Spirit Me Away Page 10

We sank into a dark and dreary silence, contemplating the horror of the event and somehow trying to figure out how we would ever look into each other’s eyes again.

  Chapter 27

  At five the next morning, I sat alone on the same park bench where we had found Valerie lost and crying, and so very forlorn. Just last week.

  I felt a little forlorn myself.

  Moisture seeped into my clothes and clung to my hair due to the low, wet fog creeping through the park. An oily-looking grackle pecked at breadcrumbs on the sidewalk, and I tossed him a few more crumbs from the muffin I’d bought, but hadn’t eaten. For the past two hours, I’d wandered the streets without purpose, and stopped in an all-night diner for a coffee and the dried-out muffin.

  Pulling my gray sweatshirt tighter, I shivered from the cold, from the dampness soaking into my spirit, and from the horrific thoughts of what happened to my wife in that bedroom after the Led Zeppelin concert.

  A woman trotted in my direction with her arms folded over her chest, footsteps tapping the wet asphalt with a regular beat. She moved to the other side of the walk and lowered her head when she saw me on the bench.

  Not your usual time for a crumb-scatterer. Who feeds birds before the sun comes up?

  Glancing at me quickly, she slowed a little when I didn’t lunge at her, and continued on her way, probably relieved I wasn’t a beggar or murderer.

  Or a rapist.

  My morose thoughts wouldn’t stop.

  Why had Elsbeth gone to the concert in the first place?

  Stop it. You’re thinking like a jerk.

  Okay, so the concert wasn’t a problem. I shouldn’t be mad about that.

  But why the hell had she gone to that damned party?

  To protect Valerie.

  I needed to remember that.

  My throat tightened again. As I asked myself questions and answered them, I started to feel less judgmental.

  Last night, before I left to walk the streets, I’d watched her sleeping. I’d stared at the lips he kissed and the bruises on her arms where he’d gripped her. I’d gazed at the innocent face hiding the troubled mind within, and…I pictured him on top of her.

  I’d lain awake for hours. Angry. Furious.

  I hated to admit it, but I’d been almost as angry with Elsbeth as I had been at the rapist.

  Logic dictated that she hadn’t willingly participated. I knew that. Rationally. But emotionally, I felt crushed. If she hadn’t smoked the pot…if she hadn’t lost her grip on reality...

  The only sounds that punctuated the still Sunday morning were the occasional belches of smoke from a bus or the gentle splatter of the rain that began to fall. I buried my head in my arms, leaning back against the wet bench.

  I was tired. Exhausted, really. And still so damned mad.

  Someone touched my shoulder, and I jumped.

  “Gus?” Elsbeth’s eyes were puffy from crying and wide with concern. She wore an old slicker over her bathrobe and her pink fuzzy slippers. Raindrops slid down her forehead and splattered on her eyelashes. Her dark curls hung loose and wet and her lower lip trembled.

  Sitting down beside me, she curled her feet beneath her, and reached up to caress my face with the back of her hand. Her fingers were cold.

  “I was worried. You weren’t there, and then I looked out the window and saw you here, under the streetlight.” Her voice cracked. “I’m so sorry, Gus. I really screwed up. I didn’t know—”

  “Shh.” I reached for her and hugged her fiercely. She shivered in my embrace. I didn’t know whether it was due to the trauma, the cold moisture in the air, or both.

  “It’s okay. I’m here for you, baby.” I patted her back and rocked her. Like a balloon losing all of its air in one big whoosh, the negative feelings I’d been fighting all fell away. I just wanted to love her. Protect her. Let her know it was okay.

  “You didn’t know what was in that punch. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she sobbed. “And so ashamed. I feel so stupid. I should have known better.”

  I repeated, “It’s okay now,” until she quieted. Gradually, I began to believe my own words, ashamed for the thoughts I’d been having.

  It will be okay. Our marriage will survive. We’ll get past this.

  A squirrel chattered from the tree above. The mist lifted and the rain stopped. A shaft of sunlight peeked through the burgeoning clouds that rolled over the buildings to the east.

  We stood and walked back to the apartment silently, holding hands. Finally, we tumbled into bed in our wet clothes, clinging to each other until we gave in to sleep, wrapped in damp bed sheets and the elusive promise of tomorrow.

  Chapter 28

  In my nightmare, Nate stood over me with his club held high in the air, poised and ready to strike. His simian features wrinkled in pleasure, and he brayed with laughter, looking lasciviously at Elsbeth, who cowered in the corner of the room.

  His eyes glittered cold, like charcoal buttons sparkling against his leathery skin, and his vulgar mouth spread into a slow smile.

  My father stood at the foot of the bed, shaking his head in disapproval. His honest, brown eyes were filled with concern. Fear and guilt washed through me.

  The monkey man struck. I raised my arms in defense as blows began to rain about my head.

  I’ll be dead before I’ve had a chance to tell my folks about Elsbeth. They’ll never know we got married.

  I woke to the sound of Byron’s voice. He shook my shoulder again. “Get up, old chap. It’s someone on the phone for Valerie. This one sounds legit.”

  “What? Huh?”

  “It’s almost noon, Gus. C’mon. You’ve got a phone call.”

  I shook off the nightmare like a dog after a rainstorm, took one reassuring look at the body of my wife beneath the sheets, and stumbled to the living room. The phone was off the hook by the couch.

  I held my hand over the receiver and whispered to Byron, “Did you mention her name?”

  He shook his head. “No. Not a word.”

  “Good.” I put the receiver to my ear. “Hello?”

  “Yeah. Hi. I just got back in town and saw your ad. Been on tour with a band. Name’s Clive Muntzy.”

  Shocked, I hesitated. Clive. That was the name the drug addict mentioned when talking about Valerie and Harvard Square. The one who said “he let you go?”

  “Okay, Clive” I said, with a meaningful glance at Byron, whose eyes widened at the name. “And you think you know this girl?”

  “Yeah. She was all messed up, wandered away from the last gig when we played the Cambridge Commons. I’ve been wondering what the hell happened to her.”

  “And?” I asked.

  “And, well, your ad sounded like her. Valerie’s got long, red hair, she’s about five feet four, slim build, blue eyes that look kinda purple at times, you know?”

  My heart skipped a beat. “And what did you say your friend’s name was?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Valerie. Valerie Coolidge.”

  “And what was your relationship with her, Clive?” I asked, still wondering about the “he actually let you go?” comment.

  “We played in the same band. She’s plays strings, but she specializes on the lute. And we are kinda…um…involved.”

  I held my hand over the receiver and whispered to Byron. “Well, he definitely knows her. Think we should meet him?”

  Byron nodded and mouthed the word, “Yes.”

  “Okay. Mr. Muntzy, was it? We’ve got Valerie here. Sounds like you do know her. She has the lute you mentioned in her guitar case.”

  “Yep, that’s Val all right. She carries everything in that case.”

  “She does,” I said.

  “So, can I come get her now?” he said.

  “Yeah, but I’d still like to see some proof of your identity and maybe of hers, if you’ve got it.”

  “Really?” he said, as if he couldn’t believe I’d ask such a thing. “Hey, and what did you mean by ‘
no memory’ in your ad. That was kinda weird.”

  “It’s the truth. She doesn’t know who she is. Can’t remember a thing.”

  There was a long silence on the other end of the line. “Lost her memory? What the hell. Is this some kind of a joke? Is she shackin’ up with you, man?”

  I hadn’t expected that reaction. “No, she’s not. I’m married. When my wife and I found her, she didn’t even know her own name. Had a huge bump on her head and bruises all over. It was like she’d been in a car accident or something.”

  “What?”

  It seemed to take a while for the information to sink in.

  “Clive? Do you know what happened to her?”

  “Hell, no. She just got pretty messed up after our last concert and went missing on us, like I said.”

  “Where’s Valerie from? Does she have folks around here?”

  He seemed to pull himself together and answered in a more normal tone of voice. “Uh, no. She came from somewhere in the southwest, I think. Arizona, or New Mexico, maybe? She left home and hitched up with us about six months ago.”

  “You live around here?” I asked, suddenly concerned that Valerie would be returning to some kind of vagabond nomads who traveled in a van from bar to bar to play their gigs.

  “Nah. We stay with friends most of the time. The band rents rooms sometimes, other times we camp out. Depends on the city and the weather. So,” he changed the subject abruptly. “When can I pick her up?”

  “Uh,” I looked at my watch. It was just past noon. “Why don’t you meet us for dinner at the Coffee Cup diner near the Commons. But be prepared, Clive. She might not remember you. She might not go easily.”

  “That’s crap. She’ll remember me,” he said. “She’d never forget me.”

  We hung up after agreeing on six o’clock. I wanted to give Valerie a chance to wake up and prepare for another shock.

  Valerie Coolidge, I mused, walking over toward her room to glance inside. Lana and she were still asleep.

  So that’s your name.

  Chapter 29

  The Coffee Cup was packed when we arrived, but Porter found us a booth and the three of us slid into it a little before six o’clock. He went back to the kitchen while we sat and waited for Valerie’s boyfriend to appear.

  “This really feels like déjà vu,” Elsbeth said, smiling tentatively at Valerie.

  I looked sideways at her and an unbidden image flashed across my brain. I closed my eyes, trying to get the vision of the rapist out of my mind. Inwardly, I shook myself and pushed it away.

  She caught my glance, smiled sadly at me, and looked down at her hands. I knew she was thinking about it, too.

  I reached one arm around her shoulders, sipped some iced tea, and looked through the streaky window to the street. Clive was due in five minutes.

  Valerie warmed her hands on a coffee mug. “I know, it’s really kind of eerie. I just hope it ends better this time. I’m kinda nervous. What if I don’t like this guy? I mean, what if I don’t remember him? What if he’s a creep?”

  Porter showed up with an order pad in hand. “Excuse me for butting in, guys, but Valerie, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Right, Gus?”

  I nodded, totally agreeing with Porter’s take on it. “Absolutely. You don’t even have to talk to the guy if you don’t like him. Even if he really knows you.”

  Valerie’s eyes flicked to the door and back. “Okay.”

  Elsbeth said, “He’d better bring proof.”

  Porter’s face tensed. “Damn right.”

  “So, he said he was my old man?” Valerie said, using the current popular term for boyfriend, and gave me a ragged smile, followed by an edgy laugh. “And we played in a band together? Why can’t I remember that?” A shivery sigh escaped her lips. “Oh, God. I’m so nervous.” The glow of the late afternoon sun played on her face, and an expression of wistful hope shimmered in her eyes. I prayed this would be it, and that she’d finally discover who she was. Even if she didn’t like the guy who came to claim her.

  Today she wore her hair in curly pigtails, and she looked younger than ever before.

  I still partially blamed her for what happened after the concert, but I was trying to get over it. Elsbeth had been filling me in with details of their night out. As far as they both could remember, Valerie had fallen asleep on a couch at the party and hadn’t been assaulted.

  Valerie watched out the window, chewing her bottom lip.

  Elsbeth leaned closer to the jukebox and punched in the numbers for “Hey Jude.” The sound of Paul McCartney’s voice filled the air, lending a calming influence.

  I tapped my fingers to the beat and wondered about Valerie’s future. What would this guy be like? Would he be nasty? Or nice?

  I flipped through the song menu on the jukebox, glancing over at her occasionally. “I’m kinda worried about you, Valerie. What Clive described sounds like pretty loose living. I mean, staying in hotel rooms, or camping out all the time? It doesn’t sound very good to me.”

  “Oh, Gus,” she said. “I appreciate your concern, but you sound like my father.” Her face crumpled. “I wish I could remember my father. I wonder what he’s like?”

  Elsbeth clucked at her. “It won’t be long now. You should be able to locate your family soon. We can start calling all the Coolidges in whatever town you’re from—in Arizona or New Mexico, or wherever Clive said—and then, before you know it, you’ll be reunited with your family.”

  Valerie’s expression tightened. At first I thought it was something she saw outside the window. Then, the color drained from her face. She put her hand to her mouth and raced to the restroom. Again.

  Talk about déjà vu.

  Elsbeth made a series of sympathetic clucks. “Oh, the poor kid. She’s really got it bad.”

  “I thought it’s called morning sickness?” I said. “It’s dinner time.”

  “She’s not following the rules, is she?” Elsbeth trilled a laugh. “But I guess it can happen any time of day.”

  Porter still held the order pad in hand. “You guys want anything to eat?” He refilled Elsbeth’s coffee and looked at my glass. “More iced tea, Gus?”

  “Yes, thanks, to the tea; no to the food. We’ll wait ‘til after Clive shows up.”

  He looked toward the restrooms. “She’s sick again, huh?”

  Elsbeth nodded. “Yeah. Poor thing.”

  “When’s the guy supposed to...”

  Before he could finish his sentence, a man wandered over to our booth. He’d been loitering near the cash register with his hands in his pockets. His long red hair fell in a greasy curtain over his ears. Parted in the middle, its strands drooped over his shoulders. The blond beard looked patchy, shorn too close in some areas and curling out in others.

  “I’m looking for Valerie Coolidge,” he said. His watery blue eyes—nested in a network of fine red veins—darted nervously from person to person.

  “I’m Gus LeGarde.” I stood and held out my hand. “You’re in the right place. She just went to the restroom. Would you like to sit?”

  Elsbeth’s shoulders slumped ever so slightly, but she smiled politely. Clive wasn’t the handsome prince she’d envisioned for Valerie. She recovered quickly, however, and welcomed Clive into the booth. “Sure. Have a seat. She’ll be right back.”

  A tattoo of a spider stretched over the back of his hand. It was artfully drawn and disturbingly realistic. As he drummed his fingers on the booth table, the spider legs moved up and down. We waited. And waited.

  “Honey? Should you check on her and see if she’s okay?” I said.

  Elsbeth nodded. “Okay. Sure.”

  I slid over and let her out. “So, you like The Beatles?” While trying rather unsuccessfully to make small talk, I couldn’t help but wonder if this greasy-haired fellow was the baby’s father.

  He nodded toward the jukebox. “Love The Beatles, man. They’re still so cool, huh?”

  “Sure are.” Uncomfor
table, I looked toward the restrooms, wondering what was taking the girls so long.

  Elsbeth appeared at a run. “That is so strange,” she said. “Valerie’s gone. Porter’s father said she ducked out through the back door.”

  Clive shot to his feet. “We’ve gotta catch her. Maybe she’s on a bad trip.”

  Porter elbowed his way in front of Clive. Elsbeth and I exchanged wary glances, and ran after them out the diner’s back door. We rounded the corner back to the main street, and collided with Clive, who’d stopped to stare.

  A crowd formed in the street around an orange Datsun that had crashed into a building nearby. The car was smoking, skewed up on the sidewalk with a crumpled fender, and a policewoman was trying to move the crowd back.

  It was then I saw the girl lying crumpled on the road. I thought I caught a glimpse of red hair, and froze. In the distance, the wail of an ambulance screamed.

  My heart dropped to my feet when we got closer. Elsbeth clutched my arm, moaning. “Oh, no. No, no, no!”

  I heard Porter cry out as well.

  “Valerie!” He pushed through the crowd toward her and knelt by her side, calling to the policewoman. “Help her. Please.”

  Chapter 30

  An elderly man in a tattered sweater fanned Valerie’s face, looking up at us. “We already called the ambulance.” He looked up nervously. “It wasn’t my fault. I swear, she ran right out in front of me.”

  Porter dropped to her side, his face a study in misery. “Oh, God. Valerie.”

  She lay on her stomach with one knee drawn up. One of her long pigtails had flipped over her head and lay like a lone soldier on the grimy street. Her sandals sat skewed in the gutter. She moaned, and her hand twitched. Blood seeped from beneath her body.

  Elsbeth crouched beside her and I scanned the street for the ambulance. I heard it, but it didn’t seem to be getting any closer.

  Clive shifted from foot-to-foot with his back against the building. He ran his hands nervously through his long hair as if he didn’t know what to do or where to stand.

  Porter felt Valerie’s wrist for a heartbeat. “Pulse is strong,” he said, nearly choking on the words.