I shook her hand before I left and said, “Gracias”—the only word I knew, other than si, in Spanish.
She nodded, but there were no more smiles.
The stray dog was waiting for us outside. He followed us to the entrance, barking all the way.
I took Maria home—she lived in a small apartment in Bridgeton—and went back to the motel. After arranging the appointment for her mother and calling to give Maria the date and time, there was nothing more for me to do. I was forced to think about my evening escapade. It was a wild hunch—that I would find Becca in that house. But I couldn’t leave any stone unturned. I couldn’t let another child come to harm, I told myself fiercely, without doing everything I could to prevent it. In a moment of weakness, I thought of calling Tom and inviting him to come along. How un-PC. How pre-millennium. Why did I need a man with me? I was young and strong and capable. I even knew how to handle a motorboat. My father and I had often taken one out when we went fishing or crabbing on our seashore vacations, and he had made sure I knew how to operate it as well as he did. No, this was my idea, and I’d carry it out alone. I began to consider what clothes to wear and what equipment to take. The weather was mild for December. I decided on jeans, a sweatshirt, and my parka; a flashlight, my penknife, and bottled water. Maybe I’d better pick up a sandwich at the diner. No telling how long this vigil would last. I couldn’t help feeling there was some vast conspiracy going on—in which Becca’s disappearance played only a small part. I had mapped out my route on the river. Using the outboard, it would be about a twenty-minute ride. But if I didn’t want to be heard, I’d have to row the last lap, and that would take twice as long. Fortunately, the sky was overcast. No full moon to target me for my enemies. Enemies? How melodramatic. But that was how I felt. I felt as if I were going into battle. I wished I were armed. Well, I was, in a way. I had my penknife. I giggled. Part humor, part hysteria. I glanced at Ichabod, grinning in his corner. Was he laughing with me, or at me?
CHAPTER 33
Jack-the-night-clerk was the only one around as I was leaving. He looked up from his latest Star Wars paperback. “Hey, where you goin’? Got a big date?”
“Yeah.” I winked. “Don’t expect me back tonight.”
“Right on.” He gave me a sly smile.
As I rode to the dock, I felt perfectly comfortable in my sweatshirt and windbreaker. The dock was deserted. Surprise, surprise. Who but a crackpot like me would be stupid enough to take a boat out at night in December? I parked my bike behind the Lobster Trap, well out of sight, and locked the ignition.
The boat was waiting by the dock. The motor caught on the second pull and I eased her out. I had studied the river’s course carefully on the map and felt fairly confident as I moved away from the bay and headed inland. Either Tom or Paul had said the river was narrow, but deep. In Colonial times the Cohansey had been trafficked by schooners and clipper ships, they had said.
A huge bird emerged from the reeds to my left, thrashing the air with its wings, scaring the hell out of me. A heron, probably. My eyes had adjusted to the dark and I could distinguish the shoreline easily. My biggest worry was when to cut the motor and start rowing. I didn’t want to get too close to the house with the motor on and alert my quarry. Of course, my whole plan would be worthless if this was a night when no business was being transacted and Becca was miles away. I might have to make several visits. The prospect didn’t appeal to me.
I had brought a flashlight, but was reluctant to use it except in an emergency. It might attract attention.
I passed a farmhouse with a lighted candle in every window—one of my favorite Bayfield Christmas customs.
A dog barked.
When I had gone about two miles, I shut off the motor. According to my calculations, the Wistar house should be around the next couple of bends. The only sound was the gentle lap of water against the sides of the boat. The stillness was suffocating. Or was it the stench? Because the temperature was above freezing, the smell of decayed fish was strong. I placed the oars in their locks and began to row. I had to stay in the middle of the river to avoid getting stuck in mud. Although the river was deep, its banks consisted of thick, black mud—like tar.
Splash! Something jumped from the bank into the water. A turtle or an otter? I rested my oars, listening. No wind caused even the smallest rustle among the tall reeds. The silence and solitude settled over me like a damp fog. For the first time in a long time, unwanted thoughts surfaced, catching me unawares. During the day, my busy life kept them buried, and at night, exhaustion usually kept those ugly dreams at bay. But here, by myself, in the darkness and the silence of the river, the old film started up—slowly unfolding, image after image. Sophie in the ER; Sophie in her hospital bed; Sophie’s parents …
Scenes of Becca intruded. Becca on her bike; Becca romping with Elsa; Becca on the porch swing—sketching. What would Sophie have been like at thirteen? Like Becca? Where was Becca? Was she safe? Or had I failed her, too?
I rowed fiercely around the first bend. One more bend and I should see the house. I had better look for cover—something I hadn’t given much thought to. I couldn’t stay in the middle of the river—a sitting duck for anyone whose eyes were adjusted to the dark. But how could I hug the bank without getting stuck in the mud? I had to risk getting stuck and hope I could free myself later by pushing against the bank with an oar.
As I steered the boat carefully to the right, the house came into view—a dark bulk looming above the sloping bank. No lights. From the third-story windows, there must be an excellent view downriver—in the direction from which I had come. A perfect lookout for pirates and smugglers in Colonial days. Or today. I steered into the bank and drew in my oars. The wall of reeds provided some cover. My luminous watch dial read 8:05. I began to prepare for a long vigil. There were two plastic cushions on the floor. (Did boats have floors?) Positioning myself on the bottom of the bow, I tucked one behind my back, the other under my butt. It wouldn’t do to get too comfortable; I might fall asleep and miss the whole show. If there was a show. I reached for my water bottle, pulled out the stopper, and took a long swig. Ugh. Lukewarm. I’d save the sandwich for later. I longed for my Walkman. I’d deliberately left it behind; I had to keep my ears open to listen. For what? A car? A truck? Another boat? Voices?
My boat was lying parallel to the bank, pointing upriver. From my place in the bow, I had an excellent view of the house but not of the river behind me. I was counting on my ears to alert me to anything approaching from that direction. Eyes in the back of the head would have been a welcome accessory. Too bad it hadn’t been included in the package. Maybe in the next upgrade. I yawned. My biggest problem now, I realized, was not aquiring another pair of eyes, but keeping the pair I had—open.
CHAPTER 34
Nine-fifteen. I must have dozed off. What woke me were the deep throbs of a heavy motor—much heavier than mine. The throbs were coming from behind me. I turned. A large, shadowy craft was maneuvering the last bend. No lights. Surely an infraction of the coastal laws, but a blessing for me. I lay prone and slithered along the bottom of the boat, humped over the middle seat, and slithered some more until I was able to grab the tarpaulin tucked under the stern seat. The throb of the motor grew louder. I pulled the tarpaulin up until it covered me and lay still, trying not to breathe. Only when I was sure the craft was well past did I lift a corner of the cover and peer out. At the same time my boat was struck by swells from the larger boat and began to rock violently. Some of the waves sloshed over the sides of the boat, wetting me. As the swells died away, so did the throbs of the motor on the big boat. I watched it glide soundlessly along the dock below the house. Either they hadn’t noticed my boat, or had thought it was abandoned and not worth bothering with.
A slight stir began on deck, but still no lights. That could mean only one thing: Whatever they were delivering or picking up was illegal. Two figures appeared near the rail, outlined against the faintly lighter sky, and began lowe
ring ropes. One of the two leapt from the deck to the dock, landing as softly as a cat, and began fastening the rope to something (I wished I knew nautical terms) on the pier. Neither spoke. There was the sound of metal scraping against wood. I raised my head a few inches. Another man had joined the one on deck and they were lowering a gangplank. Once in place, the man on the dock ran up the plank and disappeared inside the boat. After that, it was quiet except for the soft lap of small waves against the sides of my boat.
For the first time I was aware of discomfort. The ridges on the bottom of the boat were pressing into my spine, and the water brought in by the swells had soaked through my jeans. I was lying in a pool of water, and it was cold. What did I expect? It was December. I should count my blessings. If it had been July, I would have been devoured by mosquitoes.
Somewhere on the larger boat a door creaked. There was a sound of scuffling. A dark object was poised at the top of the gangplank—waiting to be pushed or carried down. A barrel or a case? No, it was long and thin. It looked like a tube or pipe. Two men ran down the gangplank and waited at the bottom. Two men on the boat began rolling the pipe (if that’s what it was) toward them. It made no noise. It couldn’t be a pipe. It must be something soft. Like a rug? A rolled-up rug. Were they in the carpet business? What could be illegal about that? Orientals, stolen from Turkey or Pakistan? Another rug quickly followed. Then another. And another. Or was there something hidden inside those carpets? Drugs? Or some other contraband?
A commotion began above on the sloping bank. A man emerged from the back of the house. He was pushing something. As he drew near the river, I made out a hand cart. The kind of device used for bearing luggage at airports and train stations. When he reached the dock the other men began loading the carpets onto the cart. It took four men to lift one carpet. And even then, they did not do it easily. The cart could accommodate no more than two carpets at a time. The ends hung over the sides and it took three men to push it up the bank. Even then the process was frustratingly slow. Sometimes a wheel would catch on a root or a stone. Then they would have to back up and maneuver around it. When they reached the house, they disappeared. There was no light in the house. I could only guess that they deposited their burdens inside. The return trip was much faster. They fairly hurtled down the slope, careless of the empty, rattling cart careening in front of them.
I watched them load the hand cart five times. Ten carpets. When they were done it was 11:45. The operation had taken over two hours. They shoved the gangplank back and the heavy motor began to throb. The catlike man unfastened the ropes (moorings?). He climbed up the side of the boat—without help, it seemed. There must have been a ladder. He was barely over the rail when the craft began to move forward and execute its turn. I ducked under the tarpaulin as the boat slid past and headed back the way it had come.
I decided to give them half an hour before I left. With its powerful motor, the boat should be well into the bay by then. My back was killing me. Shivers racked me at regular intervals. I was chilled through. Could I last the half hour? While I had been watching the men, my mind had been occupied and I had forgotten my discomfort. Now I craved action. Anything to get my blood going again. Pushing my boat out of the mud should provide all the action I needed. I felt a sneeze coming on. By sheer will power I forced it back. I tried not to look at my watch. I told myself stories from childhood: “The Ugly Duckling” and “The Three Billy Goats Gruff.” That was my father’s favorite. He did the three goats’ voices very well.
The tarpaulin jerked off.
In the dark above me appeared a pasty face with the luminosity of the moon. Doughboy—er, Milac.
“Get out.”
The harsh order startled a bird. It flew straight up from the reeds and downriver toward the bay. I fervently wished I were him—or her.
Another man came up behind Milac. Great. Plenty of help to push me out of the mud. “I’m afraid I’m stuck. Could you help push me out?” I asked plaintively.
Neither looked helpful.
“Get out,” Milac repeated.
“It’s too muddy,” I whined. “Why don’t you just give me a shove and I’ll be out of your way.”
He glanced at his buddy. The buddy gave a brief nod. Together they moved toward the boat. I grabbed an oar and shoved it against the bank. It sank deep into mud. I grabbed the other oar and tried to push against the river bottom. That sank, too. Milac was climbing over the bow. Should I jump and swim for it? Swim for what?
The cheerful notes of “Yankee Doodle” rang out. My cell phone. It was stowed in my backpack under the bow seat along with my medical kit—two items I’m never without. Milac paused, listening. Another Yankee Doodle refrain. Locating the source, he dragged my backpack from under the seat. Rummaging inside, he pulled out the phone. For one wild moment I thought he was going to hand it to me.
With a smile, he tossed it over the side of the boat.
CHAPTER 35
“Mr. Nelson?” Jack-the-night-clerk on the phone.
“What’s up?” Paul’s voice was groggy with sleep.
“A call just came through for Jo. They said she doesn’t answer her cell phone.”
“Did you try her room?”
“No. I saw her go out. She said she might not be back tonight. Big date.”
“Huh? Are you sure she wasn’t pulling your leg? Try her room on the house phone. I’ll wait.”
Jack tried. No answer. He went back to the other phone. “No soap.”
“Did the call sound like an emergency?”
“They all do.”
“Tell the party to call nine-one-one. And Jack?”
“Yeah?”
“Let me know when Jo comes in.”
“Even if it’s the middle of the night?”
“You heard me,” he barked and hung up.
Jack spent the rest of his shift daydreaming about what Jo could be doing that would keep her out all night.
CHAPTER 36
I woke to the stench of urine.
At first I thought I was back at Camp Minawoski and my tent-mates had locked me in the latrine again. They had done that to me once as a joke when I was twelve, the one and only time Dad sent me away to a summer camp. They didn’t get away with it. I threw all their clothes in the lake.
I opened my eyes. Total blackness. Not a slit or a crack of light. No sound either, except a faint moaning to my right. I knew that sound. I had heard it in hospitals often enough. It was the moan of a person in pain. Where the hell was I? In one swift flood, it came back. The boat. The mud. Milac. I must be in that house. The attic or basement? I tried to move my arms. They wouldn’t budge. Legs? Same thing. Something was binding me—squeezing me. I felt as if I had been stuffed into a sewer pipe—two sizes too small.
I stopped trying to move and decided to try out my vocal chords. “Yoo-hoo!”
The moaning stopped.
“If someone’s in here, speak up!”
Silence.
“Parlez-vous Français?”
Silence.
I cursed my poor language skills.
“Sprechen Sie Deutsch?”
Silence.
“Español?”
That was it—the full extent of my linguistic abilities.
“Sprechen …” The word was no more than a whisper to my right. The same direction from which the moans had come.
“Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” I repeated urgently.
“Ja.” A woman’s voice. “Bitte.”
I racked my brain for more German words. Something from high school. Anything. Something from the endless Grimms’ fairy tales. Mutter. Grossmutter. Wo? Where? I wanted to say Where are we? but all I could remember was wo.
“Wo?” I said.
Silence.
“Wo?” I repeated, louder.
“America,” the weak voice whispered.
Great. Wonderful. I want to know where in Bayfield I am. Specifically, in what house and which part of that house? And she tells me what c
ountry I’m in. If I hadn’t been so tightly bound, I would have laughed. But I could barely breathe.
“Wo?” I tried again.
The voice was weaker this time. I could barely make out the sounds. “U.S.A.”
Thanks a lot. I peered into the darkness, trying to see if any of my neighbors were as tightly bound as I was. I couldn’t see a thing. How frustrating. How could I expect to find Becca when I was sealed up tighter than a hotdog in Handi-Wrap? Thank God my vocal chords were still intact. “Becca?”
“Hsssss.” My neighbors briefly came alive.
“Becca!” If I couldn’t rescue her, at least I could let her know I was nearby. Maybe she could take some comfort from that.
Silence.
I lay staring into the dark, inhaling the smell of urine.
CHAPTER 37
I must have dozed off. When I woke, I had a splitting headache and a raging thirst. I decided it was time to call room service. I began to yell. Unfortunately my throat was dry and my yell was not up to its usual emergency-room standards. I tried again.
It wasn’t totally ineffectual because the German-speaking woman on my left began hissing, “Shhh! Shhh!”
I yelled louder and was rewarded by the door being flung open and a man’s voice: “What the hell’s going on?”
“That’s what I want to know,” I shouted. “And while you’re at it, how about a glass of water and a toilet—not necessarily in that order.”
He didn’t answer right away, stunned, I assumed, by my unorthodox request. Like Oliver’s request for more.
“We’ll see about that,” he said ineffectually and shut the door.
The meager light that filtered from the hallway during this interchange had allowed me to make out a long, narrow room under a sloping ceiling. It was lined with mattresses occupied by bodies, either sleeping or pretending to be. The body on my right had actually shot upright when the door opened, but instantly collapsed again. My companions were not physically bound, as I was. Something stronger than bonds were keeping them tied to their beds.
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