He says softly, “But they don’t have a father who’s a professor of neurology at a well-known research institute.”
I still. “So this is not a...personal issue you have with my father?”
“No.”
“It’s about his work?”
“Yes.”
“So why have you kidnappedme?”
“Your father experiments on animals,” he says slowly, as if I’m a simpleton. “We want him to stop. You’re the means to make him stop.”
“We?”
“Yes,we.”
I assumed all this time I was dealing with only one man. “Are you part of some kind of group?”
“Yes.”
“What group?”
“An animal rights group. That’s all you need to know.”
“So you’re not asking for a ransom?”
“No.”
“You just want my father to stop the work he’s doing?”
“No, I want him to continue with his work. I just don’t want him using animals.”
My mouth drops open in astonishment. “So I’m being held against my will in this...this hovel of a room, without a change of clothes, without any privacy, all because of a few”—I manage to swallow the worddumbbefore it escapes my lips—“animals?”
His lips thin. “You catch on quickly.”
I ignore the sarcasm. “What if my father refuses your demand?”
“Then you get to experience the hell those animals are living in your father’s lab.”
10
AMY
––––––––
I’m still reeling, trying to take in my kidnapper’s words. Agrouphas kidnapped me, not just one man who would be easier to manipulate. Now I have to contend with who knows how many of these animal rights people. Not that I know anything about animal rights. The only rights I’ve ever fought for have been my own—the right to date older boys and the right to spend my allowance as I saw fit. My only opponent was my father and he didn’t put up much of a fight.
I recall an incident mentioned at some or other charity luncheon I yawned my way through. One of the ladies there revealed she had her mink coat spray-painted by a lunatic woman she dubbed a bunny-hugger. Everyone at the table laughed at the description, including myself. But I’m not laughing now.
The man sitting in front of me doesn’t look the type to cuddle bunnies. As I study the implacable line of his mouth and the cynicalglint in his eyes, he seems the type who won’t compromise on a cause. All his words and actions so far point to a fanatic. Although I have no insight into the psychology of a zealot, I know they are capable of awful things, prepared to go to jail or even die for their cause. That adds a far more frightening dimension to this situation.
Before either of us can say anything further, the door opens. A woman wearing a scrap of a sundress enters the room, closing the door behind her. She’s tanned and shapely, but I can’t tell if she’s beautiful because a black ski mask covers her head. A ski mask that looks incongruous with her summery outfit.
She’s carrying a tray of food and the smell causes my stomach to growl. I realize I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday afternoon and I’m suddenly starving. The tray is deposited with a carelessthunkon the bedside table.
“Lunch,” the woman announces in a husky voice, her hostility pervading the room like black smoke, swirling over everything.
