Spirit Me Away

by Aaron Paul Lazar

  My mother looked nervous and excited. “What is it, honey?”

  I hesitated for a moment, and then blurted it out. “Mum. Dad. Elsbeth and I were married. We’ve been man and wife for two and a half months now. We tied the knot on May 1st. We’ve rented a brownstone apartment in Boston.”

  My mother’s face registered absolute shock. “I... I...”

  My father recovered quickly. He reached over and shook my hand vigorously. “Congratulations, son. Kind of a blow to your mother, but we knew you’d marry Elsbeth someday. She’s a fine woman, son. A fine woman.”

  I stood up and hugged my mother, who managed to mumble, “We love you, honey.”

  “I love you, too, Mum. And I’m sorry you didn’t get to plan a big wedding.”

  She laughed. “How did you know I was thinking about that? I admit, I really wanted to see you in a tux and—” She looked crushed for a moment, but recovered. “But it’s okay. I’m so happy for you. You know we love Elsbeth.”

  My father asked, “I hope you were married by a man of God?”

  “Of course, Dad.” I buttered another piece of toast. “A Methodist minister.”

  “What about pictures, Gus?” My mother’s eyes watered. “We need wedding pictures. You and Elsbeth cutting the cake, that kind of thing.”

  I lowered my head. “Um. There wasn’t exactly a cake, Mum.”

  She looked deflated. “Oh.”

  “We could have another ceremony for friends and family, when we come home for Labor Day. If you want?”

  Her eyes brightened and the tears slowed. “Oh? Really?” She jumped to her feet and danced around me, pulling me to my feet to join her. “You mean, like a real wedding?”

  I nodded. “If that’s what you and the Marggranders would like. Elsbeth and I already discussed it, and we’re okay with it, if you can afford it. You know we’re pretty much broke all the time.”

  “Consider it done,” my father said. “I’m sure we can find the money to have a nice party, cake and all. That is, if your mother doesn’t mind planning it all over the phone with Elsbeth.”

  The stars in my mother’s eyes brightened. “Mind? Oh, my. Be prepared for a big phone bill, André. After I call Brigit Marggrander, we’ll get on the phone together and ring up Elsbeth to start talking about a date.”

  My father suppressed a smile. “Good.” He was satisfied and snapped his paper open again. “Now, back to the business at hand. Can you two be ready in ten minutes? I want to get an early start up to the hospital.”

  “Sure. No problem.” I pushed away all thoughts of fatherhood, abductions, schooling, and enjoyed the company of my parents, until the shrill ring of the phone interrupted our breakfast.

  Chapter 41

  “LeGarde residence.” My mother answered the phone with a bright chirp. “Hello?”

  Her face fell, and the color drained from her cheeks. She answered mechanically, her eyes flitting to my father and me. “I see. You’re sure about this? Thank you for letting us know.”

  To my horror, her legs suddenly buckled, but she caught herself on the kitchen counter.

  My father leapt to her side. “Gloria? What’s wrong?”

  Her face crumpled as she collapsed against him. “She’s gone, André,” she wept, “I’m so sorry. Your mother’s gone.”

  I listened in a numb cocoon.

  My father remained calm. “It’s not possible,” he whispered fiercely. “I just spoke with her doctor. He said she was doing well this morning. There must be a mistake.”

  He asked questions, trying to ferret out the truth. He seemed certain there was a mix-up, and I desperately wanted him to be right. After all, how could a woman, whose health report had been encouraging only a short time earlier, die so suddenly?

  “It was her heart, André. Her heart.”

  I sat glued to my seat with tears streaming down my face. My father backed away from my mother and collapsed on a chair. The truth registered slowly as his eyes glazed over and he ran a hand nervously through his hair. “What? My mother’s...”

  Finally, it hit him. He lowered his head to the table as waves of grief rolled over him. His shoulders shook as he wept. There was a hole in my stomach, and a black void where my brain had been a few moments earlier. I rose and embraced my mother, and we shed copious tears, uttering ridiculous platitudes. Together, we patted my father’s shoulders, standing close to him.

  “At least they’re together now,” I said. “They’re together again.”

  I pictured my grandfather and began to weep anew. The pain of his loss was still raw. It stung that both had passed so quickly. It felt like déjà vu, but the new pain was fresh and sharp.

  With the demise of Grandmother Odette came finality, a raw-edged, unwelcome coming-of-age. My parents needed me, now more than ever. Elsbeth needed me. And maybe our child would need me. I mourned the death of the last of my four beloved grandparents, and while doing so, mourned the loss of my childhood, as well.

  When we returned from the hospital to say our goodbyes, I sucked in my gut, rubbed my eyes dry, and picked up the phone to call the same funeral director who had overseen my grandfather’s service.

  When it was done, I helped my father upstairs to his room, gave him a cold cloth for his eyes, and pulled the shades. My mother began to clean. It was her own brand of therapy.

  After a while, I tried to reach Elsbeth on the phone, but nobody picked up.

  Chapter 42

  The next few days were a blur. My eyes were swollen, my stomach was in knots, and I was tired of...feeling.

  Feeling was too damned hard.

  During my grandmother’s funeral on Friday, unbidden memories haunted me. I’d sat ramrod straight in the hard pew between my parents, but inside I was whisked back to my childhood summers in Maine. I could feel the smooth, hot painted porch steps beneath me at Loon Harbor and I heard my grandmother’s voice through the screen door while she spoke to guests on the heavy black phone. Her tone was crisp and efficient. Her voice sounded like she looked: competent, tidy, and unwilling to tolerate nonsense.

  Tough as she was, she’d always had a soft spot in her heart for me, and had even hugged me in public once.

  Although I knew it was a good thing people came to the service earlier today, I had dreaded having to talk to them. The skin around my eyes burned from the grief that came in waves. It had been especially bad at night, alone in my room. But my steadfast pal Shadow had snuggled beside me, licking my hands and face with his own brand of comfort.

  Squaring my shoulders, looking brave, and holding it all in was grueling. I’d managed the details of the service for my parents, chose the music, and dealt with the obituary and newspaper announcements. My mother selected the flowers and organized the food. I still didn’t understand why the bereaved family was expected to put on a feast after the funeral. It just didn’t make sense.

  Elsbeth and I had spoken on Wednesday night. I waited for her to tell me about our child, but she didn’t say a word. I guessed she wanted to wait until the funeral was over, until we were safely together in our home again. I understood, and waited patiently, mourning for my grandmother.

  Conflicting emotions tore me up inside, and grief suffocated me, compressing my emotions into one long, endless sigh.

  I’d tried to contact Elsbeth on Thursday night to find out how her Pops concert went, but gave up when the phone still rang, unanswered, at midnight. I wasn’t worried. I figured Elsbeth and the orchestra had probably gone out for a celebratory drink.

  By four o’clock Friday afternoon, when the last of the visitors had devoured all of my mother’s apple crisp and sugar cookies and wandered back to the caravan of vehicles skewed across our lawn, I tried to reach Elsbeth again.

  No one answered.

  I tried again at six, seven, and eight. Finally, at nine, a cold sensation ran down my back.

  Something’s wrong.

  I ran upstairs, told my parents I was leaving, threw my stuff into my knap
sack and peeled out the driveway.

  Chapter 43

  I tried calling Elsbeth several times on the way back to Boston from payphones at the rest stops. Still, no answer.

  Where the hell was Byron? Lana? Valerie? Even if Elsbeth was busy, the others should have answered. An aching sensation resonated in the pit of my stomach. Where were they?

  I ate junk food and drove like a demon all the way to Boston. When I finally turned off the Mass Pike and headed into the city, my anxiety level rose and acid burned my throat. I needed some Tums. Badly. But I hadn’t thought to buy any.

  It was almost four-thirty in the morning. The sky was still dark, but a faint smudge of orange simmered on the eastern horizon. I gripped the sweaty steering wheel. My pulse raced almost as fast as the alarming thoughts circling my tired brain.

  Was someone in an accident? Were they all at the hospital?

  I’d had enough of hospitals to last me a lifetime.

  I blew up a lock of hair, frustrated and nervous.

  Near Boylston Street, I navigated the side streets until I finally found a spot where I could fit the old Valiant. Hopping out of the car, I sprinted toward the apartment. My leg had healed sufficiently so I was able to run without too much pain, although I still limped a little. I raced into the apartment.

  The door was ajar.

  “Elsbeth? Byron?” I called their names, hurrying into the dark room and turning on the living room lights.

  Nobody was up, but it was still early.

  The house smelled musty. I moved into the kitchen. Dirty dishes were piled beside the sink. The milk was out on the counter and a plate of rubbery eggs lay on the table. I felt the milk bottle. It was warm. My heartbeat thumped rapidly. I spun around and ran to our bedroom.

  “Elsbeth?”

  I flicked on the light switch and looked around the room. The covers had been pulled off the bed and lay beside the closet, as if someone were dragged from the bed.

  Elsbeth’s purse lay open with its contents scattered on the floor. I stared in shock at the car keys, wallet, and hairbrush strewn across the rug.

  A low moan came from one of the other bedrooms. I spun and ran down the hall. Lana’s room was empty and disheveled. Clothes lay scattered on the floor. A large, spider web crack spread across the mirror over her dresser.

  The moan repeated. I raced into Byron’s room and found him on the floor, face down on the scatter rug, with his arms folded beneath him. The toppled desk chair lay atop a smashed lamp. I knelt down and turned him over. An ugly bruise rose on his forehead.

  He groaned in pain. “Gus?”

  “Byron,” I said. “What happened? Where is everyone?”

  His hair was matted with blood, and it looked like the gash in his scalp had congealed hours earlier. Byron moaned again and tried to open his eyes. He reached for my hand, mumbled an unintelligible syllable or two, and then passed out.

  I grabbed a pillow and gently slid it under his head, then draped him with a quilt. I’d never taken a CPR class, and wished I had, because he felt cold.

  I dialed O for operator and requested an ambulance.

  All three women are missing. Someone took them. They’re gone.

  And where the hell is Porter? He was supposed to be here, watching them.

  As if on cue, Porter burst into the apartment. “Valerie? Elsbeth?”

  I called him into the bedroom. “Over here.”

  He appeared in seconds.

  I gawked at him while he stared at Byron. Covered in soot, his face was smudged and his hair dripped as if he’d been in the shower minutes earlier. Except he was filthy.

  “What the hell...” I said.

  Porter dropped beside Byron and felt the pulse in his neck. “He’s alive,” he said softly. “Thank God.”

  “The paramedics are on their way,” I said. “What the hell happened? Where are the girls?”

  He looked around nervously. “They’re not here?”

  I shook my head. “No. Something’s happened, Porter. They’re all gone. I think they’ve been taken.”

  He stood quickly and looked around the room. “The fire,” he muttered. “Maybe it was a diversion.”

  “Fire?”

  “Someone set fire to The Coffee Cup. The fire department has been battling the blaze all day and night. It keeps reigniting. The place is gone. Gone, Gus. Byron and the girls were there for hours, trying to give us moral support and help where they could, but then I sent them home around four this afternoon to get some rest. There was nothing they could do, really, anyway.”

  “Are your folks okay?”

  Porter stopped pacing for a moment. “Not really. My father had to go to the hospital for smoke inhalation and burns. He wouldn’t stop trying to save the place. Kept going in to get stuff. Crazy bastard.”

  His voice broke and his face looked ready to crumple. Glancing at his arms, I saw they were singed and red. I knew that he’d probably tried hard to save what he could, as well.

  “Porter. Sit a minute and tell me again what happened.”

  Chapter 44

  While we waited for the ambulance, Porter perched on the side of the bed, nervously jiggling his legs up and down. I didn’t blame him. I wanted to do something. Anything. Chase after the bastards that had the girls.

  But where would we go? Until Byron could tell us more, we were dead in the water.

  Byron breathed steadily, still lying on the floor. I sat cross-legged beside him, checking his pulse every few minutes, and listening to Porter recount the story.

  “The fire started at noon yesterday. It was in the storage room near the back entrance. No question that it was arson. Someone poured gas all over the supplies and threw a match on it.”

  “Oh, brother. I can’t believe it,” I whistled.

  Porter walked over to the window and pulled aside a curtain. “It’s been a nightmare.”

  We were quiet for a few moments. Finally, he turned away from the window. “We have to go after them.”

  “I know,” I said, practically shouting. “But where? We’ve got nothing to go on.” I stood up and paced around the room. “Where do we look? The yellow house?”

  “No. I already got word through a friend of mine on the police force. That house has been abandoned after I made the call and they found the two bodies. Nobody’s going near it anymore. Not with all that police attention.”

  I looked out the window to the Public Garden. “The only lead we have is out there. Nate was hanging around this area, because he was trailing us, trying to find out where our apartment was. He wanted Valerie, badly. Not just for the money, either.”

  Porter frowned. “I can’t believe he took Elsbeth and Lana, too.” He ran a hand through his hair. “He had to have help. There had to be at least two of them. Maybe three.”

  The wail of the ambulance finally sounded in the distance. I hoped it was headed for us, and not some other emergency. The volume increased as the vehicle rounded a corner and finally reached our doorstep. Paramedics raced inside with a stretcher. Two men worked on Byron. Soon after, a police officer arrived and began to ask questions. When he realized we had happened on the scene only minutes earlier, he turned to Porter and seemed to recognize him. Oddly enough, this officer had also been working the scene controlling traffic at the fire, and had spoken to Porter and his family.

  “You’re the guy from the diner, aren’t you?”

  Porter nodded. “Yeah.”

  The officer seemed to lose some of his rigid mannerisms. “Hope your dad is okay.”

  Light began to filter through the windows and in the rays of the early sunshine, I felt totally, utterly powerless. How could I be sitting still, talking, when my wife and two other girls had been kidnapped? But where would we start? What clues did we have to their whereabouts? Was this whole thing all about revenge? Because Porter killed those two thugs and we stole Valerie back?

  After looking around some more, the officer said, “We won’t know what happened
until your friend wakes up. I’ll go with the ambulance and see if I can learn more about your wife and roommates, Mr. LeGarde. Meanwhile, if they come home, please call me at this number.”

  He handed me a card.

  “Thanks, Officer...” I turned the card over. “Kinski.”

  He nodded and followed the stretcher out the door. I wanted to trail him to the hospital, but the need to find Elsbeth was stronger.

  “C’mon,” Porter said, as soon as they disappeared around the corner. “We need to get moving. And we need a weapon. They practically killed Byron and kidnapped three grown women. We’ll need a gun.”

  “A gun?” I said, locking the apartment door. “But where the hell are we going, Porter? We don’t know who took them or where they went.”

  “We’ll scout around the area. Ask questions. Nate is memorable; someone has to have noticed him. And who wouldn’t notice three women being shoved into a car, or carried away?”

  I had a sinking feeling we should have leveled with the police about our history at the yellow house. They were much better equipped to deal with such things than we were.

  “Come on. I know a guy who owns a pawnshop. It’s just a few blocks away.”

  “Okay. Let’s go.” I followed Porter down Boylston Street and crossed over to the Public Garden.

  We stopped to catch our breath by the swan boats. “Porter?” I said. “It’s only six-thirty in the morning. He won’t be open yet.”

  My friend started running again. “I know the guy. He lives above his shop.”

  I caught up with him, but my shin had started throbbing. We stopped for traffic at the street, and then we bolted across to the other side. Running for about a mile, we ducked early commuters. Finally, we turned a corner, ran past a row of brownstones, and then down a dingy street lined with small shops. I looked at my watch. It was six forty-five.

  Dilapidated row houses with grimy windows and old wooden doors in need of paint were festooned with trash blowing around the sidewalks. The sun was bright in the summer sky now, illuminating all of the unattractive details of the house where we stopped.