Porter put his hand on Wiley’s shoulder. “Wiley. Listen. They aren’t after you. Honest to God. They don’t care about your past, they just need help to nail these bastards. They need names, faces, details. Think of those girls, man. You’ve gotta help them.”
Waves of conflicting emotions crashed over me as Porter tried to talk Wiley down.
Will a large assault team be able to rush the kidnappers without firing a shot?
Will Elsbeth be safe?
Guilt spiraled through my brain in a cold, disturbing blast. Elsbeth’s not the only one who’s at risk here. What about Valerie? Lana? The others? All were innocent victims.
I needed to stay on the sidelines and observe. Watch. Listen. Learn as much as I could. And be ready to act if Elsbeth needed me.
Wiley had calmed down, but I didn’t trust he’d stay put. I imagined him bolting at the first chance.
“How about some breakfast?” I said.
He looked up with interest. “Okay. I could eat an elephant.”
We headed down Commercial Street, and soon found a small restaurant with an inexpensive breakfast menu. I thanked God I’d brought my “emergency” credit card along, because I was dead broke and we ordered a ton of food. But I knew we needed fuel to get us through the day. We needed strength, energy, and focus.
Porter, Wiley, and I ate as if it was our last meal.
Chapter 53
We reported to the police station at Kinski’s request, where they questioned us for hours. Wiley was shaken up by his interview, but when he discovered they actually had no interest in him, he seemed to relax. They took our statements in the back, asking hundreds of questions and thrusting mug shots in front of us. Both Porter and I identified Nate from the collection of photographs.
A federal task force set up in the same police station, and soon maps and photos spread over a bulletin board, covering all the existing wanted posters. We heard snatches of their conversation, and learned that soon their teams would be assimilated into the region around MacMillan Pier.
The agents asked us to leave early in the afternoon, reportedly to keep us “out of harm’s way.” I figured they considered us amateurs who’d blow their operation if we stayed in the area. They could have been right, but there was no way I’d leave the rescue of my soul mate to a bunch of guys who didn’t even know her.
We dutifully drove away in the Valiant, pretending to leave, but I circled around the outskirts of the town, parked about a mile out, and we walked back through the surging crowds. I recognized several of the agents while I strolled along the beach, trying to look like I fit in. I hoped they didn’t spot me.
Wiley took up his position behind a newspaper on a corner street bench. Porter lay on the beach beside me. We lounged on hot pink towels pretending to read paperbacks under a cheap umbrella we’d bought, again, with my credit card. I hoped we melted into the pairs of men and women dotting the beach. To be specific, the men were paired with men, and the women with women.
Although I was surprised at first, Porter assured me that these same-gender couples were quite normal in Provincetown. I grew up in a sheltered town in rural New York, and frankly, was a bit naïve. I certainly wasn’t used to the ways of the world. Boston had been the first step in my eye-opening journey to sophistication, and it appeared Provincetown would be an important stop on the route.
We lay back on towels wearing our newly purchased shades and swim gear. Porter wore a yellow print shirt over navy blue trunks. I wore white trunks with a blue stripe down the side and a lime green shirt. It was not my usual style, but it blended well with the current beach crowd.
“I think that fisherman’s a Fed,” Porter said, looking casually in the direction of the pier.
I’d spotted him, too. He held the pole in his hands, but rarely cast it out or checked his bait. Every once in a while I saw him speak into his watch.
There were a few other fixtures in the background who seemed too stationary to be authentic. The bag lady with the pushcart on the wharf had been there for hours. She kept checking through her possessions, but didn’t move. Two men sprinted up and down the pier in shorts and tank tops. They’d been jogging in large circles forever. All of these characters would seem very natural, however, if someone arrived on the scene, as Nate and his band of kidnappers might do. I was glad they were there, but worried about Elsbeth’s safety, nonetheless. Much as I knew a full-fledged rescue was needed, I couldn’t help but worry about her being caught in crossfire.
In spite of my attempts to fight it off, I fell asleep for a few hours on the sand. I’d been without sleep longer than it seemed humanly possible, since the night I left Rochester to rush back to Boston.
When I woke on the beach towel, a cool breeze was blowing up from the bay.
We watched, and waited, but saw nothing suspicious for several more hours.
The evening wore on, and the light began to fade. Bright shop lights twinkled from store windows, and the crowds grew rowdy. Loud music blared from a bar on the corner. Brightly dressed couples flowed in and out of the doorway. I had to walk up to the street to find a restroom occasionally, and noticed a female impersonator set up an impromptu stage on the sidewalk. He sang Judy Garland songs with a microphone plugged into a van. Dressed in a short orange dress and black fishnet stockings, he moved his muscular, shaved legs in time to the music and tossed his hair, as his five o’clock shadow grew in.
I tried not to stare. And his voice really was pretty good.
Crowds of girls shrieked, men walked by in skirts and makeup, and almost everyone seemed drunk or high. The beachgoers began to fade away, and we had to find another place to camp out. We ducked into a restroom, changed back into street clothes, and dumped the beachwear and umbrella in the trunk of the Valiant.
I thought again about Elsbeth and where they were keeping her.
Is she cold? Hungry? Jammed into a tiny truck bed with seventeen other girls?
I pushed the unwelcome thoughts away.
I will find her. I will find her and take her home again.
Porter and I strolled down the pier and chose a bench about midway, and Wiley wandered over to a bench near us. A few boys approached us, asking for dope. Another asked if we were looking for a good time. We let him think we were a couple to get rid of him.
“Just don’t make me hold your hand, Gus,” Porter laughed under his breath.
“What d’ya mean?” I chuckled. “Don’t hurt my feelings, honey.”
He smiled broadly. “Okay, sweet pants.”
I snorted a laugh. For a minute, I thought I’d burst into the kind of laughter that comes from holding in your fear forever; the kind of insane out-of-control laughter that turns into sobs. I sucked in a deep breath of salty air and tried to steady my nerves.
Wiley took out his harmonica and began to play a very decent rendition of “Confessin’ the Blues,” by the Rolling Stones. He took an empty container from a rubbish barrel and threw a few coins in it. Soon, people started chucking quarters and dimes toward him, gathering around to listen.
“He’s good,” I said. “Did he ever study music?”
Porter shook his head. “Don’t think so.”
The three of us continued to play our roles, covertly scanning the area. So far, I’d been watching over a dozen small fishing boats tied up at the wharf, coming and going. As each boat arrived at the dock, we watched it closely.
Most seemed legitimate. A lobsterman had taken in a huge haul and was washing down his boat and traps in the fading light. A small yacht pulled in alongside the far end. Truckloads of fish on ice trundled across the pier toward town. Carloads of tourists went back and forth, some parking on the pier and some turning around at the end to continue their tour of the town.
The Feds changed places and roles. As the natural light dimmed, I removed my sunglasses and donned the Red Sox baseball cap I’d bought earlier in the day. Porter wore a navy blue canvas hat with a brim. If Kinski was watching for us, he hadn�
��t spotted us yet.
A large, ugly trawler pulled in on our side of the pier. It was dark and silent, with just a few lights twinkling from the deck. My heartbeat kicked up a notch.
Could this be it?
Porter turned to get a better look. We pretended to chat, gesturing and laughing every so often.
I sensed tension in the air. Something seemed to shift, but I wasn’t sure if I imagined it.
Had the two lovers by the souvenir shop stopped embracing and turned to watch? Did the juggler near the beach miss a beat? Did the agent with the fishing pole set it aside and turn toward the trawler?
A large green truck rolled past, covered with a tarp securely tied down in the back, hiding its cargo.
Wiley suddenly stopped playing and swiveled to stare at us, his eyes wild.
I tensed, wishing I had a whole battalion of soldiers like Wiley and Porter to run at my signal and overpower the truck.
The rig stopped beside the trawler, close to the edge of the pier, which like all the streets in Provincetown was well lit by streetlights.
In a storm of blurry action, a dozen agents surrounded the truck, barking orders and pointing guns at the vehicle. The driver leapt out the passenger side door and dove for the water. He landed with a loud splash, and two agents dove in after him.
A purple van with white lettering on its side drove past us. It passed the truck, and rolled further down the far side of the pier. I caught the message on its side. Singing Pines, nature’s got a place for you.
The army truck exploded, blasting agents back and showering them with sparks of fire and debris. Men and women shouted and screamed, a fire truck’s siren shrieked in the distance, and bloodied agents tumbled across the wharf.
“Oh no. Elsbeth.” Was she inside the truck? My heart nearly burst. I reeled back in horror, racing toward the truck with Wiley and Porter in tow.
The back of the truck burned in a massive fireball, throwing black smoking clouds into the sky.
Elsbeth.
My heart splintered, and then it hit me.
Wait. The van. The purple van.
With a sudden jolt, I realized the woman behind the wheel of the van was Carol. Porter and Wiley were close behind me, and when we neared the explosion, I gestured to the van.
“Come on!” I had to shout over the sound of sirens and the crackling of the fire. “It’s a decoy. They must’ve been tipped off. Look, it’s Carol, the woman from Singing Pines.”
We sprinted toward the van. I reached it just as Carol parked beside the yacht bobbing innocently at the end of the wharf.
When she emerged, I tackled her. Woman or not, she had taken my wife and I didn’t care. I knocked her to the ground and was surprised when she fought back like an alley cat, scratching and biting my arms and face.
She yelled so loud that Nate jumped out from the passenger side of the van and grabbed me, yanking me off her.
“You again?” he screamed. “I’ve had enough of you bastards.” He slugged me hard on the chin.
My head snapped back and I reeled from the blow, saw double, recovered, and rammed him hard with my shoulder.
He outmaneuvered me, kicking me hard in the stomach. The breath was forced out of me. I gagged and doubled over. Visions of Nate standing over Valerie in the bedroom of the yellow house swam through my brain. Angered by the image, I straightened and ran toward him. I ducked when he swung and grabbed him, pulling him around. My arm encircled his neck as I squeezed hard.
Payback.
I grabbed his arm with one hand and applied pressure to his Adam’s apple with the other. His arms were sinewy and strong and his muscle-bound neck twisted under my grip.
With surprising agility, he flipped me over his shoulder. I landed on the ground in front of him, and the air whooshed from my lungs. My head hit the tarmac with a crash and the stars above spun in lazy circles.
A shadow moved above me, blocking the stars. Nate was about to stomp on my neck with his boot. Adrenaline spiked me into action. I avoided a crushed larynx at the last moment, rolled, grabbed his leg, and pulled him down. I straddled him and pummeled his face. He reached for my eyes and dug his thumbs viciously into the sockets. I reeled back to get away from him, grabbing at my eyes, and howling in pain.
He was quick. Leaping up onto his feet in a split second, he smashed his fists against my face, splitting my lip and bowling me over backwards.
Porter arrived, crashed into Nate, and swung him around in a circle. He slammed him hard into the side of the van.
But the monkey man wasn’t easily stopped. Nate recovered quickly. He scrambled back to his feet, pulled a knife from his boot, and waved it at Porter.
I’d turned my back on Carol a minute too long, and felt her boot connect with the inside of my thigh. She’d just missed incapacitating me. My eyes and lip throbbed, but I ignored the pain, squinted against the flashing lights and fire, and swung around on her.
Another brute jumped out of the van, slamming the door behind him.
Wiley—God bless him—was on him in seconds. The two men tumbled around on the ground. I grabbed Carol by her hair, pulled her head back, and clamped my arm around her neck. She struggled like a wildcat, but I held tight to her.
Porter knocked the knife out of Nate’s hand and was grappling with him on the ground. They rolled over and over. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the flashing of emergency vehicles arriving on the other side of the wharf.
While we scuffled with Nate, Carol, and the other man, one of the Feds finally looked away from the catastrophe and wreckage and noticed us brawling on the other end of the pier. He gestured wildly in our direction, shouting to his team.
Carol began kicking backwards, and reached around to grab me in a place I didn’t want to be damaged. I squeezed her neck hard until she slumped to the ground in a faint.
A group of agents and cops streamed toward us, separating Nate from Porter, and Wiley from his assailant. The latter was blond and brutish, and matched Byron’s description of one of the men who’d attacked Lana.
Confusion reigned.
“Hands up,” a tall agent yelled, thrusting an assault rifle in my face.
“Those are the guys who kidnapped my wife,” I shouted.
“On the ground. Now! Both of you,” they shouted at Porter and Wiley.
“You’ve got it all wrong,” I said, struggling with the handcuffs slapped on my wrists. “Where’s Kinski? He knows us.”
Nate struggled to get away, but a stout policeman caught him and brought him back after a brief scuffle.
Carol came to, feigned surprise, and haughtily claimed, “I was just walking by, Officer. I’m here on a day jaunt. Please let me pass.”
The agents were confused, and kept us all at gunpoint.
“Look in the van,” I shouted above the din. “Just open the doors, for God’s sake.” My voice was raw-edged and hoarse. I barely recognized it or the fury with which I hollered. “Look in the goddamned van!”
One of the agents finally listened. I struggled forward, straining to see. He pulled on the back doors, but they were locked.
“The side door,” I said. “Open it.”
The agent in charge motioned for one of his men to try the door. It slid open noiselessly. There was no dome light inside and I couldn’t see a damn thing.
“Elsbeth!” I called.
An eerie silence ensued. Porter and I exchanged horrified glances. One agent disappeared inside and reappeared through the back doors, flinging them wide open. More Feds arrived on the scene and swarmed around the van, obscuring my view. I struggled to get out of the grip that held me.
“Are they in there?” I yelled.
No one answered.
Porter tried. “Are the girls in there?” he screamed at the top of his lungs, “Valerie! Are you there?”
Officer Kinski appeared out of nowhere. Finally. “Let those boys go,” he grunted. “They’re meddlesome kids, but they’re not the enemy.” He scowled at u
s.
I couldn’t wait another second. When they unlocked the cuffs, I pushed my way through the crowd of uniforms surging around the van. They tried to hold me back, but I made it through just in time to see someone helping Elsbeth out of the van.
“Honey,” I choked. My voice broke, and I forced my way toward her. “Elsbeth.”
She wore a gag. The agent untied it and pulled the dirty rag from her mouth. Her blouse was ripped and streaked with dirt. “Gus. Oh my God, Gus,” she croaked and fell into my arms.
Valerie, Lana, and the rest of the girls from the barracks emerged from the vehicle. Porter scooped Valerie in his arms and hugged her after the officers removed her gag and untied her hands. Lana sat on the side of the pier; two paramedics crowded around her. She sobbed into her hands and tried to wave them away.
I picked up Elsbeth and carried her away from the surging crowd.
She clung to me, sobbing hard. “I thought...I thought I’d never see you again,” she said.
I smoothed her unkempt hair and tried to wipe tears from her face. They kept coming, running down her cheeks in rivers.
“Those men...they were so horrible, Gus. They were monsters.”
I lowered her to the ground. Her feet touched the earth, but her arms circled my neck even tighter. I held her close, rocking her and murmuring in her ear. I waited for the wracking sobs to subside and secretly wished I could get Nate alone in an alley for just fifteen minutes.
For the first time in my life, I badly wanted to kill someone.
“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” I mumbled, over and over again.
She finally heaved a long quivery sigh and looked up at me. We stood face to face on the pier under legions of stars glittering in the black sky.
She shuddered. “I want to go home, Gus. Please, just take me home.”
Chapter 54
The Feds forced all the girls to be transported and treated at the nearest hospital. Although some of them objected, they finally gave in after the officials insisted their conditions be documented for the purposes of the trial that would eventually take place.
Spirit Me Away Page 19