Spirit Me Away Read online

  “Two more righteous kills added to the notches on my belt. I don’t think I have any more room for another notch, tell the truth.” His shoulders slumped.

  “Thank you,” Valerie said, laying a hand on his cheek. “If it weren’t for you and Gus, here…”

  Porter nodded, his eyes closed. “You’re welcome.”

  Tears brimmed in the corners of her eyes and her lower lip trembled. “How did you know enough to follow me, guys? How did you know Jarvis wasn’t my brother?”

  Porter seemed to have shut down, so I answered her. “We had a really bad feeling about him, Valerie. There was something about him that just didn’t gel.”

  She gulped back a small sob. “I feel so stupid. So gullible.”

  We sat in the flickering dark, swaying beside each other.

  Her voice dropped to a whisper and I had to lean closer to hear her. “I wonder if I’ll ever find out who I am.”

  “Of course you will,” I said, patting her arm. “We’ll keep searching, and meanwhile, you can stay with us, as long as you need to. Okay?”

  She sniffled and murmured, “Okay. Thank you, Gus.”

  The train rumbled on. We sat side by side in our damp clothes on the hard plastic seats. When we emerged onto the Boston Commons, we dropped a subdued Porter at the diner, and went home to figure out our next move.

  Chapter 21

  When we got back to the apartment and started to tell Elsbeth what happened, she grew quiet, and the color drained from her face. The expression in her eyes was almost accusing, as if I’d been responsible for almost getting myself and the others killed.

  Maybe I had. Maybe I should have just called the police, or jumped Jarvis in the street before he got to the house.

  Lana and Byron arrived seconds later, perching nearby on armchairs and peppering us with rapid-fire questions about why Valerie hadn’t stayed with her family.

  In truth, it felt like a movie, not like real life. How could something so sordid, so incredibly insane, happen in our backyard? To us?

  Tom Rush softly sang “Urge for Going” in the background as Valerie went on to describe more details of the horrifying events.

  I couldn’t listen anymore. It was too much. I pushed the truth away and distanced myself from the discussion, watching Elsbeth. I focused on her dark, flashing eyes and the way her mahogany curls spilled over her soft neck.

  My multi-talented wife was a nurturing friend and lover, a skilled pianist, and a fabulous manager of money (except when she harbored an obsession to go to Woodstock); and she ran circles around me in most areas. But her instincts regarding human nature were flawed. She was too naive, too trusting, permanently ripe for a scam, and the last to suspect foul play.

  Although my nature was positive in general, I’d found myself inclined to trust a little less, believe a little more slowly, and ask for proof more often, in the hopes of protecting my sweet Elsbeth from the evil that abounded in the world around us. In January, fourteen men were executed in Baghdad for being Israeli spies. And back in February, terrorists had bombed the Stock Exchange in Montreal, which was all too close for comfort. In the same month, Sirhan Sirhan just admitted that he’d killed Bobby Kennedy last year. When would the killing stop? And what was coming of our world?

  Valerie’s guitar case was propped in the corner. I got up to flip the LP to the second side, and picked up the lute that was still resting in the case. I sat down and lightly strummed the strings. As Tom Rush sang in the background, I picked out the tune on the lute.

  My roommates gasped when Valerie described the murder of the man in the suit. I tuned out again and focused on the song. I’d seen enough today.

  When she finished, I handed the lute to Valerie. I wanted to change the topic, and move onto something less unsettling.

  She looked up at me with a frail smile, but I wasn’t sure if she’d try to play the instrument or just set it aside again.

  Elsbeth slumped back against the couch. Her eyes defocused and she twirled a lock of hair around one finger. I wanted to take her in my arms and tell her everything would be okay, but I didn’t think she was ready. She needed to process what had happened first.

  Byron and Lana both let out long, low sighs and shifted on their seats. Byron fingered the neckline of his white turtleneck as Lana crossed and re-crossed her shapely legs.

  “Wow,” Lana said. “That is un-freakin’ believable. Like the movies.”

  Just what I was thinking.

  Byron nodded and glanced over at me. “You okay, old chap?”

  “Sure,” I said, gesturing to Valerie who held the lute gently in her hands. I wanted to get the attention off me. “Hey, guys. Something’s happening.”

  Valerie’s eyes closed and her hands slipped into position on the bridge. I hurried to turn down the stereo and she began to strum the strings. Out of nowhere, she crooned in a soft, sweet voice. The tune was melancholy, its minor tunes reminiscent of medieval times. For just a moment, I pictured Romeo and Juliet professing their love, she in the balcony, radiant with shining eyes, and Romeo, climbing the trellis to reach her and steal a kiss. I saw Olivia Hussey in my mind’s eye, in the movie made famous by Franco Zeffirelli. The movie had come out last year, and I still had a little crush on Miss Hussey. I’d never told Elsbeth about it, but then again, I thought she’d fallen pretty hard for Leonard Whiting, who played a pretty romantic version of Romeo. She tended to like those guys in tights.

  Valerie finished the song, lowered the lute, and opened her violet eyes slowly, as if awakening to a new day.

  Byron was the first to speak. “Well, look at you! You remembered how to play that thing.”

  She glanced down at her hands as if they weren’t her own. “I... I… guess I did. I wasn’t really thinking about it. It just sort of came to me.”

  Elsbeth reached over to give her a quick hug. “Do you remember anything else, honey?”

  A smile burst onto her lips. “I think I used to sing in church. I remember the minister, he was so nice. And…” Her face crumpled. “Nothing else comes to mind.”

  I sat down across from her. “Maybe that’s the key.”

  Everyone looked at me like I was crazy.

  Lana stretched her arms high and wide. “What the hell are you talking about, Sherlock. What key? I don’t get it.” She pouted at me, lowering her dark eyes in a mock challenge.

  I stood and began to pace. “What I mean is sliding sideways into the memories, instead of expecting a blinding flash of lightning to suddenly open up her brain to the past in one big whoosh. Sideways, little by little. Like...”

  Valerie suddenly looked up at Byron, then back at me. “Portamento?” she asked.

  I nodded. “Precisely. Just like the portamento.”

  Chapter 22

  On Thursday, the next morning, Porter and I hotly argued in the diner’s storeroom about our civic duty.

  I wanted to go down to the local station and spill it all, but Porter wanted to cover it up. Finally, we compromised. He called them from a pay phone, explained what happened in detail, but didn’t give his name. They told him he needed to come to the station, and he hung up.

  Although it didn’t sit right with me, I begrudgingly agreed to keep silent to save him from possible charges or jail time. After all, he was a hero.

  Right?

  Should he have killed those guys? Couldn’t he just have incapacitated them, then called the cops in to handle the rest of it?

  I thought about it on my walk back from the diner. Who was I to judge? What would I have done if I’d been first to reach Nate? I’d probably have punched him, dragged him off Valerie, and made enough noise to alert the two men in the other room.

  Hmm.

  They probably would have burst in and shot us, rather than trying to kill each other.

  As unsettling as the killings were, I decided Porter had undeniably saved our lives, and maybe dozens of young women who would have been snatched for sale after Valerie.

&nb
sp; Of course, there was always that second black car. Who knows what those bastards would do to the next girls they kidnapped?

  When I reached the apartment, my roommates were in a frenzy.

  Elsbeth led the fray, leaping up onto me and wrapping her legs around my waist. “Led Zeppelin is coming to the Boston Tea Party!” Her rapid change in mood shocked me, for she’d been moping about all morning, thinking of what “could have happened” yesterday.

  I looked at her with a blank expression. “What? Who?”

  She shot me a patronizing glance and laughed out loud. “Led Zeppelin. You know, ‘Dazed and Confused’? They’re coming to the States, you Neanderthal. And their first tour city is Boston. They’re appearing at the Tea Party tomorrow night, a special Fourth of July concert. You know, we walked by it last week. Remember? It’s that cool club over on Berkeley Street. Don’t you remember?”

  I nodded absentmindedly and sank onto the couch with her. “Zephyr is the opening act, right? I heard it on WBCN.”

  She looked at me in shock, surprised that her young Chopin-loving husband knew anything about the rock scene.

  I continued. “The Velvet Underground and The J. Geils Blues Band were there last week. My friend Arnie told me all about them. He’s an acoustic guitarist, but he really wants to be in a rock band. He’s nuts about Led Zeppelin. Plays their stuff all the time at the conservatory, even though our professors put up a big stink.”

  Elsbeth looked at me with surprise. “I didn’t think you—”

  I finished her sentence, “—knew about such things?”

  She nodded contritely.

  “Glad I can still surprise you, hon. Keeps the mystery alive, don’t you think?” I said.

  “I guess it does.” She laughed and flopped sideways on the couch beside me, snuggling into my arms.

  Byron and Lana danced to the music of The Beatles’ “Get Back,” which blasted from the radio. Byron wore his new crushed velvet bellbottoms and a white shirt with a frilly jambeau and long, cuffed sleeves, all the latest style. He resembled a bizarre combination of Jimi Hendrix and a foppish Tom Jefferson, but moved with the languid grace of a trained dancer.

  Lana wore a tight miniskirt of red plastic and a striped red and white tube top.

  I couldn’t imagine how it stayed up. Her legs were wrapped with black fishnet stockings and encased to her knees with black boots. The woman’s movements reminded me of an exotic dancer.

  I tried not to watch as she swung her pelvis seductively in Byron’s direction, but found myself staring at her slow, alluring movements in spite of myself. She rolled her hips and her full breasts wobbled in his direction, supported only by the thin fabric of the ribbed jersey.

  I quickly looked away when Elsbeth caught me staring. She punched me in the arm and shot me a warning glance. “Geez, Gus.”

  “What?” Embarrassed, I jumped up to start a pot of herbal tea.

  Valerie thumbed through the latest issue of the Cambridge Phoenix, looking through the classifieds for ads that might have something to do with her.

  I’d checked earlier. There were ads for missing dogs, cats, and even a cockatiel, but no ads for missing young women.

  She’d been unusually quiet since the rescue, and had taken to playing her lute in the bedroom or in the corner. She remembered a few more songs, and with every new song she remembered, we hoped a glimmer of her past life would emerge.

  So far, it hadn’t.

  “So? Do you want to go, Gus?” Elsbeth came toward me and laced her arms around my waist. She reached up on her tiptoes and placed a fluttery kiss on my lips.

  My body spasmed. “Um, no. It’s really not my bag, you know. I’d rather stay home with you, and…” My eyes burned into hers as the carnal craving grew. This wanton hunger she brought out in me was overpowering. I wanted to sweep her up in my arms and carry her off to the bedroom. It seemed like that’s all I ever thought about these days, and having a gorgeous wife on top of being at my sexual peak was a dangerous combination. “Want to take a nap?” I suggested, nuzzling her neck.

  “Is that all you think about?” she laughed, then gently kissed my lips. “Not now, you big lug. Tonight,” she whispered in my ear. “But tomorrow night, Valerie and I want to go see Robert Plant. He’s the lead singer in—”

  “I know, I know. The one with the wild blond hair past his shoulders. And Jimmy Page, he’s the lead guitarist, right?”

  She nodded. Her eyes were big with desire, but I couldn’t tell for whom. “Okay. You and Valerie go. Have a ball. She needs a night out, anyway. Especially after yesterday.”

  “Thanks, honey.”

  “Sure thing.” I pulled her toward me and whispered hoarsely, “Now, do we really have to wait until tonight?”

  Chapter 23

  The next day was Friday, July 4th. Because it was a holiday, there were plenty of practice rooms free. I’d spent all day at the conservatory, studying in the somber rooms of the library and practicing piano drills for hours in one cramped, stifling room. I would so much rather have been back home enjoying our traditional July 4th cookout with my family and best friend, Siegfried. I really missed the big lug. But funds were limited, and I had to schedule my visits home carefully.

  Although it was uncomfortable and a little lonely, I needed to buckle down. I realized that studying and practicing at home would be impossible with Valerie and Elsbeth chitchatting and giggling in anticipation of tonight’s concert.

  Lana had been sleeping in later and later each day, so in general, I hesitated to play our piano until noon. Besides, with its missing ivories, it really wasn’t conducive to serious practicing.

  Byron had also been entertaining a number of young women regularly, usually a different woman each night, with a few exceptions. I remembered the morning I’d awakened to find Byron rubbing his eyes in the doorway and kissing a pair of plump brunettes goodbye. They’d fawned over him and hung on him until he promised to call them that evening. Of course, he hadn’t.

  Sometimes I really didn’t like my friend all that much.

  When I had finally finished practicing, I packed up my bag and headed down the library stairway to the bustling street below, thinking about Byron and his infamous flirtations.

  “Flirtations” is too mild a descriptor. He’s more like a British Don Juan.

  How does he remember their names?

  I pushed out onto the street and wove between the crowds of people, continuing my line of thought.

  Byron’s so likeable and genuine with us. He’s deep, caring, and thoughtful. Then, why’s he such a cad with women?

  Something’s goofed up inside him. He never seems to fall for them, he balances dozens like a Russian plate spinner, and yet he seems to have no qualms about blatantly using them for his prurient interests.

  How can he do that? It’s so wrong.

  I knew I wasn’t perfect. Far from it. And, occasionally I found my eyes wandering to another woman, but I’d never do anything about it. I couldn’t see how he could sleep with a different one every night.

  It made me wonder about his childhood.

  Was he molested? Did he catch his mother or father in an affair? Did he harbor a secret, sick hatred for women?

  I shook my head at the crazy thoughts and walked faster, taking swigs from the bottle of organic guava juice I’d pulled from my backpack.

  My thoughts wandered to the subject of Lana.

  Lana, who still followed Byron with her puppy-dog, molasses-colored eyes, had changed of late. I suspected that something new, and possibly bad, was happening to her.

  She’d been coming home at three or four in the morning with sunken eyes and disarrayed clothing. And she’d reeked of cigar smoke.

  Although Elsbeth had prodded her for dirt, she’d come up with nothing.

  My curiosity was piqued. Was she really working at the club all night? Was she waitressing until the wee hours of the morning, or was something else going on?

  I dodged two young
boys on bikes and turned down our street, glancing at my watch. Almost six-thirty.

  Suppertime my stomach said.

  I reached the apartment and stopped just inside the doorway. The place was unusually quiet. No aromatic scents wafted from the kitchen. No sounds of sizzling meat came from a skillet.

  Inside the kitchen, a note was propped against the napkin holder on the kitchen table.

  Gus, Valerie and I decided to grab a quick bite before the show. We were craving tempura and tofu cakes. Sorry to leave you in the lurch. There’s leftover spaghetti in the fridge. Don’t wait up; we’ll be awfully late. Love and kisses, Elsbeth.

  I plopped down on the kitchen chair. My shoulders slumped.

  Damn.

  Byron’s bedroom door opened. Light footsteps pattered across the living room as the girl du jour slipped out the door and into the street.

  He wandered languidly into the kitchen in his jockey shorts and no shirt, laying a hand on my shoulder. He smelled of musty perspiration. “What’s wrong, chum?”

  I looked up at him with a gloomy half smile. “The girls are gone. They’ve left early. Their big night out, I guess.”

  He pulled up a chair and sat backwards on it, facing me. “Won’t do for you to be jealous over Robert Plant or Jimmy Page. It’s an idolatry issue, you know. It’s got nothing to do with you.”

  I frowned. “That’s the problem. I don’t think she wanted me to tag along tonight. That’s why she left so abruptly. Vamoose.” I snapped my fingers. “Just like that.”

  “Well, hell’s bells ‘n buckets o’ blood, old pal, it’s not the end of the world. We men can have fun, too. What say we have a guys’ night out? Eh? Will that suit you?”

  I looked up with interest. It was an appealing idea. I hadn’t been out on the town in...

  I thought about it some more. I had never been out on the town.

  “It’s a deal, pal. Let’s pull something together for dinner and then head out.”