My Gal Sunday by Mary Higgins Clark

how pale and disheveled she was. She had started to turn away when she realized that there was something else, something different about her. What was it?
    She stared at her reflection for a few seconds before she realized that a clump of hair had been clumsily cut from the left side of her head, leaving a hole in what had been a very neat trim.
    Why did he cut my hair? she wondered.
    A chill that had nothing to do with the icy temperature in her basement prison hit the pit of Sunday’s stomach. There was something decidedly alien about her captor. He seemed almost like a robot, programmed to carry out precise, inexorable instructions. A robot but
self
-programmed. He doesn’t take orders from anyone. Who was he, and what did he hope to gain from doing this?
    There was a tap on the door. “I would suggest you hurry, Congresswoman. There’s a broadcast coming up in just a minute that I’m sure you will find interesting.”
    She pushed against the battered door and it opened. Her monklike captor took her arm in an almost courteous gesture of support. “I wouldn’t want you to fall,” he said.
    As she shuffled awkwardly across the basement, Sunday thought she caught a trace of the scent of bacon cooking. Was there someone upstairs? How many people were involved in this operation? When they reached the chair, the pressure of his palm on her shoulder indicated that she was to sit down.
    With quick, deft movements, he again bound her against the chair back, only this time leaving her arms free. “It’s 6:30,” he said. “You must be getting hungry. But first I want you to see Dan Rather’s broadcast. I do hope that for your sake he followed instructions.”
    The
CBS Evening News
began. A grim-faced Rather reported the breaking story: “Congresswoman Sandra O’Brien Britland of New Jersey, better known as ‘Sunday,’ the wife of former President Henry Parker Britland, has been kidnapped. Her captor, or captors, are demanding that the international terrorist-assassin Claudus Jovunet be put aboard the new American SST to be flown to some as yet undetermined location. Instructions stipulate that the only other persons allowed on the plane are to be two pilots. If these conditions are not met, the captors say that the congresswoman will be thrown into the Atlantic Ocean. I have spoken with former President Henry Britland, who is in the Oval Office with his successor, Desmond Ogilvey. He assured me that the terms will be met and the government is in full cooperation with the need to ensure his wife’s safety.”
    Sunday’s captor smiled. “I’m sure there’ll be a lot more about you. I’ll just leave it on while I get your dinner. Enjoy the program.”
    Sunday focused on the TV as Rather was saying, “We’re switching live to the White House, where the former president will make a personal plea to his wife’s abductors.”
    A few seconds later, Sunday stared helplessly at the fear and grief in her husband’s face. The sound seemed to have changed, and she had to try to lean forward to hear what he was saying.
    Then Henry’s impassioned plea was drowned out by the sound of singing. There seemed to be two voices, a man’s and that perhaps of an old woman. Sunday could barely make out the words. “. . . mice . . .” she heard, and then she understood: “Three blind mice . . . see how they run . . .”
    “They all ran after the farmer’s wife,” she continued mentally.
    But that was not what she was heating. The voices were louder now, and closer, approaching from the staircase.
    “. . . they all ran after the president’s wife, but she’d been drowned for the fish to bite . . .”
    The song stopped abruptly. She heard her captor’s voice say, “ That was very nice. Now go upstairs.”
    A moment later he was standing before her, holding a small tray.
    “Hungry?” he asked pleasantly. “Mother’s not much of a cook, but she tries.”
    Blinking back tears, Henry Britland turned away from the camera.