Spirit Me Away

by Aaron Paul Lazar

  “Elsbeth?” I whispered. “Porter?”

  Silence.

  “Valerie? Anybody out there?” I called louder this time, but no one answered.

  Cornstalk silhouettes drifted back into focus. A new chorus of tree peepers added to the crickets’ songs, and the rustle of leaves whispered close overhead.

  The moon had moved far across the sky. I tried to stand, inhaling aromas of warm earth mingled with the scent of pine. “Porter?”

  Logic dictated they would have taken the girls and left us behind. A slim ray of hope lingered, however, and I scanned the woods for my wife. Maybe she’d escaped and was still hiding.

  I studied the barracks and farmhouse. The vehicles were gone, and the lights were still on. I wondered if they’d completely cleared out or if the commune would continue as it had in the past.

  Was Carol involved in the slave ring?

  She has to be.

  I stood shakily and took a few deep breaths. Carol had been at the Cambridge Commons that day. She’d been passing out pamphlets. Nate had the same pamphlet in his hideout. She had to know.

  They must be in it together.

  I took a few steps, was hit by a queasy sensation, and stopped to bend down and lean on my knees.

  How hard did that bastard hit me, anyway?

  I stumbled toward the woods and called again. “Porter? Buddy? You out there?”

  Something moved in the shadows.

  “Porter?” I stared into the shadows, straining to hear. Within a minute, my eyes had adjusted to the dark. Someone walked toward me.

  “There you are,” a voice said.

  It wasn’t Porter. He came closer, and I got ready to fight.

  “No need to punch me, man. Relax. It’s just me, Wiley. Porter’s back that way. He’s hurt, but he’ll be okay. Come on, I’ll take you to him.”

  “Where is everyone?” I whispered harshly. “Where are the girls?”

  He stopped, scratched his belly, and snorted. “Bastards are all gone. Took the women and the rest scattered to the winds. Afraid the cops were comin,’ I think.”

  We walked into the dark woods and within minutes found Porter, propped up against the trunk of a tree. Eyes closed, he groaned and dabbed at his face with his bloody handkerchief.

  “Porter? Are you okay?” I dropped to my knees beside him.

  He opened his eyes and nodded slowly. “I’ll be fine. We have to go after them.”

  “Damn right,” I said, with more conviction than I felt. How would we find them now?

  Wiley sat down beside us, closed his eyes, and started to whistle “Light My Fire.”

  It was breathy and off-key.

  We both stared at him, and then looked in the direction of the farm. A yellow glow flickered just beyond our vision. We got up, jogged to the edge of the woods, and emerged into a clearing.

  The farmhouse and barracks blazed with a fire reaching high in the sky, sparking and smoking. Horses and sheep ran loose in the fields, stampeding in all directions.

  Wiley exhaled loudly. “Damn. Now I need a new place to crash.”

  Porter put his arm around his friend. “You and me both, buddy.”

  “You guys can stay with us,” I said, staring at the blaze. “And Wiley? Thanks for calling.”

  Wiley didn’t answer.

  The whole scene was unbelievable. Elsbeth had just been in those barracks, and now they were ablaze. Someone had been having too much fun with matches lately, and I wondered if it was the same person who’d torched the diner. Thick smoke curled high above the buildings and settled in a low fog over the cornfield.

  Wiley belched and scratched his beard. “The boats,” he said, staring at the fire.

  Porter stopped dabbing at the gash on his face. He stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket and turned to Wiley. “What? Wiley, what the hell are you talking about?”

  Wiley dragged his gaze from the inferno and when he grinned, I noticed his front tooth was chipped.

  “I know where they went. They’re headed for the boats. All the way down the Cape, man.”

  I grabbed him and turned him toward me. “Can you get us there, Wiley?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. It’s easy. The Ptown pier. It’s a big wharf with shops and stuff, and even cruise ships can pull up to dock. The real name is The MacMillan Pier, now that I think of it.”

  Porter and I exchanged glances.

  “Come on,” I said.

  We ran back through the woods toward the area where the Valiant waited, hiding beneath pine branches. We found it after ten frantic minutes of searching. Finally, we piled inside and I pulled out onto Route 25, heading south. A faint rosy glow shimmered in the east. I thought it was sunrise, then with a start, realized it was the light from the fire.

  Shaking away the exhaustion, I gritted my teeth and drove like a demon in the direction of Cape Cod.

  Chapter 51

  “Gus?”

  I relaxed my grip on the wheel when we approached the turnoff for Onset. “Huh?” I mumbled, merging back into the travel lane after passing a VW bus decorated with flowers and filled with hippies. My eyes felt gritty and a pall of exhaustion swept over me.

  Porter pointed to the dash. “Look at the gas gauge, man. We’re running on fumes.”

  I looked down and was horrified to see that it had dropped below the orange “empty” line.

  “Goddamn it.” I eased over to the turnoff for Onset on Route 6. The town was quiet and it was still early.

  The first gas station we came to was closed.

  And the next.

  And the next.

  I should have stopped at one of the larger stations and waited for them to open, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. The sense of urgency was overpowering and an insidious gnawing in my stomach wouldn’t let up. I had to find Elsbeth before they shipped her off to some God-forsaken land.

  Come on baby, just a few more miles. Come on.

  I guess the old girl listened, because she kept going for another few miles, then started to buck.

  We sputtered along Route 6 and finally rolled to a stop on the side of the road in the town of Buzzards Bay near a small hamburger joint called “Frates.” Its claim to fame was a thirty-foot high milk bottle. The outdoor menu featured clam strips, onion rings, burgers, shakes, and ice cream. I drooled looking at the choices, suddenly ravenous. The two-lane highway snaked between two bodies of water and was flanked by shops featuring baskets, candles, antiques, salt-water taffy, and souvenirs.

  I spotted a sign for a Sunoco station up the road about a mile away.

  Porter’s face was tight with nerves and he drummed his fingers on the dash. “What time do you think they’ll open?”

  I looked at my watch. It was ten ‘til six. “Maybe six or seven?” I said.

  There was very little traffic on the road. Wiley slept like a baby, curled on the back seat, snoring gently.

  Porter’s face softened when he glanced at him. “He can sleep through anything. I’d have to wake him when the firefights started in ‘Nam, or he’d have slept through the whole damned thing.”

  “We owe him big time,” I said, opening the door. “If he hadn’t called when he saw the girls…we’d still be searching around Boston for clues.”

  “I know.” Porter smiled, then nodded up the road toward the gas station. “Want me to go?”

  I shook my head. “No. Wait here. I’ll run up and see when it opens.”

  Porter nodded. “Okay.”

  I climbed out and jogged along the side of the road. Nerves surged through my body.

  Why now? Why couldn’t I have filled the tank, used my head?

  I continued to scold myself and broke into a full run. The images of the captives huddled in the barracks swirled through my brain. Some of the girls were only in their early teens. Anger swelled within me, and I ran faster.

  I reached the station at two minutes past six, noticing the open sign now lit in the window. A battered red pickup truck
pulled alongside the pumps, and a skinny boy in a uniform trotted outside to fill the truck’s gas tank. Sighing with relief, I caught my breath and approached him. He looked up as he cocked the pump handle and let it fill automatically.

  “We ran out of gas,” I panted. “Down there.” I pointed to the Valiant. “It’s an emergency. I have to get going right away.”

  The boy was quick to respond. “No container?” he said, glancing down at my empty hands.

  “No.”

  “Go inside and borrow that red metal can from the garage. Stu won’t mind. Bring it out here. We’ll put in a dollar’s worth so you can get your car to the pump.”

  I raced into the garage, grabbed the can, and then ran back outside. The attendant met me at the closest pump and squirted a dollar’s worth into the container. I pulled a wrinkled bill from my pocket, but he waved it away.

  “No, just pay for it all when you fill up. I trust ya.”

  “Thanks.” I was about to hoof it back to the car when the elderly driver of the truck gestured to me.

  “Hey, son. Hop in. I’ll give you a lift.”

  Grateful for the kindness of strangers, I felt a lump form in my throat. “Thank you, sir.” I climbed in and we drove in silence back to the car, listening to his radio blast country hits.

  The old timer waited for me while I poured a little bit into the carburetor and put the rest into the tank. It turned over and after a few false starts, it spluttered back to life.

  He waved and wished us luck, puttering off in his old truck.

  We reached the station, filled up the tank, and paid the boy with my credit card. I thanked him, and skidded back onto the road.

  Driving fast, I followed Route 6 until we came to the rotary for the Bourne Bridge. A heavy fog rolled in from the canal, swirling over quaint shops and homes with moist, greedy fingers. The bridge loomed in the distance. I’d been over it before, but dreaded driving over it again because of my fear of heights. My stomach flip-flopped when we approached the towering steel structure.

  As if in a disjointed nightmare now, a sign for homemade pies flashed past the window.

  My stomach growled. I was exhausted, sleep deprived, and running on adrenaline.

  We made it to the bridge, and the Valiant crawled in the right hand lane with me gripping the wheel, feeling light-headed and queasy. The traffic had picked up, and even though it was early in the day, we were bumper-to-bumper on the bridge. We climbed higher.

  Don’t look down.

  I looked down. The Cape Cod Canal glistened below with patches of fog rolling along its banks. A few miniature-looking barges chugged along the waterway. On the horizon, a sun of dull orange glimmered.

  I tore my eyes away from the dizzying scene below and focused on the rear window of the station wagon ahead of us. A few beads of sweat dripped along my temple.

  “You okay, man?” Porter asked.

  A phony laugh slipped out. “Yup. Fine. I’m fine.”

  We’d almost reached the bottom of the bridge, so I breathed normally again and drove down the ramp into the next rotary.

  “Which way?” I asked.

  “Wiley said to take Route 6 all the way up. There. Get into the right lane. Quick.”

  I sneaked in front of a bread truck, received a sharp warning blast from his horn, and scooted over to the Route 6 entrance.

  “Phew. We’re good,” Porter said, letting out a big breath. “Wiley said to keep going ‘til you can’t go any farther.”

  As if in response, Wiley snorted from the back seat and mumbled, “Pop tarts.”

  I cracked the first smile of the day and chuckled with Porter. “He must have been a card in the war.”

  “Yeah,” Porter said. “He was. Kept us laughing all the time. And he saved my neck about a hundred times, too.”

  He looked back at his friend, loosed a sad smile, and closed his eyes.

  “Why don’t you get a few hours shuteye?” I said. “You’ve gotta be dead on your feet.”

  “Yeah, maybe I should.”

  Within minutes his head fell onto his chest, and I wondered if this ability to sleep in any place at any time had come from his experience in ‘Nam. I imagined he’d slept in foxholes and swampy grass, whenever he could catch a few winks.

  Porter repositioned himself, leaned his head against the window on his bunched up jacket, and slept the rest of the way to Provincetown.

  Chapter 52

  By eight o’clock that morning, we rolled into the outskirts of Provincetown. Snaking between sand dunes on either side of Route 6, we passed rows of rental cottages with attached bike racks. The expansive, warm-water bay glistened to our left, begging me to stop and jump into its shallow waters. Like a siren calling to her victims, the ocean sparkled under the morning sun, and gulls hovered and swooped over the waves. I wrenched my attention back to the road, feeling as if I were losing control…of my senses, my intellect, my instincts, my…everything.

  Finally, we reached the center of town, and I found a parking spot near a church on the town square. I woke up Porter and Wiley, and once they were awake enough to take in their surroundings, we headed for the MacMillan Pier.

  We passed a lady sweeping the sidewalk outside her cottage. Next we charged past an art studio whose windows displayed seascapes, then a long row of souvenir shops stretching toward the center of town. Vividly colored flags whipped in the morning breeze and vendors began to set out trays of merchandise and rotating stands full of jewelry and fluttering scarves.

  I looked up one of the side streets toward the pier. A fisherman in yellow oilskins road past us on his ancient bicycle. His beard rivaled Wiley’s, climbing up his face in fuzzy grandeur. On another day, it would be fun to explore this town. Elsbeth would love the jumble of shops featuring candy, jewelry, clothing, and collectibles.

  Elsbeth.

  My heart spasmed again and cold fear pooled in my stomach.

  Wiley stopped in front of a diner with a hangdog expression on his face. “Hey, guys. I’m starving.”

  Porter grabbed his arm. “Listen, we’ll get you something to eat, man. But first, where’s the boat?”

  Wiley shook his tangled hair, rubbed his beard, and straightened when he seemed to summon the memory. “Right. Uh. I heard ‘em talking about it yesterday. It comes in on the pier. Over there,” he pointed one grubby finger toward the water. “But there’s no way they’ll walk the girls out now. They’d be way too obvious. They said something about waiting ‘til dark, until the crowds come. It’s crazy here later in the day, and closer to nighttime. All kinds of characters come out of the shadows, and you’d never notice a bunch of ‘drunk’ girls in the streets.”

  “Where would they keep them until then?” Porter asked.

  Wiley’s eyes dulled. “I dunno, man.”

  Porter and I exchanged frustrated glances.

  “Wait!” Wiley said, as if he had just remembered the secrets of the universe. “Singing Pines has a cargo truck that everyone would fit into. It’s dark green with a tarp. And there were a few vans, painted dark purple. White writing on the side, with the commune’s name on it.”

  “Great,” I said. “We can look for their vehicles, then.”

  Wiley nodded. “That’s where they’d keep all the girls while they’re waiting for dark.”

  We stopped for a minute near a bench, forming a plan as the town woke up. Wiley sat down and closed his eyes.

  I paced back and forth. “We have to call the cops. There’s no way we can do this alone. Porter, do you still have that card with Kinski’s name on it?”

  Porter nodded and fished it out of his jeans pocket. “Yup. Right here.”

  Wiley’s eyes flew open and his face froze. He feared the cops almost as much as the Viet Cong.

  “We should’ve called when we ran out of gas,” I said, feeling like an imbecile. “That was really stupid.”

  Porter nodded. “None of us is thinking clearly right now. And if Wiley’s right, we’ve got tim
e. I agree they’d wait ‘til dark to do the transfer. It just makes sense.”

  “You’re probably right,” I said. “Listen, why don’t you make the call? Kinski knows you. Wiley and I can start searching for the truck and vans. If we can’t find anything, we’ll hang out on the beach next to the pier. We’ll wait, and watch. And hope to God we see them.”

  We checked our watches.

  “Meet back at the car in an hour?” I said.

  Porter nodded and took off at a run toward the public phone booth on the corner. Wiley still looked upset about the call to the police, but he brushed it aside and jogged beside me to the main drag, Commercial Street. We turned right. Walking quickly, we searched both sides of the road.

  We searched the streets unsuccessfully for about forty-five minutes, and then turned back. In the parking area, we found Porter sitting on the Valiant’s fender.

  He met us halfway and pointed to a green bench in front of the church. “Let’s sit for a second and talk.”

  Wiley and I sank to the bench on either side of him.

  An excited gleam flashed from his eyes. “I spoke with Kinski. At first he was really ticked off. He couldn’t believe we didn’t call him before we drove to the commune. Once he got over it, he said the FBI will go ballistic when they find out about Singing Pines. They’ve been running in circles, trying to solve the mass abductions. They haven’t recovered one of the girls, not one. He’s sending a team here, and is coming down himself. While I was on hold, he called the local Provincetown cops, too.”

  Porter stopped for a minute, glancing surreptitiously down the street. “I saw a few cop cars flashing their lights and speeding in that direction. Maybe that was them.”

  “I hope they don’t spook them. They’ll take off scared, and we’ll never see the girls again,” I said.

  “I know. Kinski said the feds’ll probably try to do a sting. But they want to talk to Wiley. Get all the details they can.”

  Wiley panicked. “No way! I can’t talk to the fuzz. The FBI? The freakin’ Bureau? They’ve been after me for years, man, you know that.” Like a frenzied stallion, his eyes rolled wildly in his head.