4
Snatched
by Elisabeth Hewitt Bantz
"He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty."
Psalm 91:1
FOREWORD
Illinois, somewhere on Route 34, 10:31 a.m.
I let my guard down. Why did I give in? I should never have let Jamie go Christmas shopping with my parents today. They've never believed my daughter was in any real danger. Now she's been taken---right from under their noses---and I'm on my way to the mall to find out how it happened. What was I thinking?
"Ben, can't you drive a little faster?"
The look he gave me was inscrutable. He continued at the same speed, right behind his brother Adam's car. He was driving me in my car since I was too shakey to be behind the wheel.
I had planned on taking Jamie with me to the Christianson's today, a spur of the moment decision I had made earlier this morning on the phone with my newest co-author.
"Oh, Kinzey, what perfect timing," Melissa Christianson had said when I had called to tell her I'd just approved the final page-proofs of her story. "There are some people at my house I want you to meet---you know, the prospect for the sequel I told you about," she said. "You've got to come out right away and help me celebrate. And bring Jamie."
The idea of pursuing a fourth book in the series certainly sounded like a good idea, but I was torn. Should I go to Melissa's and see if I could eke out one more story, or go to the Fox Valley Mall with my folks to protect Jamie from my husband?
True, Jim hadn't bothered us since his second attempt at stealing Jamie from daycare last spring, but that didn't mean he had given up. Restraining orders mean nothing to him. But if he has taken her, surely he wouldn't harm her, would he?
The scene where he broke her arm and shattered my jaw came to mind, and I already knew the answer. "Oh, God, help us!"
Our relationship had never been the best even from the start, but I thought I could help bring him out of his depression after his discharge from the Gulf war. Nothing had helped. And when I'd started becoming a successful author, his behavior had became even more bizarre.
I wish I had recognized that man's obsessiveness before I married him, although he's such a great actor, I doubt he'd have let me see his darker side.
"May I join you?" this good-looking stranger asked me. I was so engrossed in reading my orientation syllabus on a bench outside Eckhart Hall, I missed my usual retort, "I didn't know I was falling apart." Instead, I said, "sure," noting his neatly combed dark hair. His dimples. His boyish charm. Except he was definitely not a boy. Too old to be a Freshman. Was he a grad student?
"I just came over to say that you're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen, and to ask you to be my wife," he said as he sat down beside me.
I laughed. This guy was a joker. "But sir, I don't even know your name." I fluttered my eyes coyly.
"James Thaddeus White. Senior." He held out his hand, but I didn't take it. Undaunted, he continued: "Senior, as in fourth-year student, not that I have a son named after me. Yet."
"What's your major?" I asked.
A frown momentarily crossed his face, then disappeared in a quick grin. "You didn't answer my question. You first."
"What did you ask me?"
"I asked if you'd do me the honor of becoming my wife. You see, we're destined to marry because you're sitting on the proposal bench."
"What are you talking about?"
"This stone bench. Tradition has it that when a single girl sits here, she meets the man she's destined to marry. So when shall we set the date?"
I laughed again at his audacity "You don't even know if I'm single. Or my name. Or where I live. You know nothing about me."
"That's not true. I know---" He stopped and counted on his fingers. "---five things about you. You're not engaged or married. You're a Freshman. You live here in Aurora. You're interested in English-Lit. And you're going to marry me."
I glanced down at my hands, ring-free except for my class ring from West High. "How do you know I'm a Freshman?"
"Your orientation folder."
"Okay, but how do you know I live in town?"
"I saw you get off the bus this morning."
I smiled, flattered that he'd noticed me. "I live over on Downer Place." Now why did I blurt that out?
"In one of those big mansions?"
"In a small, old, stone house near downtown. It used to be my uncle's. And I suppose you concluded from my stack of books I am interested in English and literature. But they could just be required subjects, not my main interest."
"They are required subjects," he agreed, "but I just have this feeling that you have more than a passing interest in that field."
"This is ridiculous. I'm leaving." It was too spooky. His deductions were right on.
"Wait. What's your name?"
I left without telling him. But the next time I passed him in-between classes, he said, "Hello Kinzey Rae Brown. Kinzey White will sound so much nicer, don't you think? Shall we set the date now or wait until your folks meet me and give their blessing?"
"Listen, Mr. White---"
"Jim. Call me Jim. My mommy calls me Jimmy, but I prefer Jim."
Looking back, I should have picked up on a few clues, like his tenacity, his total absorption in getting what he wanted, and his reference to his mommy. All possible character flaws. But at the time I was flattered by his attention.
After a few months of nonstop pursuit, Jim disappeared.
Three weeks later I received a letter from a USMC training base. "I've joined Desert Storm to fight Saddamn Hussein. The Bush man needs me to help whip them Iraqis out of Kuwait, but wait for me, darling. I'll be home as soon as I can." (I didn't find out until too late that the reason for his sudden patriotism was that the university had asked him to leave due to failing grades; he had been on probation. And he had only been an occasional student, not a senior. Plus, he had just been fired from his last job.)
We corresponded sporadically during his tour of duty.
Jim seemed different after his discharge. Quieter. More vulnerable. I felt less like "a feather in his cap, and more like "a coat to keep him warm." He seemed to need me, not just want me. It brought out the mothering instinct in me, I guess. We were married on Christmas eve in the middle of my senior year.
I didn't see the signs of trouble until after Jamie Rae was born about a year and a half later. Oh, they were there; I just didn't see them. Jealous rages became more frequent and more violent. When I returned to work instead of staying home and having another baby---preferably a son this time---he began demanding a complete accounting of my whereabouts at all times. He changed jobs often. (I'd find out later that he'd been fired. Again.) Nothing and no one could satisfy him.
The decider came the night Jim broke Jamie's arm when she tried to run away from him, and he broke my jaw for trying to defend her. The judge put a restraining order on him, and I moved back home with my parents. Not the best situation. Entirely too lenient, they were.
Eventually I found an apartment closer to my office, and took Jamie to a friend's house each day. (She runs a small day-care center.) Jamie blossomed away from the two extremes.
Now Jim's taken her. I'm sure of it
I don't care if I ever write another book. I just want my daughter back. And Jim out of my life.
I wish I could pray like Aunt Ruth prays. But even if I could, would God answer such a selfish prayer?
