The routine for the next few weeks was the same. The communication from his captors was minimal. He was allowed to communicate by writing to Chantrel once a day, and he usually received a note back from her the following day. They worked on her presentation, honing it to make it the most effective it could be. At Xavier’s suggestion, they added a picture of Keisha from the previous school year in addition to the picture of Chantrel after Brad had beaten her. He hoped to influence the board in Chantrel’s favor by driving home the point that the safety of a child, as well as her sole caregiver, was at stake. Xavier also encouraged Chantrel to write down her presentation and gave her pointers on remembering certain key points. When she ran through the whole performance during their video call on August 2nd, he was feeling good about their chances to win the appeal.
All in all, his captivity hadn’t been physically harsh. He received three meals a day, plenty of water, and the bed was comfortable enough. But it was emotional torture knowing that, if he failed in his task, his daughter could lose her life. He spent the first few days plotting escape, but he could find no weakness in the windowless cell he’d been sequestered in, no matter how desperate he was.
The days were maddeningly boring. He’d asked for some reading material or to listen to the radio, even, but his captors didn’t oblige. He’d always felt pity for characters in movies or books whenever they marked the days by scratching marks on the wall to record the number of days they had been in captivity, but now he was doing the same thing, using a pencil to etch another line recording the passing of each new day. He made sure to do so in a location where he was certain the camera couldn’t see, just to spite his captors.
The worst part of the whole ordeal—besides the fear for his daughter’s safety—was being deprived of virtually all stimulus except for what was in his room. He never realized how important it was to a person’s mental health to hear someone else’s voice, or see a bird land on a branch in a tree and sing its song. He’d started talking to himself, playing psycho-analyst to his current situation, debating whether he had been a good father, wondering when his colleagues would realize he wasn’t, in fact, on an extended vacation somewhere. Surely they had to have called the police by now. Surely.
He’d grown a beard. It itched like crazy sometimes, but his abductors wouldn’t provide a razor. They had given him water, a bowl, and soap so he could bathe, and had even supplied a toothbrush and toothpaste. He had taken to working out three times a day to combat the sheer boredom. The workouts, combined with the considerably lower caloric content of his current diet, were beginning to have a positive effect. His abdominal muscles hadn’t been this defined since he was in college.
He’d continued to add notes on the legal pad about any details he remembered from the night he was abducted, which wasn’t much. He vaguely recalled being helped into a car, and then two voices, but he couldn’t remember what they said, or even if they were men or women. He was beginning to think he might never recall anything else.
He was in the middle of a set of twenty-five sit-ups when a picture flashed onto the video screen. It was Chantrel. She had a gash on her forehead and a busted lip. Xavier stopped and stared at the screen, concerned.
“We’ve had a set-back, Senator,” the familiar voice said. “It seems Chantrel’s ex-boyfriend isn’t sitting idly by while we wait for the appeals board meeting. Yesterday, on her way home from work, Brad pushed her down an embankment. She sprained her ankle and sustained other minor injuries.”
“Can’t this guy be arrested now?” Xavier asked.
“He’s a smart guy. He made sure there were no witnesses. The police are questioning him now, but he’ll likely be let go by the end of the day.”
The voice paused briefly, before continuing.
“I’m not convinced you have sufficient empathy for Chantrel’s situation, Senator, so I’m going to help you. Anything that happens to Chantrel or her daughter between now and the appeal will also happen to your daughter.”
Xavier felt the blood drain from his face.
“Please… my daughter didn’t do anything to you. It’s me you should punish if you want to punish someone, not her!”
“Exactly…” the voice responded. A video began playing on the screen. It was black and white, but the quality was good enough for the Senator to see his daughter, jogging in a park. Suddenly, a man jumped out from behind a tree and grabbed Cam, pushing her to the ground. She tried to get up, but he slapped her across the face, and she fell back to the ground. Then the assailant kicked her in the stomach once before running away. Xavier watched in horror as his daughter writhed on the ground, moaning in pain.
“Stop it! Just stop it!” the Senator yelled. He wanted to curse them out, to reach through the camera somehow and pull his captors into the room, throttling them with his bare hands for hurting his daughter like that. If he could only get in his car and drive as fast as possible to his daughter and see if she was okay. But he couldn’t do any of that. He’d never felt so powerless and angry in his entire life. He balled his hands into fists and gritted his teeth, aware that any additional outburst may make it worse for Cam.
On the screen, his daughter finally rose to a seated position. He could just make out the pained expression on her face. At least she’s moving. At least she’s still alive.
“Now I feel you have a better understanding of how important it is for Chantrel to be able to protect herself from a man like Brad. Have a good day, Senator.”
The screen went black.
The day of the hearing came and went. Xavier had waited until after lunch before he had started asking the camera in the corner about how it went. He got no response. By mid-afternoon, he was reduced to pounding on the door and yelling his questions out. By late evening he could think of nothing more to do but wait.
The food and water continued to arrive on schedule, but no information, no communication whatsoever. Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday – the days dragged on with no word on how the hearing went. Then, on Tuesday, July 30th, along with his lunch, an envelope was delivered. He tore it open and took out the single sheet of paper. As he quickly scanned the form letter, his mouth went dry, and he felt sick as he read the words “application denied” and “final decision of the appeals board.”
How can that be?
There were just over two weeks until the deadline. After that…. He couldn’t bear to focus on what would happen then, what it would mean to his daughter. He went over to the table and began writing furiously. When he was done, he folded up the papers and put them in the mail slot. He hoped his plan would work. It simply had to.