Spirit Me Away

by Aaron Paul Lazar

  Everyone wanted justice. And some wanted revenge, including me.

  Exhausted and traumatized, the girls were loaded into a long wagon train of ambulances. Porter, Wiley, and I followed the caravan to the local hospital. We parked and found our way to the emergency room. When we entered the building, we walked toward the admittance desk. I was afraid they’d try to make us see doctors, too, since the three of us looked awful. I’d been dabbing at the gash on my lip for the past hour and my eyes burned and watered. Wiley had a ghastly lump on his forehead. Porter’s hand was severely swollen and three of his fingernails had already turned purple. We approached the woman and she coolly assessed us, apparently trying to figure out which of us needed treatment first.

  I explained that we weren’t there for help, but to see Elsbeth, Valerie, and Lana. We were banished to the waiting room. Porter and Wiley fell asleep in the corner of the room, in spite of the cacophony surrounding us.

  I yearned to sleep. My eyes burned, and the room swam. But I couldn’t. I was too keyed up.

  Looking back, I felt like a wuss for losing to Nate and only being able to capture the woman in the gang. But hell, she’d been a really nasty wildcat, and it hadn’t been all that easy.

  The officers who’d survived the explosion were treated with highest priority. To my horror, we discovered five of their colleagues were killed in the blast on The MacMillan Pier.

  Would they have died if we’d called the cops earlier? What if they’d raided the commune instead of the pier? Could we have spared their lives? Would our ladies have survived such an assault?

  The questions raced through my tired mind, and I couldn’t help but feel partially responsible for the brave officers’ deaths.

  I’d reacted with raw emotion, not with my head. I’d bumbled off to save the day with no resources and no sword, like a modern day Don Quixote in my old Plymouth Valiant, wielding my roll of duct tape and coil of rope as my only weapons.

  Then again, I reasoned, trying to find some salvation for my bruised ego, if they’d attacked the commune, there probably would have been an all out shoot fest. Those guards had weapons, and if the Feds had surrounded them and started shooting, I was sure the gang would have shot back. Who knows how many men would have been hit? How many would have died?

  I sat on the edge of my seat, blindly thumbing through magazines, absorbing the waves of misery surrounding me from the other people in the waiting room. After dozing off for three jittery hours and waking when someone laughed on the television, I saw a doctor approach us.

  “Elsbeth LeGarde?”

  “Yes!” I leapt from my seat, but it had been too quick for my tired body, for the room spun in circles.

  Porter grabbed my arm to steady me. “You okay, pal?”

  I got my balance back and thanked him, approaching the doctor. “I’m Elsbeth’s husband.”

  This intern was in his early thirties. He was prematurely bald, perspiring heavily, and painfully thin. “I’m sorry it’s taken so long. We had to deal with the critically wounded first. The police officers have interviewed your wife and taken photos for evidence, so at least that part is over. It’s always so complicated when there are rapes involved.”

  I froze. “What?”

  He blinked twice and looked down at his chart. “Oh, uh, sorry. She wasn’t a victim of rape. But several of the girls were violated. Your wife...” he hesitated as he looked back at the chart in his hand. “Oh yes. The baby’s fine. We believe she’s almost three months along.”

  I quickly back-calculated and realized our child would have been conceived shortly after our May 1st wedding.

  He turned to walk away.

  “Wait! Can I see her?” I asked.

  “Oh, of course you can. You could have been in there all along, Mr. LeGarde. You are her husband, after all.”

  “I’ve been waiting for hours, Doctor.” With frustration boiling inside me, I followed him back through the entrance to the treatment area.

  “Sorry, it’s been crazy tonight.”

  He didn’t look sorry, but I let it go, following him into the treatment rooms.

  He waved to a woman at the desk, to let her know it was okay. She busied herself with the next person in line.

  “Here she is,” he said, indicating a small curtained room.

  I walked inside and found her sitting up on the side of the bed.

  She smiled through her tears. “Honey,” she said. “Where have you been?”

  I snorted and laughed simultaneously. “Right outside. For the past six hours. They wouldn’t let me in.”

  She grabbed my hand and pulled me to her.

  “Are you okay?” I sat down beside her and cupped my hand over her cheek, searching her eyes and stroking her hair. I kissed her gently, avoiding contact with my split lip as best as I could.

  She nodded, hiccupped as she held back a sob, and smiled again. The emotions ran through her like quicksilver, shifting and flying from anguish to elation. “What’s wrong with your eyes? They’re all red,” she said.

  “I scuffled with the monkey man. I’ll be okay.”

  She touched my lip gently with her finger. “Ouch. That must hurt.”

  “It’s not so bad,” I said, leaning into her for another little kiss. It would be a while before I could kiss her hard, press my lips into hers as if I wanted to fuse with her.

  Running her hands through my hair, she turned my face toward her and locked eyes with me. “I have something to tell you, honey. Something big.”

  I knew what it was, but I kept my expression even. “Really? Don’t keep me in suspense, hon. What is it?”

  She took a deep breath and tightened her grip on my hand. “You’re going to be a father, Gus. I’m pregnant.”

  I let the smile bloom slowly across my face. My eyes brightened and I laughed out loud. “What? A father? A baby? Elsbeth, are you sure?”

  She nodded and we embraced and kissed again.

  She pulled back. “I haven’t brushed my teeth in days.”

  I scoffed. “So? Neither have I.”

  Her face crumpled and she began to cry.

  “It’s okay now. Don’t cry, baby.”

  She sniffled a bit longer and finally gained control. “I just wasn’t sure how you’d feel about it. The timing is…kind of rotten. We don’t have enough money to have a baby.”

  It finally hit me. She didn’t tell me because she was afraid I’d freak out. Poor thing, worrying about something I’d never, ever do. Sure, the timing wasn’t perfect. But who cared? We were talking about our first child.

  I drew her to me and stroked her hair, murmuring words of comfort. “Elsbeth.”

  She pulled back and looked at me.

  “I’m thrilled.”

  Her eyes widened. “I thought maybe you would’ve—”

  “What? Yelled at you for getting pregnant?” I chuckled. “I think I had a little to do with this, you know.”

  She nodded, lowering her eyes. “You did.”

  “We’re talking about our first child, sweetheart. Sure, it’ll be hard. We’ll have to scrimp and save even more. But we’ve got lots of friends who can help with him.”

  “Somehow I can’t picture Byron pushing a baby carriage.” She laughed, a question glimmering in her eyes. “Gus?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What makes you think our baby’s a boy?”

  A laugh burst from me, and it felt so good. “Okay, okay. Boy or girl, I’d be happy with either, you should know that.”

  She chuckled and poked me in the belly. “Okay. Long as you remember that, honey.”

  “Yes ma’am,” I whispered obediently. I flashed her a wide smile, winced when it hurt my lip, but received one in return. “Hey. I have something for you.” I reached into my pocket for her wedding ring. “Here. We found this in a pawn shop.” I slid it onto her finger.

  “Oh, Gus.” She teared up again. “I didn’t think I’d ever see this again.” Sobbing, she fell against my chest.
“Thank you.”

  I tilted her chin up so our eyes met. “You’re welcome, honey. Now let’s get you out of here.”

  Chapter 55

  There were problems with Valerie’s treatment. Since she had no knowledge of her past, no form of identification, and no records, they’d held off caring for her for hours. Finally, one of the cops took pity on her and called in a favor with the hospital administrator. The rumor around the ER was he threatened that when the story broke, the place would be alive with reporters, and if one of the victims was left untreated or thrown back out into the street, it wouldn’t look good for them.

  Finally, after checking her physically, they paged a psychiatrist from the Mental Health wing. He joined the discussion regarding her amnesia with the resident in charge, told her what we already knew, and finally released her into our care.

  They concluded that in time, she’d remember.

  What a revelation.

  By the time we were out of there, it was almost dawn.

  In spite of the early hour, the press was ready, swarming around us, their flash bulbs sparking. So many questions were shouted at us I felt as if we were under attack, and I seriously worried about Porter’s reaction to the onslaught.

  Would he freak out?

  I stared into the lens of television cameras, and pictured my parents seeing us on the tube. I worried they’d have heart attacks if they knew what had happened to Elsbeth.

  I raised my arm to hide my face, just like criminals did in the Perry Mason reruns my grandmother used to watch with me. Elsbeth did the same, and we pushed through the crowds. Valerie wasn’t as lucky, and they attacked her like demons swooping in from fiery skies. As soon as they began to ask her questions, she broke down sobbing and Porter forced them out of their path. I noticed she wore the locket and amber ring again, realizing Porter must’ve returned them to her in the hospital.

  Lana and Wiley were smart—they sneaked out a back door and met us at the car several minutes later.

  I drove back to Boston in two and a half hours, avoiding sleep only because I stopped at two Howard Johnson’s for strong cups of coffee and because Wiley’s snoring was the loudest I’d ever heard. Elsbeth and Lana sat in the front with me. Porter, Valerie, and Wiley slept in the back. My eyes stung and the tissues beneath them swelled. I figured I’d look like a raccoon for the next few days. The blood from the cut on my lip had dried over to a thick gel, but it had begun to smart and I had to drink out of the side of my mouth.

  I talked quietly with my wife, answering her questions and explaining how Wiley helped us trace them to Provincetown. I shared the story of the fire at the commune and that I’d invited Porter and Wiley to stay with us. She agreed wholeheartedly. If it hadn’t been for Wiley’s phone call, she’d be on her way to a life of sex slavery in some Godforsaken land.

  She told me about the horrors the girls had endured, including the brutal treatment they suffered at the hands of Nate. Once again, I wished I’d hurt him more, hit him harder, or tossed his hairy simian body into the ocean. Ridiculous thoughts raced through my brain.

  I thought the entire clan of worldwide monkeys should sue him for false representation. Monkeys were playful, smart, and relatively peaceful, right? With these crazy thoughts uppermost in my mind, I almost laughed hysterically when I turned onto Route 24 and headed north toward Boston.

  My wrath rose to ballistic levels when Elsbeth quietly revealed what had almost happened to them. She’d heard talk of Korea, Singapore, and Malaysia. She’d overheard one guy on the phone, planning to meet up in London with potential customers at some kind of a slave auction.

  I couldn’t imagine the hell all the girls who had come before Elsbeth, Valerie, and Lana had experienced. They were still out there, maybe living in some sick sultan’s harem, or being forced to have sex with anyone who wanted them. It was very likely they were being treated like dirt, like subhuman beings.

  Would the investigation move on to London? To the Orient? Would they find and rescue these girls, or would they be lost forever? I prayed so hard on that long dark drive home. I prayed for the investigators, for the girls’ families who were left behind with no knowledge of their whereabouts, and that the girls who’d been stolen and sold would be found.

  In silence, I drove our crew home to Boston, where we arrived at eight-thirty in the morning.

  I settled Wiley on the couch and Porter in Byron’s room. A pang of guilt washed over me. Poor Byron. I hadn’t even given him a thought since yesterday. I’d have to lie down for a few hours and then call the hospital to find out how he was doing. I’d pick him up, get him home again, and fall into bed for a few years.

  Elsbeth insisted on showering before she slipped beneath the covers. I was asleep before she got into bed, and didn’t wake for ten hours.

  Chapter 56

  August 9, 1969

  Two and a half weeks later, I sat at the kitchen table drinking Postum. It tasted a little like coffee, but didn’t really satisfy the craving I had for the authentic brew.

  My wife bopped around the kitchen preparing our Saturday night dinner, as if we hadn’t gone through the most grueling summer on record. As if she hadn’t been drugged and raped by that bastard I still wanted to kill. And as if she hadn’t been kidnapped by monsters.

  She noticed my cup of non-coffee and brightened. “No caffeine,” she said, kissing the top of my head.

  I grimaced and sipped again. Smiling, I faked it. “Mmm. Good.” I watched her chop and peel the vegetables, so grateful to have her here, safe and sound. “Sure you don’t want any help, hon?”

  “No thanks. It’s my turn tonight. Just sit and keep me company.”

  “Okay.” I took another taste of the weird brew, and wondered if I’d ever get used to the flavor. As Elsbeth chattered about the meal, I found my brain drifting back over the past few weeks.

  When we returned from The Cape the morning after we found the girls, the building superintendent had presented us with fifteen panicked messages from Siegfried. Apparently Sig had known his twin was in danger and had tried to get someone to drive him to Boston. They didn’t believe him, and insisted he stay home to finish his studies. The agony of not knowing had tortured him so much that now he called us twice a day, every day.

  In spite of my attempts to avoid publicity, a giant photo appeared on the front page of the Boston Globe the morning after the rescue. The papers had featured us over the next few weeks in bold headlines. “White Slave Ring Busted On Cape Cod,” “Mobsters Brought To Justice,” “Slave Girls Come Home,” and “More Arrested In White Slave Ring.”

  For days after, reporters called to get exclusives. Finally, Elsbeth, Valerie and Lana agreed to speak to one of the more reputable female reporters from the Globe. They’d given an exclusive, detailed story, and were paid handsomely for it. We paid off our credit card with part of our share, and put the rest in the bank for the baby.

  We called both sets of parents and told them a filtered version of the event. Elsbeth announced our marriage to her very surprised folks, and we shocked them all by sharing the good news about their grandchild-to-be. My mother had gone through the roof with excitement, and once again, my father asked me to transfer to The Eastman School of Music. I just laughed and said I’d apply again next year. Not that I expected to get in—ever—it seemed harder to get into that school than it was to understand differential equations, which I’d heard was horrendous from some engineering students we’d met from Northeastern University. I was glad it wasn’t on my schedule at the conservatory.

  Elsbeth tossed some onions into the skillet. They sizzled in the pan as she pushed them around with a wooden spoon.

  My eyes started to burn from the oils released from the pan, but the aroma was so good I just stayed where I was and took it. “Smells good,” I said, noticing I’d drunk half the mug of Postum without realizing.

  She smiled over her shoulder. “Of course. Fresh yellow onions from the farmers’ market. It’s as nat
ural as you can get, Gus.”

  We were even heavier into our natural kick now. Organic. Natural. Unprocessed.

  I sighed.

  Sometimes I just wanted another donut.

  Sitting in the kitchen with my wife bustling all around me, I smiled at her every so often, and continued to mull over the events of the days following the rescue on the MacMillan Pier.

  Byron had been released from the hospital and returned home to us two days after all the action was over. He healed quickly, wore a fluorescent green knitted African hat while his hair grew back, and soon started singing his heart out for concerts and competitions again.

  We found a way to accommodate everyone in the apartment. Wiley didn’t mind sleeping on the old couch, as a matter of fact, he’d seemed absolutely thrilled to be there and appeared to thrive under the surprising ministrations of Lana.

  Porter worked daily with his parents rebuilding the diner. It was to be an exact replica of the original. His folks had moved in with his aunt’s family in Dorchester. It was a tiny flat, so they were relieved that Porter was able to live with us, crashing on a sleeping bag in Byron’s room.

  He and Valerie had grown closer, but as far as I knew, there was no physical contact beyond hugs and handholding. She had been brutalized too many times for more, and he respected her spiritual and physical frailties.

  Valerie found an old guitar at a garage sale, and had been playing and singing to us every night now, for weeks. She had a lovely voice and amazing strumming skills. We’d grown to look forward to an evening of music almost every night, from Byron’s arias, to my piano sonatas, to Valerie’s folk songs.

  Valerie poked her head into the kitchen, guitar in hand. “You guys need any help?”

  Elsbeth shook her head. “No, hon. We’ve got it covered. Just relax and enjoy. And if you want to sing us some songs, we can hear you from in here.”

  A smile lit up Valerie’s face. “Okay. How about some songs from ‘The Sound of Music’?”