Pandora's Matryoshkas

Pandora's Matryoshkas, prologue

Prologue

It was late on a sweltering afternoon when she called our editorial offices. "On this date two years ago, my innocence was stolen," she announced. The moment I heard her smoky voice, I was hooked. Instantly it became clear that her story was far more compelling than the obligatory article on traffic fatalities in New York City I'd been working on. She related what had happened to her mother and I couldn't believe what she was saying. Despite serving on the editorial board of the newspaper for decades, I'd never heard anything like this before.

She ratcheted up a notch when she started talking about her father. At first she complained about what he had done, or actually, what he hadn't done. But when she began to talk about their car and his journey overseas to an occult gathering, she seemed to me to be quite confused. She spoke of trickery and deceit, but I felt that she was hiding something, so I proposed meeting with her.

Lisa looked exactly as I had imagined her over the phone: blond hair, blue eyes and beautiful, straight teeth. She must have truly been an All-American Girl, not overtly sexual, yet desirable. A bit of the Hamptons, and a splash of Ralph Lauren. The only thing that didn't fit was the worn-out stilettos she was wearing. When I switched on my recorder and asked her my first question, she got up and went outside to smoke. She ended up doing this every two or three questions.

The interview took longer than usual, which didn't bother me in the least, especially when she began telling me about the sudden disappearance of her father. Since the gruesome murder of Sharon Tate nearly half a century earlier, I couldn't recall a more macabre family tragedy. Finally, I was going to make the front page.

After relating her story, she looked at me with vacant eyes, and asked if I knew what it felt like to be taken.

"No, nothing like this," I replied. This was the first time during our four-hour interview when I didn't fully understand what she meant. With an upraised hand, she beckoned the waiter. The sleeve of her sweater slipped down to her elbow and I noticed three red, slightly-raised, circular scars on her inside left arm.

"You know," she said, "there are things in this world we can't even imagine."

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