★ 03/09/2015
In Kirk’s harrowing first novel, a kidnap victim—16 years old and pregnant—meticulously plots her escape. Although locked in a sparsely furnished third-floor room of what she believes to be a white farmhouse, the nameless narrator is confident that she can turn the tables on her male captor (“I had the wits to beat this horrible, disgusting thing”). Her visitors include a doctor and a couple she calls Mr. and Mrs. Obvious, who intend to take her baby. Fueled by a desire for revenge, she carefully catalogues every possible asset that she might use: a loose floorboard is #4, a pencil sharpener is #15, and so on. Meanwhile, FBI special agent Roger Liu investigates the abduction case of Dorothy M. Salucci, another in a series of missing pregnant teens, and he tracks a slim lead to rural Indiana. Back at the farmhouse, the narrator sets out to rescue herself, and with great cunning and patience she carries out the plan she calls 15/33. Her willpower and ingenuity prove more than a match for the callous brutality of those who wish her ill as this exciting tale builds to a surprising climax. Agent: Kimberley Cameron, Kimberley Cameron & Associates. (May)
Imagine a helpless, pregnant 16-year-old who's just been yanked from the serenity of her home and shoved into a dirty van. Kidnapped...Alone...Terrified.
Now forget her...
Picture instead a pregnant, 16-year-old, manipulative prodigy. She is shoved into a dirty van and, from the first moment of her kidnapping, feels a calm desire for two things: to save her unborn son and to exact merciless revenge.
She is methodical¯calculating¯ scientific in her plotting. A clinical sociopath? Leaving nothing to chance, secure in her timing and practice, she waits¯for the perfect moment to strike. Method 15/33 is what happens when the victim is just as cold as the captors.
The agents trying to find a kidnapped girl have their own frustrations and desires wrapped into this chilling drama.* In the twists of intersecting stories, one is left to ponder. Who is the victim? Who is the aggressor?
Imagine a helpless, pregnant 16-year-old who's just been yanked from the serenity of her home and shoved into a dirty van. Kidnapped...Alone...Terrified.
Now forget her...
Picture instead a pregnant, 16-year-old, manipulative prodigy. She is shoved into a dirty van and, from the first moment of her kidnapping, feels a calm desire for two things: to save her unborn son and to exact merciless revenge.
She is methodical¯calculating¯ scientific in her plotting. A clinical sociopath? Leaving nothing to chance, secure in her timing and practice, she waits¯for the perfect moment to strike. Method 15/33 is what happens when the victim is just as cold as the captors.
The agents trying to find a kidnapped girl have their own frustrations and desires wrapped into this chilling drama.* In the twists of intersecting stories, one is left to ponder. Who is the victim? Who is the aggressor?
Method 15/33
Narrated by Greg Watanabe, Allyson Ryan
Shannon KirkUnabridged — 9 hours, 33 minutes
Method 15/33
Narrated by Greg Watanabe, Allyson Ryan
Shannon KirkUnabridged — 9 hours, 33 minutes
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Overview
Imagine a helpless, pregnant 16-year-old who's just been yanked from the serenity of her home and shoved into a dirty van. Kidnapped...Alone...Terrified.
Now forget her...
Picture instead a pregnant, 16-year-old, manipulative prodigy. She is shoved into a dirty van and, from the first moment of her kidnapping, feels a calm desire for two things: to save her unborn son and to exact merciless revenge.
She is methodical¯calculating¯ scientific in her plotting. A clinical sociopath? Leaving nothing to chance, secure in her timing and practice, she waits¯for the perfect moment to strike. Method 15/33 is what happens when the victim is just as cold as the captors.
The agents trying to find a kidnapped girl have their own frustrations and desires wrapped into this chilling drama.* In the twists of intersecting stories, one is left to ponder. Who is the victim? Who is the aggressor?
Editorial Reviews
"Completely original and totally kick ass! Shannon Kirk pulls no punches in this adrenaline rush of a thriller where the victim is the one to watch, while the kidnappers learn to fear. Loved it!” —Lisa Gardner, New York Times, best-selling author “Method 15/33 is crowded with fascinating characters but the standout is the kidnapped pregnant teenager. Her captors want her baby. Little do they know they've brought an insanely brilliant, angry, vengeful, borderline sociopath under their roof.” —F. Paul Wilson, New York Times best-selling author * “In Kirk’s harrowing first novel, a kidnap victim—16 years old and pregnant—meticulously plots her escape . . . This exciting tale builds to a surprising climax.” —Publishers Weekly (Starred Review) * “Nietzsche warned us to beware of people with a strong desire to punish. That thought lingers after putting down this dark, disturbing, damnably readable novel . . . a worthy challenge, a joy to discuss . . .” —Booklist (Starred Review) * “Give this to teens who read Stephen King and other psychological thrillers, especially those with a penchant for dark and violent suspense.” —School Library Journal (Starred Review) “Shannon Kirk’s riveting debut novel, Method 15/33, features kidnapped pregnant teen Lisa Yyland. Readers will see parallels between Lisa and Lisbeth Salander from The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, both victims who refuse to be victimized . . . Welcome a thrilling new voice in crime fiction.” —The Boston Globe “Wow. Ridiculously good. Crazy good. Brilliantly heart-stoppingly nail-bitingly original, this is a true thriller tour de force. Shannon Kirk is an instant star.” —Hank Philippi Ryan, Anthony, Agatha, and Mary Higgins Clark Award-winning author “What happens when infant traffickers kidnap the wrong pregnant teen? You get Method 15/33, a cross between The Lovely Bones and Silence of the Lambs. Shannon’s debut thriller is a dark, literate page-turner, utterly compelling.” —Leonard Rosen, award-winning author “Kidnapped, close to death, and about to give birth, this thriller’s brilliant and slightly sociopathic protagonist is determined not only to save herself and her baby, but also to exact a horrible revenge on her captors. A gripping, unsettling work with a young woman who is unrelenting in her single-minded pursuit of her mission.” —Best Adult Books 4 Teens, School Library Journal “Method 15/33 takes us to some very dark places, and at times, we can’t help but wonder whose soul is the darker—the captor’s or the captive’s . . .” —Mystery Scene “Shannon Kirk’s brilliant Method 15/33 . . . delivers, big-time . . . Kirk’s choice of protagonist for this crime thriller is utter gold . . . Method 15/33 is a solid winner.” —Foreword Reviews
"Nietzsche warned us to beware of people with a strong desire to punish. That thought lingers after putting down this dark, disturbing, damnably readable novel...a worthy challenge, a joy to discuss, and a great pairing with John Katzenback's equally rivetingWhat Comes Next(2012)."
"Nietzsche warned us to beware of people with a strong desire to punish. That thought lingers after putting down this dark, disturbing, damnably readable novel...a worthy challenge, a joy to discuss, and a great pairing with John Katzenback's equally rivetingWhat Comes Next(2012)."
“Completely original and totally kick ass! Shannon Kirk pulls no punches in this adrenaline rush of a thriller where the victim is the one to watch, while the kidnappers learn to fear. Loved it!“
"Method 15/33is crowded with fascinating characters -- even the spear carriers pop off the page -- but the standout is the kidnapped pregnant teenager. Her captors want her baby. Little do they know they've brought an insanely brilliant, angry, vengeful, borderline sociopath under their roof. Somebody's in big trouble... and it isn't the teenager."
"MONSTER TWIST"
— Glamour UK
"Shannon Kirk’sbrilliantMethod 15/33...delivers, big-time...Kirk’s choice of [this] protagonist for this crime thriller isutter gold. This novel presents a situation...that could have been another girl-in-trouble novel in the hands of a less skilled writer, but never goes there...Written in first-person point of view,Method 15/33is intense, character-driven, thoughtful, andemotionally satisfying...There’s also room at the novel’s end for more forays into Lisa’s post-kidnapping world. Should Kirk decide to do a follow-up novel, or even start a short series, such a move would be a welcome event.Method 15/33is asolid winner." —Forword Reviews [Full review here:https://www.forewordreviews.com/reviews/method-15-33/]
"Pregnancy is a driving force in this month’s crime fiction. Shannon Kirk’s riveting debut novel,“Method 15/33,”features kidnapped pregnant teen Lisa Yyland. Inwardly she scorns and ridicules her captor, all the while pretending to be terrified and cowed into submission. Her greatest assets are intangibles: a steel-trap memory and an ability to literally switch her emotions on and off. Readers will see parallels between Lisa and Lisbeth Salander from “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo,” both victims who refuse to be victimized.
The story gathers steam as it goes along, and the reader soon becomes attached to quirky Lisa. So it’s nice to know early on that she’ll survive her ordeal (she narrates the story from 17 years in the future). The question is how, and watching the answer unfold is like watching a wondrously complicated, well-oiled Rube Goldberg contraption in action. Welcome a thrilling new voice in crime fiction."
"Method 15/33takes us to some very dark places, and at times, we can’t help but wonder whose soul is the darker—the captor’s or the captive’s. But stick around. In the book’s last chapter, the darkness lifts and a light illuminates everything, both past and present. Then you’ll reread the book to see what else you got wrong.”
"Method 15/33 is one of the year's best thrillers."
"If you read thrillers, run and get your hands on a copy ofMethod 15/33by Shannon Kirk. I did think twice about reading this one. Was I really in the mood for another abduction story? In this case, a pregnant sixteen year old is pulled into an old van and driven for days....and that's where it stops being like anything else I've read. The book opens with the girl alone in a locked room, carefully listing every asset and assigning it a number. She is determined to keep her baby safe, to escape, and to exact her revenge. I read straight through, turning pages to find out just who this girl was and what was going to happen to her. And was surprised when I thought the story was coming to an end and realized that I still had half of the book to go."
"Tense, suspenseful, a kidnapped, pregnant 17 year old with a mind like a proverbial steel trap planning revenge as she remains a prisoner of her kidnappers – this has it all.
Be ready to read late into the night, so grab some food, hit the bathroom, turn off your phone, and settle down in a comfy place that a read that will linger with you for its sheer power."
"What a great read!
An incredible first novel with a heroine reminding me very much of Alan Bradley's Flavia de Luce, not just in her manipulative and dispassionate outlook and scientific precision but also in her surprisingly mature thought processes and her ability - in this case, genetic - to restrict her emotional reactions."
"Why don't we use the word "rip-roaring" anymore? Because this was one rip-roaring thriller and I adored it....not that it's the Great American Novel, but because I couldn't put it down.
Thriller fan? Pick this one up when it's published. You definitely won't regret it."
"To summarize: this is just superb. One of the best thrillers I have read in years. It’s fresh. The writing totally encapsulates you from the very beginning to the very end. It will sicken you. It will keep you on the edge of your seat. You will read with one eye closed and you will find some of it harrowing. You will be amazed at the strength of the characters and how they think of things you would never think of. This proves to me the imagination Shannon Kirk has and believe me, we will be hearing a lot more from this lady in the future.
The highest possible recommendation and 5 stars."
Method 15/33by Shannon Kirk has an extraordinary plot as well as an extraordinary character in Lisa Yyland, although we do not know her name until way into thiscrazy goodbook...Her thoughts, as she explains what she hopes to do, will bewilder you at the same time that you realize you're pulling for her. Make sure you have some extra time as you start this unusual and suspenseful novel. It is darn hard to put down. The only thing I wish is that I could meet this intelligent young woman but I am sure she wouldn't want to meet me. Good, good book. Don't miss it.”
Wow. Ridiculously good. Crazy good. Brilliantly heart-stoppingly nail-bitingly original, this is a true thriller tour de force. Shannon Kirk is an instant star.”
What happens when infant traffickers kidnap the wrong pregnant teen? You get Method 15/33, a cross between The Lovely Bones and Silence of the Lambs. Shannon Kirk's debut thriller is a dark, literate page turner, utterly compelling. I read it in one sitting.”
"5 Stars...All in all, I really loved this book. This, likeNever Smile at Strangersis one of those books that I'm probably going to keep referencing and mentioning in my other reviews as well. I don't think I could really describe how much I loved this book without spoiling you, so I'll just tell you: READ IT"
“Wow. Ridiculously good. Crazy good. Brilliantly heart-stoppingly nail-bitingly original, this is a true thriller tour de force. Shannon Kirk is an instant star.”
“What happens when infant traffickers kidnap the wrong pregnant teen? You get Method 15/33, a cross between The Lovely Bones and Silence of the Lambs. Shannon Kirk's debut thriller is a dark, literate page turner, utterly compelling. I read it in one sitting.”
“Wow. Ridiculously good. Crazy good. Brilliantly heart-stoppingly nail-bitingly original, this is a true thriller tour de force. Shannon Kirk is an instant star.”
“What happens when infant traffickers kidnap the wrong pregnant teen? You get Method 15/33, a cross between The Lovely Bones and Silence of the Lambs. Shannon Kirk's debut thriller is a dark, literate page turner, utterly compelling. I read it in one sitting.”
★ 02/01/2016
She is taken in a flash, thrown into the back of a van, tied up, and blindfolded. She is 16, pregnant, and in trouble. The room she is taken to is three floors up—a farmhouse, perhaps? The man who kidnapped her comes in at precisely the same time three times a day to give her food. A doctor comes to check on the health of her baby, and once, a couple comes to be assured that their new baby—her baby—will be blue-eyed and healthy. She waits. She collects "assets," such as the handle from the bathroom bucket, a towel, or a blanket. She practices her escape and plans her revenge. Kirk's brilliantly executed novel alternates between the kidnapped girl and Special Agent Roger Liu—the detective assigned to find her. He and his partner slowly and methodically collect clues as they make their way to the remote hideaway. Meanwhile, the kidnapped girl is stuck in the room awaiting her certain death at the hands of the brutal man and his partners. But her brilliance is exceeded only by her ability to plan, calculate, observe, and wait. The abductors never have a chance as she orchestrates a conclusion that will leave readers satisfied and possibly unsettled. Readers wait with her as she ponders the right moment to make a move even as they suspect that it might not work. VERDICT Give this to teens who read Stephen King and other psychological thrillers, especially those with a penchant for dark and violent suspense.—Connie Williams, Petaluma High School, CA
Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940169467000 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Penguin Random House |
| Publication date: | 07/07/2015 |
| Edition description: | Unabridged |
Read an Excerpt
Method 15/33
A Novel
By Shannon Kirk
Oceanview Publishing
Copyright © 2015 Shannon KirkAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-60809-145-4
CHAPTER 1
4-5 DAYS IN CAPTIVITY
I lay there on the fourth day plotting his death. Compiling assets in a list in my mind, I found relief in the planning ... a loose floor board, a red knit blanket, a high window, exposed beams, a keyhole, my condition ...
I remember my thoughts then as though I am reliving them now, as though they are my present thoughts. There he is outside the door again, I think, even though it's been seventeen years. Perhaps those days will forever be my present because I survived so completely in the minutiae of each hour and each second of painstaking strategy. During that indelible time of torment, I was all on my own. And, I must say now, with no lack of pride, my result, my undeniable victory, was no less than a masterpiece.
On Day 4, I was well into a catalog of assets and a rough outline of revenge, all without aid of pen or pencil, solely the mental sketchpad of piecing together potential solutions. A puzzle, I knew, but one I was determined to solve ... a loose floorboard, a red knit blanket, a high window, exposed beams, a keyhole, my condition ... How do they fit together?
Over and over I reconstituted this enigma and searched for more assets. Ah yes, of course, the bucket. And yes, yes, yes, the box spring is new, he did not remove the plastic. Okay, again, go over it again, figure it out. Exposed beams, a bucket, the box spring, the plastic, a high window, a loose floorboard, a red knit blanket, the ...
I assigned numbers to give a dose of science. A loose floorboard (Asset #4), a red knit blanket (Asset #5), plastic ... The collection seemed as complete as possible at the start of Day 4. I would need more, I figured.
The sound of the pine floor rattling outside my jail cell, a bedroom, interrupted me about midday. He's definitely out there. Lunch. The latch moved from left to right, the keyhole turned, and in he burst without the decency of even a pause at the threshold.
As he had at every other meal, he dropped a tray on my bed of now familiar food, a white mug of milk, and a child-sized cup of water. No utensils. The slice of egg and bacon quiche collided with the homemade bread on the plate, a disk of china with a rose-colored toile of a woman with a pot and a feather-hat-wearing man with a dog. I loathed that plate to such an unnatural depth, I shudder to remember. The backside said "Wedgwood" and "Salvator." This will be my fifth meal on this salvation. I hate this plate. I will kill this plate too. The plate, the mug, and the cup looked to be the same ones I had used for breakfast, lunch, and dinner on Day 3 in captivity. The first two days I spent in a van.
"More water?" he asked, in his abrupt, dull and deep, monotone.
"Yes, please."
He started this pattern on Day 3, which, I believe, is what kicked off my plotting in earnest. The question became part of the routine, him bringing my meal and asking if I wanted more water. I decided to say "yes" when he asked and steeled myself to say "yes" each time, although this sequence made no sense. Why not bring a larger cup of water to begin with? Why this inefficiency? He leaves, locks the door, pipes clang in the hall walls, a spit and then a burst of water from the sink, out of eyesight through the keyhole. He's back with a plastic cup of lukewarm water. Why? I can tell you this—many things in this world are unsolved, as is the rationale behind many of my jailer's inexplicable actions.
"Thank you," I said upon his return.
I had decided from Hour 2 of Day 1 that I'd try to feign a schoolgirl politeness, be thankful, for I soon discovered I could outwit my captor, a man in his forties. Must be forty-something, he looks the same age as my dad. I knew I had the wits to beat this horrible, disgusting thing, and I was just Sweet Sixteen.
Lunch on Day 4 tasted like lunch on Day 3. But perhaps the sustenance gave me what I needed because I realized I had many more assets: time, patience, undying hatred, and I noted, as I drank the milk from the thick restaurant mug, the bucket had a metal handle and the handle ends were sharp. I need only remove the handle. It can be a separate asset from the bucket. Also, I was high in the building, not below ground, as I had first anticipated, on Days 1 and 2, I would be. By the crown of the tree outside my window and the three flights of stairs it took to get here, I was most surely on a third floor. I considered height another asset.
Strange, right? I had not yet grown bored by Day 4. Some might think sitting alone in a locked room would cause a mind to give way to dementia or delusion. But I was lucky. My first two days were spent traveling, and by some colossal mistake or severe error in judgment, my captor used a van for his crime and this van had tinted side windows. Sure, no one could see in, but I could see out. I studied and committed our route to the logbook in my mind, details I never actually used, but the work of transcribing and burning the data to eternal memory occupied my thoughts for days.
If you asked me today, seventeen years later, what flowers were growing by the ramp of Exit 33, I'd tell you, wild daisies mixed with a healthy dose of devil's paintbrush. For you I'd paint the sky, a misty blue-gray rolling into a smudged mud. I'd re-enact the sudden action as well, such as the storm that erupted 2.4 minutes after passing the patch of flowers, when the black mass overhead opened in a fit of spring hail. You would see the pea-sized ice-balls, which forced my kidnapper to park under an overpass, say "son-of-a-bitch" three times, smoke one cigarette, flick the spent butt, and begin our trek again, 3.1 minutes after the first hail ball crashed the hood of that criminal van. I morphed forty-eight hours of these transportation details into a movie I replayed every single day of my captivity, studying each minute, each second, each and every frame, for clues and assets and analysis.
The van's side window and how he left me, sitting and able to survey our progress, led to a quick conclusion: the harbinger of my incarceration was a witless monkey on autopilot, a soldier drone. But I was comfortable in an armchair he'd bolted to the floor of the van. Suffice it to say, despite his many protests to my sagging blindfold, he was either too lazy or too distracted to tie the oil cloth properly and I, therefore, ascertained our direction from the passing signs: west.
He slept 4.3 hours the first night. I slept 2.1. We took Exit 74 after two days and one night of driving. And don't even ask about the colossal embarrassment of bathroom breaks at deserted rest stops.
When our trail came to an end, the van rolled slowly down the exit ramp, and I decided to count sets of sixty. One Mississippi, Two Mississippi, Three Mississippi ... 10.2 sets of Mississippi later, we parked, and the engine sputtered in a lurching stop. 10.2 minutes from the highway. From the topmost corner of my drooping blindfold, I made out a field cast in a twilight gray and glazed with a swath of full-moon white. The wisp-scratch branches of a tree draped around the van. A willow. Like Nana's. But this isn't Nana's house.
He's at the side of the van. He's coming for me. I'll have to leave the van. I don't want to leave the van.
I jumped at the loud metal-on-metal scrape and bang of the van door sliding open. We're here. I guess we're here. We're here. My heart ticked to the beat of a hummingbird's wings. We're here. Sweat accumulated at my hairline. We're here. My arms lost all slack, and my shoulders stiffened to straight, forming a capital T with my spine. We're here. And my heart again, I might have trembled the earth to quake, I might have roiled the sea to tsunami, with that rhythm.
A country breeze whooshed in as though rushing past my captor to console me. For a quick second, I became washed in a cool caress, but his presence loomed and broke the spell almost as soon as it came. He was partially masked to me, of course, given the half-on, half-off blindfold, yet I felt him stall and stare. What must I look like to you? Just a young girl, duct-taped to an armchair in the back of your shit van? Is this normal for you? You fucking imbecile.
"You don't scream or cry or beg me like the others did," he said, sounding like he'd grasped some epiphany he'd been struggling with for days.
I turned my head fast toward his voice, as though possessed, intending in my motion to un-nerve him. I'm not sure if I did, but I believe he shimmied backwards a fraction.
"Would that make you feel better?" I asked.
"Shut the fuck up, you crazy little bitch. I don't give a shit what you fucking sluts do," he said loudly and fast, as though reminding himself of his position of control. From the high decibel of his agitation, I surmised we were alone, wherever we were. This can't be good. He's safe yelling here. We're alone. Just the two of us.
By the tilt of the van, I could tell he grabbed hold of the doorframe and hoisted himself in. He grunted from the exertion, and I took stock of his labored smoker's breathing. Typical, worthless, fat slob. Shadows and slices of his movement came toward me, and a silvery sharp object in his hand glistened under the overhead light. As soon as he got into my space, I smelled him, an old sweat, the stench of three-day-old body odor. His breath was like fetid soup on the air. I winced, turned toward the tinted window, and plugged my nostrils by holding my breath.
He cut the duct tape melding my arms to the bolted chair and put a paper bag over my head. Ah shit-breath, so you realize the blindfold doesn't work.
Comfortable in the evil I came to accept in that traveling armchair, I had no clue what was in store for me. Nevertheless, I did not protest our move into what must have been a farm. Given the aftermath scent of cows grazing all day and the high blades and stalks that slapped my legs, I reasoned we entered a field of hay or wheat.
The night air of Day 2 cooled my arms and chest, even through my lined, black raincoat. Despite the bag and the drooping cloth on my face, light from the moon illuminated our trek. With his gun on my spine, and me leading a blinded way with only the moon as my pull, we waded through knee-high stalks of America's grain for one set of sixty. I stepped high so as to punctuate my counting; he sloshed behind in a gunman's shuffle. And such was our two-person parade: one, swish, two, swish, three, swish, four.
I compared my sorrowful march to the watery death of mariners sentenced to the gangplank and considered my first asset: terra firma. Then the terrain changed, and I no longer sensed the moon's presence. The ground gave a bit with my unnecessarily forced and heavy steps, and, by the sprinkle of dry dust around my exposed ankles, I supposed I was on a loose dirt path. Tree limbs scratched my arms on both sides.
No light + no grass + dirt path + trees = Forest. This is not good.
My neck pulse and my heartbeat seemed to catch separate rhythms, as I remembered the Nightly News' account of another teen, who they found in the woods in some other state, far from me. How distant her tragedy seemed to me then, so displaced from reality. Her hands were severed, her innocence taken, her carcass dumped in a shallow grave. The worst part was the evidence of coyotes and mountain lions, who took their share under the evil winks of devil-eyed bats and the mournful glare of night owls. Stop this ... count ... remember to count ... keep the count ... focus ...
These dreadful thoughts caused me to lose my place. I've lost count. Pushing my horror aside, I steeled myself, swallowed a jug of air, and slowed the hummingbird in my chest, just like my dad taught me in our father-daughter Jiu-Jitsu and tai chi classes and just like the lessons in the medical school books, which I kept in my laboratory in our basement.
Given my quick blip of fear upon entering the forest, I recalibrated the count by three digits. After one set of sixty in the dense wood, we skidded into short grass and back under the unencumbered illumination of the moon. This must be a clearing. This is not a clearing. Is this? This is pavement. Why didn't we park here? Terra firma, terra firma, terra firma.
We hit another patch of short grass and stopped. Keys clattered; a door opened. Before I forgot the numbers, I calculated and logged the total time from the van to this door: 1.1 minutes, walking.
I did not get the opportunity to inspect the exterior of the building we entered, but I pictured a white farmhouse. My captor led me immediately up stairs. One flight, two flights ... Upon landing on the third floor, we turned 45 degrees left, walked three steps, and stopped again. The keys clanked. A bolt slid. A lock popped. A door creaked. He removed the bag and blindfold and pushed me into my confines, a 12' x 24' room, with no way out.
The space was lit by the moon through a high triangular window on the wall to the right of the door. To the front was a queen-sized mattress on a box spring, directly on the floor, but strangely surrounded by a wood frame with sides and slats and rungs and all. It seemed like someone ran out of energy or perhaps forgot the boards for the box spring and mattress to rest upon. Thus the bed was like a canvas that had not yet been secured, only rested crooked within its picture frame. A white cotton coverlet, one pillow, and a red knit blanket dressed the makeshift bed. Above spanned three exposed beams, parallel to the door: one over the threshold, the other cutting the rectangular room in two, and the third running over my bed. The ceiling was cathedral and so, with the exposed beams, one could surely hang—if they so chose. There was nothing else. Eerily clean, eerily sparse, a quiet hiss was the only decoration. Even a monk would have felt bare in this vacuum.
I went straight to the floor mattress, as he pointed out a bucket as a bathroom if I had "to piss or shit" in the night. The moon pulsed upon his departure, as though it too let out the air it was holding in its galactic lungs. In a brighter room, I flopped backwards, exhausted, and schooled myself on my roller-coaster emotions. From the van, you went from anxiety, to hatred, to relief, to fear, to nothing. Get even or you won't win this. As with any of my experiments, I needed a constant and the only constant I could have was steady detachment, which I endeavored to keep, along with copious doses of disdain and unfathomable hatred, if those ingredients were needed to maintain the constant. What with the things I heard and saw in my confinement, those additives were indeed necessary. And easy to come by.
If there is one talent I honed in captivity, whether seeded by divine design, by osmosis from having lived in my mother's steel world, by instruction from my father in the art of self-defense, or the natural instinct of my condition, it was akin to that of a great war general's: a steady, disaffected, calculating, revengeful, and even demeanor.
This level repose was not new to me. In fact, in grade school, a counselor insisted I be examined due to the administration's concern over my flat reactions and apparent failure to experience fear. My first-grade teacher was bothered because I didn't wail or jump, screech or scream—like everyone else did—when a gunman opened fire on our classroom. Instead, as the video surveillance showed, I inspected his jerky hysterics, slicks of sweat, pockmarked complexion, enlarged pupils, frantic eye movements, track-lined arms, and, thankfully, fruitless aim. I recall to this day, the answer was so clear, he was drugged, skittish, high on acid or heroin, or both—yes, I knew the symptoms. Behind the teacher's desk was her emergency bullhorn on a shelf under the fire alarm, so I walked over to both. Before pulling the alarm, I shouted "AIR RAID" through the horn, in as deep a six-year-old voice I could muster. The meth-head dropped to the ground, cowering in a puddle of himself as he pissed his pants.
The video, which placed the issue of my evaluation on the front-burner, showed my classmates bawling in huddles, my teacher on her knees imploring God above her, and me atop a stool, trigger fingering the bullhorn at my hip, and hovering as though directing the mayhem. My pig-tailed head was cocked to the side, my arm with the bullhorn across my baby-fat belly, the other up to my chin, and I had a subtle grin matching the almost wink in my eye, approving of the policemen who pounced upon the culprit.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Method 15/33 by Shannon Kirk. Copyright © 2015 Shannon Kirk. Excerpted by permission of Oceanview Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
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