Nick Nolan

by Double Bound (Sequel To Strings)

  She peered at him coyly. "So you seen my act? You like me singing?" Then she looked him up and down dismissively. "No, you like the boy with the big pee-pee."

  She giggled, her hands held up and spaced wide. "I make him happy," she announced. "These"--she pointed to her stained teeth--"they come out." Then she mimed some sloppy fellatio.

  Jeremy wanted nothing more than to spring up and kick her in those false teeth, but the handcuffs and shackles binding his limbs precluded that possibility. "What's going on? How long'm I gonna be here?"

  "Depends on the money," she replied casually, shrugging her bony shoulders. "If money doesn't come, then tomorrow night we take you to church."

  "What church?"

  "You'll see," she told him, lifting the vial for another bump. Then she squinted at him. "You are so handsome and macho. I did not think you are faggot."

  "Is that supposed to be a compliment?" he snapped. "I can't even tell if you're fucking male or female."

  She shrugged and stuck out her bottom lip dismissively. "I just say what I think,"

  she said, then pressed the little bottle to her nose again and sniffed. "You need to be nice to Rosa. She can make your days happy." The creature smiled at him and arched her painted eyebrows coquettishly. Then her features became a snarling mask. "Or not so happy. You decide."

  * * *

  He was grateful for the television, because it kept Rosa's attention from him, and helped to speed the crawl of time; at one point the device's nonsensical drone helped him drift into a fitful nap--but he could only skim the surface of sleep, because of the devilish contraptions on his hands and feet.

  And during this ordeal the only thing that kept his hope blooming was the belief that Arthur and Carlo and Aunt Katharine were out there somewhere working feverishly on this situation; because if he allowed himself to dwell on the facts that his freedom was stolen, his lovers might also be imprisoned or even dead, his only blood family was a hemisphere away, and he'd spoken to no one but a crazy drag queen, he would simply go berserk.

  This feels like being buried alive.

  But he'd been through hard times before, and knew that mental gymnastics could make tolerating the anguish easier. So instead of being chased by his fears, he imagined his rescue: Arthur and Carlo would break down the door, and he'd be picked up and carried over Arthur's strong shoulder to the safety of a waiting car.

  Then after the handcuffs and shackles were cut off, they'd fly back to Ballena Beach, and by this time tomorrow he'd be lounging by the pool, or strolling along the beach, or cuddling with his new lover in bed.

  Instead of being taken to their "church."

  He could almost feel Arthur's body heat, could nearly smell his skin. But because he became so entrenched in his fantasy, and because there were no windows to watch the sunlight dim, he was unaware that afternoon was slipping into evening.

  Then evening fell to night.

  And as he nodded into an uneasy slumber on the tiny bed in that cavelike room, midnight passed and more precious minutes trickled away, like blood pulsing from a slashed vein.

  While upstairs, as well as thousands of miles away, neither Arthur nor Carlo nor Katharine slept.

  They were all too sick with worry.

  Chapter 32

  They waited. And waited some more. Arthur encouraged Carlo to sleep, but he refused; both men's adrenaline was the equivalent of jet fuel for their metabolisms.

  So they paced. They sat. Then one paced while the other sat.

  "You should really try to get some rest," Arthur told Carlo again. Something was eating at him, and he needed to concentrate in order to figure out what it was.

  "I can't. You try." He folded his arms over his chest and looked out the windows at the glimmering lights of Rio below. "I just can't believe I could've been so stupid."

  "What do you mean?" Arthur asked. "Stupid about what?"

  "I shouldn't even tell you this, because for one thing it doesn't matter, and for the other it just shows how fucking stupid I am."

  "What does?"

  He sighed. "When we were in Hawaii, Jeremy and I were messing around and he asked if I had three wishes, what would they be, so one of them...was I wished that...that you weren't coming along on this trip." His eyes began to well up. "Can you believe that? Instead of wishing for good health or a safe trip or a cure for fucking cancer, I wished you wouldn't be here. And now look what's happened--it's like God's teaching me a lesson for being greedy, or for taking everything for granted. Can you imagine if I was going through all this down here by myself?

  What would I have done? What would I do?"

  Arthur went to him and hugged him. "none of us knew this was going to happen.

  And you can't think that just because you wanted to have Jeremy to yourself that somehow God is punishing you--that's so Catholic, by the way." He reached up and smoothed his hair. "See, now, here I am feeling this is all my fault, and I need to fix it somehow, but I can't think of how."

  "How's this all your fault?" Carlo rolled his eyes. "The way I see it, this is Katharine's deal. She's the one who made us come down here; Jeremy told me you said it was too dangerous, and woops! here we are." He paused, thinking.

  "Anyhow, it's probably my fault, because if I hadn't tried to see Babalu again we'd have just gone to the fucking airport and we'd all be home right now, downloading our pictures."

  "I'm just sick of sitting...of being here," Arthur said. "Standing around like this goes against everything I've ever been trained to do."

  Something's not right.

  "So what do you think we should be doing right now?" Carlo asked.

  "Searching the city. Working with the bureau back home. Following leads.

  Anything but just sitting here."

  "So let's go," Carlo suggested.

  Arthur shook his head. "I don't think the time's right. But I'm still wondering about what Babalu said about this guy being so dangerous. I mean, what if this whole thing is a setup? What if he's in on it all and we're all going to be killed once they get what they want?"

  Carlo saw the fear in Arthur's eyes, and it frightened him. "You can't think that way."

  Arthur laughed. "I have to think that way!" He began pacing the length of the room again. "Assuming Babalu's right, let's suppose Fabiano's a horrible guy and is in on this. So what's to prevent him from walking in the door right now and blowing us away? They'd never find us, or Jeremy!"

  "So if that's a possibility, then shouldn't we get out of here, like three hours ago?"

  "But what if Fabiano really is trying to help? Then we run the risk of pissing him off, or of not being here in case he needs us." Arthur folded his arms over his chest.

  "But something isn't right, and I can't put my finger on it."

  "Is it that he didn't call the police?"

  "Uh-uh." Arthur shook his head. "The police here are supposed to be even more corrupt than the drug lords." He bit his lip. "It's something else. Something that I"--

  he scrunched his eyes shut--"Oh Jesus, why didn't I see it before?"

  "See what?"

  "He didn't pay for our return! How could he have, when we came straight over here?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Carlo, if someone besides Fabiano had kidnapped us, we would've gone somewhere else first, before coming over here. Some time would've gone by. They would've had to exchange some money. Right?"

  "Maybe. But what if Fabiano just made a deal with them over the phone?"

  Arthur laughed. "no one accepts a promise of ransom over the phone. It's always cash first, then you get your groceries." He began pacing more quickly now. "This whole thing is a setup."

  Carlo nodded and raised his eyebrows.

  "And we need to get out of here. Now."

  Carlo's eyes bugged. "Now?"

  He nodded.

  "How?"

  "We'll find a way. A hole in the fence, a guard who's asleep. You just follow my lead and we'll get out of here and f
ind Jeremy."

  "Jesus, Arthur. I don't know..."

  " Trust me on this one; I don't know why I didn't see it before. Getting out of here is Jeremy's only chance. And ours probably, too."

  "OK, then. But before we go"--he hesitated--"I need to ask you something. It's kind of important."

  Arthur closed his eyes and cracked his neck. He'd felt this coming. "Carlo?"

  Carlo looked at him expectantly.

  "Does this have anything to do with what we're about to do, or with Jeremy's--or our--safety, in any way?"

  Carlo shook his head slowly.

  "Then let's have it wait until later." He tried out a smile. "OK?"

  He smiled sadly back at him.

  "I get it."

  "Then let's do this." Arthur held out his hand and Carlo grasped it. "Come on!"

  Chapter 33

  Arthur's training had taught him that people reach their deepest sleep after 2 a.m., and since it was nearly that hour they began to prepare.

  They were in a room on the third floor, so they pulled the sheets off the bed and tied the ends together; they would use this cliché--yet effective--means to rappel to the ground, then pick their way around the property until they found a way out.

  There were a total of four big sheets on the beds, which would do the trick beautifully if Arthur tied them right, so they gathered objects from around the room and did the old summer-camp trick of humping up forms under the remaining covers, so it looked like the pair were slumbering peacefully.

  Arthur suggested they communicate with only hand signs and arm movements, and if any danger was evident, a quick snap of the fingers, or a tap on the back, would be sufficient warning.

  They slid open the glass door.

  While tying the sheet around the sturdiest metal pole that made up the lanai railing, Arthur was relieved to discover that his hands still remembered how to make knots. But he wasn't as confident about his arms' ability to handle his body weight the way they had twenty years ago, when he'd rappelled effortlessly down similar heights while training for the Crucible.

  He decided to go first, so if his knots didn't hold he would be the one injured, and also because he wanted to hold the sheets tight for Carlo.

  He straddled the rail, grabbed the sheet-rope tightly between his hands, and began easing his way down. Moments later he made the short jump to the ground. Next he pulled the makeshift rope securely while Carlo followed his descent; Arthur grabbed Carlo's hips when he came within reach, and set him gently onto the dirt.

  Carlo grinned at him--they were on their way!

  Arthur took the lead and almost immediately found a path leading down through the underbrush away from the compound; he figured it would be best to circle around on the path toward the entrance gate in a wide arc, then parallel the wall's path down away from the armed guard's kiosk while keeping an eye toward the road. once they reached the corner of the property closest to the road, they scaled the tall iron fence--whose spikes, they discovered, were bent toward the street only to keep people out--then dropped down onto the road.

  Moments later they were jogging downhill toward the heart of town.

  But where could they go? The Brazilian police might even be tied to Fabiano, so their help was questionable; they could try to find the American consulate, but at this hour it was doubtful they could find anyone to help, especially since the State Department was already "handling" the case back home. And how could they explain escaping from a safe locale, and refusing the protection of someone who'd allegedly paid for their own release, and was already in negotiations for Jeremy's?

  There was only one thing to do: go back to the favela on the slim chance that Babalu was home, and see if he knew anyone who might help.

  But Rio is a big city. A very big city. And they had no map; they had no money.

  But they did have their recollection of a ramshackle favela somewhere along the Rua São Clemente, directly under Cristo's holy stare, where his dying cousin might or might not be sleeping.

  With the statue as their beacon, they walked down from the posh hillside. The suburb gave way quickly to high-rise condos, and those transitioned into lower-rise apartments, and these dissolved into stores and markets and bars shoved between ragged hotels.

  "How much farther do you think it is?" Arthur asked as they passed a park.

  "I'm...not sure. But some of this is looking familiar. I kind of remember that café over there"--he pointed--"but I really wasn't paying that much attention when we drove over here. I think if we can just get across from the statue, then cut up into the hillside, by then maybe we can find someone to ask."

  So they walked, they looked, and Carlo did his best to follow the laser-guided beacon he imagined was shooting out of Cristo's eyes at Babalu's shack. And he did his best not to think about where Jeremy was at that very moment.

  Arthur looked at the sky and figured it was after three o'clock; they had been walking for more than an hour down São Clemente, and had less than two to go before it got light. "We need to go faster," he said, and Carlo's pace quickened to match his own.

  "Wait!" Carlo exclaimed. "This place, the Praca Corumba. And this street, the Barão de Macaúbas--I think we're supposed to turn up here! Yeah, look at Cristo!

  He's right there!"

  Arthur saw that, indeed, the giant statue appeared directly opposite to their position, facing the little enclave where they were headed.

  Carlo grabbed his arm. "Come on! I know this is it."

  Moments later, they entered the favela.

  They were stepping quickly now, almost running as they negotiated the now familiar stairs and pathways up to Babalu's. But what would they find? Would he be there? What would they do if he were not?

  And there it was. The yellow door.

  But there was no light visible through the tiny window.

  Carlo leapt up to the stoop and knocked.

  Chapter 34

  There was no answer.

  He knocked again. " Babalu! " he nearly shouted, doing his best to whisper.

  " Babalu! It's me, Carlo!" He knocked one last time.

  A light brightened behind the drapes, and the men shared an excited glance.

  The door opened and they found themselves looking at a burly young man who clearly had just awoken. "What is it?" he asked, rubbing his shoulders. "What do you want?"

  Carlo took a step backward, and Arthur put a hand on his shoulder. "Babalu, my cousin. Is he here?"

  "He is sleeping. You are the cousin from California?"

  Carlo nodded. "We've got a big problem." He held his hands up wide. "We need his help."

  "He is not well," he said. "The doctor today gave him stronger medicine, and it makes him sleep too much."

  "May we please come inside?" Arthur asked. "I'm sorry, but it's an emergency."

  "Let them in," said a faint voice from the back of the room.

  The young man opened the door wider, and they entered.

  Babalu switched on the lamp next to the tiny bed where he lay. Then, looking perplexed, his eyes went from Carlo to Arthur and back again. "You told me your lover was young," he said.

  "Arthur's just our friend. Jeremy, my lover, was kidnapped, and we don't know where he is. We need your help--we have no one else to help us."

  Babalu winced as he struggled to sit upright. "He," he said, while nodding toward the young man, "is my son, Ernesto." The three men shook hands, while Arthur and Carlo exchanged quick, puzzled glances. "When did this happen with your lover?"

  "Yesterday, on our way over here to see you, before we left for the airport. A car rear-ended us and they took him out of the car with guns."

  Babalu's eyes narrowed. "Tell me what you know. Everything. Then I'll tell you what to do."

  So they relayed the events that had transpired, from the moments after the kidnapping to Fabiano's explanation to Arthur's conversation with Katharine to their decision to escape.

  When they were finished, Babalu loo
ked at them with eyes that communicated utter exhaustion. "There is something I must tell you, and I hope I am mistaken."

  The men looked at him expectantly.

  "Today is nineteenth de Setembro, yes?"

  They nodded.

  "You were right to escape--this sounds like his work. He, your Jeremy, is most likely up at El Gigante's villa, as there are many rooms there underground; it was built upon the ancient site of the Morro do Castelo. There are very many places for bad things to happen without anyone ever hearing, without anyone ever knowing."

  "Are you saying Jeremy was up there at the same time we were?" Arthur asked.

  "I am not sure, but that is a possibility. It is not unheard of to kidnap someone, then to act as mediator, as this makes you the very rich hero." He paused. "I know that place, that villa, very well. We have to get your Jeremy, quickly. Ernesto! "

  " Si, Papa."

  "You will drive us there; I remember how to reach the back road that climbs to his home; it will be safer than going up the front. We will get as close as we can, then I will tell these men where to find him in that miserable place. But we have very little time."

  Chapter 35

  The mood driving back across town in Ernesto's tiny Fiat was quietly tense; both Arthur and Carlo were as exhausted as they were exasperated, because even if Babalu knew exactly where to find Jeremy, which neither Carlo nor Arthur believed he did, he had neither the will nor the health to lead their charge. So the search and rescue would be coordinated via Babalu's and Ernesto's cell phones, one of which would be loaned to Arthur.

  But they were missing the one important element needed to pull this rescue off: guns.

  Their "plan" was far-fetched, at best, and everyone in that vehicle knew it.

  In spite of these bad odds, Arthur did his best to feel confident. He dropped into soldier mode, the way a driver throws the transmission into low when approaching a steep hill. His heart was beating, his armpits were moist and his synapses were firing at three times their normal rate. Every organ in his torso, every muscle in his body and every part of his brain was focused on the single task at hand: rescuing Jeremy.