut our losses. Find the sari and get out.”
“And what about the auction? Do you know how long it took to set that up?”
Zalim shook his head. “You said nothing about this! I want no part of your distasteful—”
Mr. Anderson lost his temper and slugged Zalim. The man slid to the floor, his turban askew. “Listen to me, you self-righteous heathen! You’re the one who dragged me into this with your promises of wealth untold! Think I’m just going to let you walk away?”
“You never said anything about kidnapping and assault! I could go to prison for this!” Zalim stood and straightened his turban. “I am an old man! How many years do you think I have left?”
“Whose fault is that? You wasted all of them thinking the sari was in India. Whatever gave you that idea?”
“My father said the sari had been returned to the family! He said he hid it for safekeeping.”
“And you believed him.” Mr. Anderson glanced my way, sending shivers of fright through me. Of late, he had played the gentleman, seeing to my comfort, and bringing me cups of ginger tea. I drank the tea, hoping he didn’t have an ulterior motive for doing so. “The sari had been in the old man’s keeping since your sister’s death. And considering what kind of man we’re dealing with, I think we should assume the sari has been altered.”
“Altered?” Zalim cried. “How?”
“The jewels, you dimwit! Think he hasn’t discovered your father’s hiding place?”
“Those jewels are mine!”
“Calm yourself, my friend.” I cringed as Mr. Anderson casually strolled over and patted my head. “We will check out this area. If we find nothing, we proceed with the plan.”
“And if we do?”
Mr. Anderson took a lock of my hair between his fingers and rubbed it as if testing a cigar. “Miss Gibson will enjoy our hospitality until a more permanent place of residence can be found.” He leaned down, assailing me with garlic fumes. “You’ll like that, won’t you, my dear?”
Zalim glanced away, disgusted, and left to pack. Mr. Anderson patted my cheek, telling me to behave myself, then he, too, left. Unable to wipe the feel of him from my cheek, I gazed down at my empty tray and wept.
* * *
The day before the men were to leave, I was subjected to a cold sponge bath that left me shivering and devoid of privacy. I was forced to sit up in bed with every part of my body exposed. Mr. Anderson entered without knocking and watched as the nurse wiped me down with a dirty sponge, his eyes feasting greedily on flesh shrunken from lack of food. He even stayed when the nurse tugged a scratchy woolen nightgown over my head. He did not apologize for his behavior.
When he left, I had never been so relieved.
My slumber was fitful, often full of images of a dark-haired girl who pleaded for someone to help her. Her name was lost in the morphine mists of my mind. But she reminded me of Zalim, especially around the eyes, and I wondered if they could be related. He was obsessed with getting his hands on the sari, which was to be auctioned off to the highest bidder. They were in a mad rush to locate it and bring it back to London.
Mr. Anderson was just as obsessed, perhaps even more so considering how many questions he lobbed at me during the day. I would shake my head sadly, unable to answer or point at a list of items he had written in a notebook. He expressed understanding at first.
Then, he removed his mask… and the true horror began.
Author's Note: I am scheduled for surgery on the 23rd. I need to rest and will not feel like writing for a while as I recover. So, I'm going to leave the story here... for now.
