This is really the story of a vacation I took in the South Seas, or mostly the story of my South-Sea vacation. Susan would say that it's ostensibly about my vacation. Don't worry if you don't know what "ostensibly" means... it will all become clear once I get underway.

Today is Wednesday. It's two days after Christmas. It's a week and a half since I was kidnapped and escaped.

Now I'm prisoner again, this time in my own house.

Don't worry, though — I won't be a prisoner for long. I'm going to get away pretty quickly. I've just got to tell you a couple of things... a couple of unpleasant things... that happened before my vacation started. You need to hear about them, or you won't understand what came after.

I've already told the story of my kidnapping; I'm not going to tell it again. This time I have a much stranger story — or maybe a couple of stories — to tell. They're all clumped together and connected, and it's very confusing. I'm pretty sure that it all makes sense in the end, but you have to know the whole story first...

Keep in mind that while I'm telling this story — or these stories — to you, I'm also trying to get the facts straight in my own head, and get it all written down before I forget any of the details.

This is really the story of a vacation I took in the South Seas, or mostly the story of my South-Sea vacation. Susan would say that it's ostensibly about my vacation.

Don't worry if you don't know what "ostensibly" means... it will all become clear once I get underway.

Unfortunately, before I can take off on my vacation, and tell you how and why I got to sail on the other side of the earth, I have to tell you about the mess here at home.

Let's start with Christmas.

Christmas was great. Christmas was mess-free. Christmas had snow, presents, unexpected happy surprises... It was peaceful and wonderful. My family and I finally felt settled and at home in our new house here in Flickerbridge, New Jersey. I was still more than a little freaked by what happened to me, but I was coping. I had help, professional help, help from friends like Susan (and even Maisie), and Mom and Dad were great.

The world and I were returning to normal. It was Christmas, after all! Full of hope and joy, turkey and mistletoe, glad tidings and jingle bells. Love, love, love. Peace on earth, goodwill to men.

At least, that was how it was until the day after Christmas. On that day, Christmas was officially over, and whatever it is that keeps the world sane and safe, broke down and fell to pieces. All the shattered pieces came and landed on my lawn.

My house was under siege.

I couldn't even peek out the window. Not even a tiny, tiny bit. Not even half an eyeball. If I did, lights would snap on and cameras would swivel, straining to catch any glimpse of me, even if it was just my eye or part of my cheek.

All the curtains were drawn, and all the gaps where the curtains met were covered with black plastic sheets. Well, okay, they're really garbage bags that Dad taped to the glass. The point is, no one could look in and no one could look out. A little sun seeped in at the edges, but we had a light on in every room. We didn't dare go out... well, Dad went out this morning: he had to go to work. I wanted to watch as he braved the crowd of reporters and cameramen, but there was no place that I could. He called later to say that it wasn't too bad; they didn't jostle him or block his car or anything like that. It was just a barrage of shouts, questions, flashbulbs, and bright lights.

We even had to unplug the phone. Luckily, during the first wave of reporters, Dad had picked up three throwaway cell phones, and that's what we used. Back then, during the first wave, we hadn't needed them, but we sure needed them now.

See, what happened is that when I escaped from the kidnappers, reporters came. They swarmed for three days, then left. That was the first wave. It was a little alarming, but thankfully brief, and I thought (with some relief) that my time in the media spotlight was over.

Once the reporters left, giving no indication that they'd ever be back, we had a quiet, peaceful Christmas. I was looking forward to the week ahead; I didn't have to go back to school until January 8, and I really needed that time to recover. My nerves were shot, and I'm only thirteen years old! I had some extra sessions scheduled with Mr. Angle, my therapist, and for once I was looking forward to seeing him.
 

In case you're wondering why the reporters came back and why there were so many more of them the second time — well, I had the same question, and I was going to ask Ms. Gifford when I saw her. Grace Gifford is the District Attorney, and I had an appointment with her that morning at ten.
 

Okay: deep breath! Let me get my bearings before we go on. I'm trying to get to the vacation as quick as I can... so what's still in the way? (1) I have to tell you what Ms. Gifford said, (2) I have to tell you about the secret passage, and (3) you need to know about the horrible dinner that Ida cooked.

Once I cover those three things, we'll be good to go — ready for the plane; ready to leave Flickerbridge far behind.

SO...
 

Mom was holding together pretty well. Not great, but she hadn't quite flipped all the way out. It seemed like all her tension and nervousness went into her hair. She looked half-crazed, but she behaved quite calmly.

However, she told Ms. Gifford, in a voice verging on hysteria, that there was NO WAY she could drive through the pack of reporters at our house and then through the second pack at the courthouse. She couldn't, and she wouldn't.

How could you blame her? Could you imagine my mother behind the wheel, me next to her, and nothing outside the car windows but a mass of shouting bodies? How would she know if she'd hit one of the them, or run over three or four?

Apparently Ms. Gifford couldn't blame Mom, either. She told her that a police car would pick us up and take us home.

Getting out of the house wasn't too hard. Two tall policemen flanked us, and warned us to keep our eyes straight ahead. "Don't listen to anything they say," one of them cautioned. "Tune them out. Just look straight ahead and concentrate on getting into the car."

The police cruiser brought us through a back entrance to the courthouse, so we bypassed the media circus on the front steps. As we waited for the elevator, Mom kept looking over her shoulder nervously. I just watched the floor indicator, with one hand on my stomach as the elevator inched nearer.

When at last we arrived in Ms. Gifford's office, she was at the window, peeking through the curtains.

"I've never seen so many reporters in my entire life!" she exclaimed, by way of greeting. "They're like a flock of sheep out there! Did you manage to get through okay?"

I shrugged. Mom just sighed.

We all sat down. Ms. Gifford clasped her hands on top of her desk and grinned at me. "Don't worry," she said. "It won't last forever. Just think: for celebrities, it's like this every single day."

"Yikes!" I commented. "That must be awful."

She froze for a minute and looked at me.

In that moment I understood: she was lapping it up. She loved the attention. Dad told me later that it was probably good for her career.

For me, it was a very different matter, and for Mom, it was just plain hell.

Ms. Gifford straighted her posture and got very business-like. "Marcie, let's talk about what's going to happen today. We're going to take your deposition. All that means is that you answer questions about what happened to you. I'll ask some questions and the defense will ask some questions. All that's expected of you is that you tell the truth."

"Fine," I said.

"This is important, so don't let yourself be rushed or get flustered. If you need to pause and collect yourself, do it. Remember: you'll be under oath, and your testimony today will be used during the trial."

"What?" I said. "I don't understand. Isn't this the trial? Isn't the trial today? I thought the indictment was the start of the trial."

She smiled. "No, Marcie. The indictment is the presentation of the charges. The trial probably won't happen until the summer. Right now we have to build the case and prepare for trial. The defense and I have a lot to do before then. It's even possible that we won't go to trial. They could agree to a deal, or plead out..." She stopped and took a breath.

"Okay, I get it," I told her.

We talked a bit more, and then went to a small meeting room, where we did the deposition. It took a long time. We broke for lunch and went back to it, and it wasn't until three in the afternoon that everyone agreed we were finished.

We went back to Ms. Gifford's office, and she asked her assistant to call for our ride home.

"Now, Marcie," she said, "your mother tells me that you don't have school next week. I hope I'm not out of line suggesting this, but if you have a relative in another state — a grandparent, an aunt or uncle, a close friend — anyone you could stay with, NOW is a good time to go. And by 'now' I mean today or tomorrow. Go away if you can. Get away, as far from Flickerbridge as you can go.

"You still have to get over what happened to you, and that's going to be hard with reporters dogging your footsteps. You should take off somewhere, go someplace, while you still can. Once the trial starts, you won't be able to leave town, so... in the meantime, you ought to jump at any chance to travel that you can find. Go somewhere that you can relax, and not look over your shoulder.

"A lot of the reporters are just here for the arraignment, so the crowd will thin in two or three days, but they won't all go, and once the trial starts, they'll all come back. Unless, of course, another big story knocks us out of the spotlight. But I doubt that's going to happen. So, Marcie, you and your mother better get used to it: you're going to be in the news for a long time to come."

"Why?" I asked. "Why is this such a big story? Doesn't this sort of thing happen all the time?"

Ms. Gifford's face went white for a moment. "All the time?" she repeated. "No, thank God! It doesn't happen all the time! Good lord!

"Marcie, this is a *very* unusual case. To start off with, a kidnapping is always shocking news. Kidnapping a minor is even worse. Thankfully, you got off without a scratch, but because you did, everybody wants to see and hear the brave girl and find out how she got through her ordeal. Understand? Already, just with that, you have a story.

"Then you get a twist: the real target was another girl, who happens to be your best friend. Add to that, the fact that this girl is an heiress, a skinny, blonde, thirteen-year-old with a trust fund. A future Paris Hilton? Now, it's even more of a story.

"Add to that, the fact that the kidnapper is Robert Strange, a police officer with more than 20 years of service.

"Add to that, the fact that Officer Strange is the brother of Mary Beth Strange, also known as Sister Honoraria, a person of high standing in our community, AND the principal of the high school that both girls attend."

Mary Beth Strange? I silently echoed. *That's* her real name?

"Then, add to everything I've said so far," she continued, making a motion with her hands as if she was gathering all those facts into a huge pile on top of her desk, "the fact that the girl who was kidnapped is a sort of teenage action heroette, who recently foiled a bank robbery — in which, incidentally, Officer Strange was also involved!

"If all of that wasn't enough, just consider the fact that you escaped your kidnappers by shooting your captor with his own gun — a man nearly twice your size — after which you locked *him* in the cell where he kept *you* prisoner, and then called 911, just as cool as you please!"

"I wasn't so cool," I said, cringing, and my face going pale. "I was scared to death." As I spoke, I had a vivid flash of myself, emerging from the cabin, filthy, trembling from the cold, teeth chattering, my hands barely working, and my knees knocking so hard that I could barely stand.

"It doesn't sound that way on the 911 tapes. You told the operator what to do; she didn't tell you."

Ms. Gifford took a deep breath. "Of course, there's more. Much, much more."

My eyes bugged. More? More about me?

Ms. Gifford paused and looked Mom and me in the face. "I'm not sure when this is going to become public knowledge... probably in a day or two, but neither of you should disclose it or make any comment on it. Understand? This is strictly in confidence.

"It turns out that Officer Strange has been abusing his power ever since he joined the force. Extortion, bribes, connections to organized crime... money laundering... even gun-running! Can you believe that? Gun-running in Flickerbridge!? It's like a dozen episodes of Law And Order rolled into one, in our quiet little New Jersey town! I've had to hire temporary staffers to keep up with all the paperwork!

"Once it became clear that this bad boy is definitely going to jail, people began to come forward. They're not afraid of reprisals any more, or they're emboldened by your example, or both, but in any case not a day goes by without some one, two, or three people coming forward to lodge a new complaint against that man.

"So," she concluded, "This is a story with legs. This is a story that seems to have no end. The more they look at the crook, the more bad things... shocking things... criminal things, they find. The more they look at you, the more amazing and heroic things they find. You were a busy girl back in California, too, apparently. Surprisingly, and most apropos, you aided in the capture of two kidnappers, one of them a wanted criminal."

She blew out the rest of her breath, and leaned back in her chair. "Don't be surprised if someone wants to make a movie about all this. Lifetime-television-for-women, most likely."

"What?" I said, going white again.

She looked at me in surprise. "Wouldn't you like that? Hell, I know *I* would! I'd have thought that any teenage girl would love to have a movie made about her!"

"Uh, not me," I stuttered.

"Really? You've never thought about which actress could play you? I have! I'm thinking Rose McGowan... for me, I mean — you know, Paige from Charmed? A lot of people tell me there's a resemblance."

"Um..."

"Just imagine, maybe your favorite actress could play you. Up on the big screen, or on TV! Wouldn't that be the coolest thing?"

"I guess," I said, feeling a bit faint.

"Marcie, are you all right?" she asked, concern in her voice.

"I don't know," I told her. "I'm seriously thinking about passing out."

© 2008 by Kaleigh Way

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