The Accidental Hunter

by Nelson George

  “Come on, Bridgette, you can do it,” D repeated, sounding like a father urging his wife through natural childbirth. Bridgette kept reeling, though her right arm ached.

  “Keep your thumb on the line!” Sammy coached, and Bridgette pressed down on the incoming line with the thumb of her left hand.

  Out in the water, her line bent as the fish on the other end struggled against the inevitable. Bridgette continued to reel, taking small comfort in the fact that D and the first mate were so encouraging. It was more fun just looking out at the Atlantic and not catching a fish.

  Sammy moved to the stern of the boat, anchoring his feet against the low wall and clutching Bridgette’s line with his right hand. “Just keep reeling,” he ordered, and Bridgette complied. Now, as Bridgette’s arms burned like fire, the first mate reached down with the net. “Wow! You don’t see this often!” He pulled up the line and net and displayed three large, lively striped bass.

  “Oh my God! Oh my God!”

  “Damn, girl!” D said. “That’s amazing!”

  Sammy unhooked the three fish, laid them on the boat’s floor, and expertly sliced and diced them. “Here, Miss Haze,” he said, holding up the smallest of the bass by hooking his fingers inside its mouth. “Come and grab it like this, Miss Haze.”

  This was not something she wanted to do. “That’s nasty!” she shouted. Still, Sammy put her hand in the mouth of the striped bass, and Bridgette held it up with pride and absolute revulsion. D took some digital shots of Bridgette and her wet trophy, which were destined to grace her website.

  Three hours later they sat in Wok & Roll, a Chinese restaurant on Highway 27 in the heart of the village of Montauk that specialized in taking a day’s catch and filleting, frying, and fricasseeing (as well as five other options). A crowd of teenagers had gathered in the street below the second-story restaurant, buzzing about the presence of a pop goddess in town and calling pals in the New York to brag on their cell phones.

  D hadn’t wanted to go to Wok & Roll. He’d expected to eat the eighty pounds of striped bass, along with the broccoli, fried rice, and string beans, in Night’s stainless-steel kitchen. Instead, after their fun (and relatively private) morning on the Atlantic, Bridgette’s inner superstar began to emerge. She’d been fine as an ordinary girl alone with a sexy man in a beach house for a day and a half. But when they got back from fishing, she’d said, “I feel all closed in, D.”

  “I know, he’d replied, “but we aren’t here on vacation. There are people trying to kidnap you. They are not supposed to know where you are. With the exception of one Irish cab driver and two guys on the boat, no one in Montauk knows Bridgette Haze is in town. We should keep it that way.”

  A very reasonable argument, but one that D had lost. Bridgette wanted people to look at her. She wanted to be wanted. No fear of kidnappers would deny her a little love. D had wanted to put his foot down and forbid going into town, but he did work for her. And ever since his revelations that morning, their relationship had changed. It wasn’t that she was distant or hostile. It just felt as if he’d become an object again, not a person, not a lover, but some aspect of life that was to be observed, but not necessarily understood or identified with. It would actually make it simpler for him when he went back to protecting her again. It was a dynamic they both understood.

  So D sat eating his striped bass sprinkled with sesame seeds and tried to ignore his roiling stomach. When she finished her meal, D paid the bill and guided Bridgette through the kitchen to a back staircase. At the bottom of the stairs were three Pink Tuna station-wagon taxis waiting with motors running. D and Bridgette got into the second taxi, where a blanket awaited and they climbed under. The three taxis took off as about two dozen Montauk residents armed with camcorders, digital cameras, and autograph books came around the corner. The taxi that contained the two surreptitious passengers drove for five minutes before the driver said, “The coast is clear now, boyo.”

  “Thank you, Eamon,” D said to his new partner in personal security as he sat up and gazed out the station wagon’s back window. Once it became clear that Bridgette wasn’t going to budge on eating in public, D had concocted this plan. After contacting Eamon and the management at Pink Tuna (and charging a tidy sum to his credit card), D had made the arrangements. It had gone smoothly, though Eamon, goodhearted and helpful, still didn’t quite understand why everyone was so excited.

  “It went well, didn’t it, D?” he asked.

  “Not well enough,” D replied.

  “No one’s following us.” This was Bridgette, now sitting up next to D.

  “But now everybody in Montauk knows you’re out here. It’s only a matter of hours—no, probably minutes—before it’s all over the web. We have to leave tonight.”

  “Okay,” she said. “If you say so. Weren’t you looking forward to another night at Night’s?”

  D peered at her coldly and then got on his cell to Ivy.

  “It’s about time,” Ivy said.

  Ignoring the manager’s tone, D told him, “We need to go back to Manhattan tonight. People out here just found out Bridgette’s in Montauk. Not good.”

  “Montauk. Okay, I’ll have a helicopter pick you up at East Hampton Airport. I’ll get back to you regarding the time.”

  “Have you talked to your son?”

  “No,” Ivy said firmly. “Is Bridgette there with you?”

  “No. But she is safe. Call me when you’ve made arrangements.”

  “Have you forgotten who you work for?”

  “Not at all. I work for Bridgette Haze. You just cut the checks.” D clicked off.

  Bridgette looked at him quizzically. “I didn’t know Ivy had a son.”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about your manager.”

  “You care to tell me?”

  D proceeded to do just that. By the time Eamon’s Pink Tuna taxi arrived in front of Night’s house, Bridgette felt dizzy, as if the whole world had just tilted ten degrees to the left and she was right-handed. She exited the taxi without a word. D and Eamon watched her walk toward the house.

  When she was out of earshot, D said, “Eamon, I have a feeling something out of the ordinary could happen tonight. I don’t know exactly what, but if you see someone driving one of those Japanese motorcycles—”

  “Don’t see many of those out here. Mostly Harleys and the like.”

  “Eamon, that’s my point precisely. You see anything like that tonight, please call me.”

  “Be my absolute pleasure, D. I’ll tell the other drivers the same. Heard you talking about the airport. Will you be needing a ride over there later?”

  “When I know for sure, I’ll give a call. But call or no call, remember what I told you earlier, Eamon?”

  “Of course, D. You already paid for it.”

  “So that’s all you need to do if it comes to it. Okay?”

  “Of course, boyo.”

  D liked Eamon and felt confident he could handle himself under pressure, so he’d laid out a little contingency plan if the bikes showed up. But D thought that the Pink Tuna taxis were too conspicuous for a down-low exit out of town. He’d already made alternate plans for a quick departure from Montauk. No reason to give Eamon specifics. You can’t tell what you don’t know.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Areea read Toni Morrison’s Tar Baby on the ride out to Amagansett. Roderick slept with his head on her shoulder most of the journey. Filling his ears were the sweet, sweaty sounds of soul on his iPod. Marvin Gaye, Aretha Franklin, Otis Redding, the Dells, and many other giants. But no Adrian Dukes. If his head was filled with Dukes’s voice, he worried it would cloud his judgment and tonight he wanted to remain cool.

  Areea tapped him awake when the train pulled out of East Hampton for the seven-minute ride to Amagansett. He stirred slowly as Areea looked at her watch, which showed 8:44 p.m. “We’re actually a few minutes early,” she said absently. Roderick nodded, then stood up and grabbed the duffel bag filled with rope, tap
e, flashlights, and two Glock automatics off the overhead rack.

  They exited into the gloomy chill of a March night on the eastern end of Long Island, comforted by the sight of two large U-Haul vans parked trackside. Roderick smiled boyishly and said, “It’s on.”

  * * *

  “A helicopter will be at the airport at 9:30 p.m. You’ll be back in the city by 9:55, if not sooner.” Ivy’s voice was calm, soothing. It sounded as if he felt in control. Made D feel a little nervous. “Hope you don’t mind but I told your friend Detective Williams about this arrangement.”

  “Good,” D replied, not sure he believed him. After he flipped the phone closed, he leaned down and kissed Bridgette’s forehead. She curled up closer to her bodyguard, though her eyes remained locked on the Avril Lavigne video on MTV.

  “You think I should learn to play an instrument?”

  “I thought you could.”

  “I mean, I can play a little piano and guitar but not enough to rock out in public. It might make people respect me more as an artist.”

  “Well,” D said carefully, “I don’t know, Bridgette. If you just pick it up for one song and don’t do a lot with it, I think it could backfire. If you’re gonna do it, you’re really gonna have to be good, you know.”

  Bridgette sat up. “You think I wouldn’t be good? I would never do it in public unless I was great, D. Please.” She shifted away from him with her little bottom lip poked out.

  “We’re leaving soon, Bridgette. Back to your life where everyone agrees with what you say and everybody’s on your payroll.”

  “You’re on my payroll.”

  “Not after tonight.” D’s cell buzzed. It was Eamon.

  “You told me to call if anything unusual happened.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I was driving a fare to the movies in East Hampton, and in Amagansett I saw a bunch of those Japanese bikes being loaded off two trucks by the train station.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Oh, fifteen, twenty minutes.”

  D stood and grabbed Bridgette by the wrist, pulling her up like a bag of laundry. “Come on,” he said roughly. She tried to wrestle free, to ask where they were going, to be consulted. But D was back in his favorite mode—not lover, friend, or employer, but protector. He pulled her out the back door toward the shed.

  “What’s wrong, D?” she cried.

  He ignored her. With one hand still on the singer, he opened the shed’s door. Once inside he took her by the shoulders and said, “This is the deal. The motorcycle kids are on their way here. If they know you’re in Montauk, they surely know where this house is. So what I need you to do is shut your mouth and do everything I tell you. You got that?” She nodded affirmatively. He turned and pulled two bicycles out of a dusty corner, then nodded toward the door. In less than a minute the duo was heading west on Ditch Plains Road.

  * * *

  Coming east on Highway 27 were ten Suzuki speed bikes. They were rolling down the long, relatively underdeveloped stretch of land just before the road split into the old and new Montauk highways. Old Montauk ran low near the beach, past Gurney’s Resort and the streets named after presidents (Garfield, Madison, Harrison, and so forth). New Montauk went up toward the state park, with that wonderful view of water on both sides, the local recycling center, and thick woods. The old road was full of bumps and steep hills; the newer road was a smooth, well-paved ride. Aside from the LIRR tracks or a boat, these were the only ways into and out of Montauk. Areea and four riders took the old road. Roderick and four riders took the new one.

  There was no reason to think D was expecting them, so they rolled toward central Montauk at a casual fifty-five. Areea noticed that a funny-colored taxi (pink? orange?) was cruising right behind them. Probably just a buster fascinated by their bikes.

  * * *

  As the motorcycles cruised toward Montauk, D and Bridgette were wheeling past Essex Street and the Mobile station into the center of town. D could hear the motorcycles in the distance. Bridgette could too. But D made no comment. He just kept pedaling and so did she. At the village square, he pointed right, guiding her past White’s pharmacy on their way toward the train station. As the sound of motorcycles grew louder, Bridgette shouted D’s name. All he said was, “Keep pedaling and don’t look back!” It was about a mile to the station. D could feel the sweat collecting under his clothes. He hoped he hadn’t gotten old Eamon in too deep.

  The two Montauk highways intersected at the head of town, so the two groups of motorcycles became one again as they rolled past the miniature golf course on their left and the small WGA supermarket on their right. Areea remembered from her map that it was a straight shot past the restaurants and stores on 27 out to Ditch Plains. The taxi was still clocking them when two other Pink Tuna vehicles came from side streets and pulled in front of the bikes. Areea cut around but half of her bikes had to stop short to avoid crashing into them. The streets were basically empty. There were a couple of cars in the distance but no one walking. Roderick pulled up next to her.

  “We should fuck these clowns up!” he shouted.

  “No. That’s a waste of time. That’s what he wants. He must know we’re coming. Let them follow us. We may need them.”

  The Pink Tuna drivers tried to stay in the way of the bikers, but after that initial surprise, the riders got their bearings and roared around them, following Areea and Roderick. They headed through the Montauk village square, gunning past the Mobile station toward Ditch Plains.

  * * *

  Adrenaline was coursing through D’s body as they moved across the gravel LIRR parking lot and onto the choppy, rocky dirt that ran next to the tracks. It was dark and there was no luminous full moon to guide them, only a flashlight D held in his right hand. Bridgette didn’t say a word. She heard the noise from the center of town and knew it was all for her. She grunted and breathed heavily. Fear pushed her forward.

  * * *

  Ditch Plains Road was the second right, and Areea and Roderick swarmed onto it like locusts. The taxis were far behind them, straining to do eighty while the motorcycles relaxed at 110. Areea raised her right hand and they turned, creating a racket that had lights flicking on all over the area. Here’s where it got tricky for the kidnappers: there were few streetlights, and those that existed were weak. Areea knew the address and what the house looked like, but how to see it?

  Eamon, in his enthusiasm, had made it easy. Two driver-less Pink Tuna taxis were blocking the driveway to a large two-story house on the right. Areea felt it was a little too easy. It was obviously a trap, but she had no time to be picky. Let’s see what’s up, she thought. There was an opening between the two cars and she zoomed through. The other motorcycles followed but then tried to stop.

  Unfortunately for them, Eamon had followed D’s orders quite well. Oil had been spread on the grass. Areea had negotiated it safely, curling the bike in a careful turn, but Roderick was one of three riders who did not. The trio of bikes spilled out of control, slamming into the front of the house, the riders crumpling into one ugly mess against the front of Night’s house.

  Roderick was the last of the three, and his bike skidded into the debris from the two fallen machines, sending him airborne. His Suzuki was stopped by the house’s front wall but the man went flying through Night’s front window and into the living room, landing on the same sofa D and Bridgette had lounged on while watching music videos.

  From the bushes on the left side of the house, Eamon watched in wonder, hoping Night’s insurance was in order. He’d seen some nasty business back in Ireland, but nothing quite this loud and spectacular. He wasn’t supposed to hang around and watch, but once he had learned that he was helping to protect Bridgette Haze, he began to feel a little self-important. And he wanted to see how it would all turn out. What a story he’d have to tell his passengers.

  Eamon watched as an angry, almost hysterical Areea pulled out her Glock and blasted the lock off the front door. She knew her quarry
had escaped and her man was injured—perhaps even dead. What she prayed for was a clue to where they were headed. Anything.

  “We’ll get her, baby,” Areea said to Roderick as she cradled his bleeding head in her hands. He nodded, too groggy to speak. The remaining upright bikers tossed the house. A couple of police cruisers could be heard in the distance. “Pick him up!” she ordered, and two of her posse lifted him, ignoring his moans. The two riders outside were lost causes—unconscious and broken up. She was contemplating killing them when a movement in the bushes caught her eye. Without a bit of hesitation Areea squeezed off two shots. The figure fell.

  “Yo!” she shouted in Eamon’s face. “Where the fuck did they go?” The Irishman screamed in agony, holding his bleeding left arm, though the gun in his face was the real reason for his tears.

  * * *

  At Amagansett station, D veered left and crossed the tracks. He saw the two U-Haul vans by the depot and got off his bicycle.

  “Why are we stopping?” Bridgette tried to act as if she was upset when actually she was quite relieved. It was one thing to dance in videos—another to ride a bike in the dark with violence at your back. She’d never been so tired. D bent and began letting the air out of both of her tires.

  “How much farther?”

  “We still have a ways to go. Through Amagansett, into and out of East Hampton on back roads.” He looked up at her. “You gonna make it?”

  “Yeah,” she said, but her body language told him no.

  “Come on, Bridgette. Ride with me.” She protested weakly and then agreed. D put her on the seat and was about to stand on the pedals.

  “No,” she said, “let’s do it this way.” He sat on the seat and she rode his back, wrapping her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck. It was a bit awkward at first, but both of them liked being that close again. D rolled them up to Highway 27 and then, instead of staying on it, crossed it and took to side roads that would bring them around the center of Amagansett and East Hampton, and closer to East Hampton Airport. It was a shortcut you’d have to be a Hamptons regular to know. D prayed no one would tell the kidnappers.