by Philip Craig
“I don’t know.” She touched her forehead. “I’ve got to wash my hair. I’m a mess . . .”
“Yes. Let’s get you out of those clothes.”
I took her into her bedroom and got the shower going while she undressed. Then I put her in the shower.
After a minute, I stripped and got in with her. She stood under the stream of warm water and let it wash over her. I found soap and a sponge and washed and rinsed her down fore and aft, high and low, then I found shampoo and washed and rinsed her wonderful long thick black hair until it squeaked. Then she watched me wash myself off and did my back and then kissed me and put her arms around me and her wet head on my chest. I held on to her. Sometime later, the water began to grow cold.
“Jeez,” said Zee. “It stays hot in the movies.” I looked down at her and she was grinning. Not her greatest grin, but a grin. “I think I’m going to live,” she said. “Hey, it’s getting cold. Let’s get out of here!”
I found two big beach towels, and we rubbed ourselves down. Zee wrapped her hair in another towel and found a robe for herself and the spare one I keep at her place.
The sky was brightening. I was starving. I went into the kitchen and fried up bacon and eggs and made toast and coffee.
“Cholesterol City,” said Zee, sitting down at the table. “Let’s eat!”
We did. I felt terrific. When the meal was eaten, I pushed back the dishes and looked at beautiful Zee while I drank another cup of coffee. I put down the cup, and words began to pour out of my mouth.
“Where have you been? I want to know. I know you don’t have to tell me a thing, but I insist that you do. I won’t let you not tell me. I won’t let you out of the house until you tell me. And it had better be good, because if it isn’t I think I’ll wring your neck . . .”
“Stop.” She smiled. “I want to tell you. You don’t need to ask.” Then her smile went away and she put her hand on my wrist. “I was kidnapped. I know that sounds strange, but it’s the truth. And I don’t even know who did it or why. Or why they let me go again.”
Kidnapped? “How? When? Did they hurt you?”
“No, I’m fine. I was never . . . I was treated as well as a kidnapped person can be treated, I suppose . . . I mean, I got dirty, but . . .” She pursed her lips and shook her head. I saw a glint of the old humor in her eyes. “You’d be surprised, Jefferson, to know how hard it is to talk about your recent kidnapping in a way that gives your audience the slightest idea of what it’s like!”
A red anger flickered somewhere inside me, and I felt a simultaneous coldness of heart toward whoever had done this to her. Cold heart, red anger; a bad combination. I thought I might later enjoy seeing where it led. I took her hands in mine. “Tell me what happened.”
“All right, but there’s not much I can really tell you. It happened Friday night. Willard Blunt brought me home from Aunt Amelia’s. I’d only been inside for a minute when I heard a knock on my door. I thought it was him, come back for some reason, so I opened the door, and somebody yanked a sack down over my head before I could see a thing. I yelled, but I doubt if anybody could have heard me. Then I swung a couple of elbows—I think I hit somebody—and I tried to yank the sack off, but just then somebody grabbed me around the knees. I reached down to whack whoever it was, and somebody else grabbed me around the waist and pinned my arms. Then we all sort of fell over onto the ground, and in no time at all they had me taped up. Duct tape. I still had some wrapped around me when they brought me back here this morning. It’s strong! They taped my hands behind me and taped them to my waist and they taped my legs and then they carried me off and put me in a car and took me someplace.” She looked at me. “I don’t know where we went, but when they got there they eased the sack off of my head and taped my eyes before I could see anything. They kept me there until this morning. Then they brought me here and cut some of the tape off so I could get loose and drove away. I haven’t the slightest idea what it was all about or who did it!”
“Nobody hurt you?”
“No. The worst part was not being able to see or move. They kept me blindfolded and all taped up. At night they put me on a bed. And when I had to go to the bathroom, someone took me there and helped me because I didn’t have any hands. I hope it was a woman, but I don’t know. It was pretty awful. I lost track of time. I didn’t even know what day it was when I called you this morning.”
“So there were several people involved.”
“Yes. There were four or five at least, I think. Enough to tie me up in a rush, anyway.”
“And you think one of them might have been a woman.”
“I’m not sure. But I think so. Maybe there was more than one woman. Whoever it was knew what to do for me in the bathroom. I thought it was a woman. Maybe it was a perfume or something . . .”
“What did they say to you?”
“They never said anything to me. Not one word. And they never said a word to each other, either. At least not while I could hear them. I could hear them move around the room or house or whatever. You know, doors opening and shutting and that sort of noise, but never any voices. And they played pretty loud music all of the time. Rock and roll, heavy metal, that sort of thing. Maybe they talked when the music was playing so I couldn’t hear them. They kept the music turned up. I tried to talk, to ask them who they were and what they wanted, but all I ever got was a spoonful of soup or a piece of pizza. Never a word.”
“What could you hear? Cars? Voices from outside? Surf? Anything?”
“Just that music. I’ll tell you one thing, I never want to hear the Gits again in my life. I must have listened to that Gits tape ten dozen times.”
“The Gits?”
“You know. The Gits. The band. Rock and roll with some metal overtones.”
“I don’t do rock and roll or metal,” I said. “I’m a classical and G-and-W man. Remember? I never heard of the Gits.”
“Yeah, well I don’t care if I never hear of them again, either. I’m all Gitted out. I’d have died for some Eagles.”
“How long did they drive after they grabbed you? Could you tell?”
“No. Quite a while. The last part was over bumps. I think that means we went off of the main road, but I don’t know where.”
You can’t go too far on an island only twenty miles long, but even the Vineyard has a hundred square miles or so of land area, so it provides a lot of hiding space.
“How long to bring you back here?”
“Half an hour, I guess. I don’t really know. It took a long time.”
The house where they kept her could be next door. They might have been driving in circles for twenty-five minutes. On the other hand, a half-hour drive could take you to any part of the island except Chappy.
“What did your nose tell you?”
“My nose?”
“You couldn’t see, you couldn’t hear. Could you smell anything? You mentioned perfume. Did you smell that? Or cologne, or dirty diapers? Anything?”
“Food. Pizza, when they fed it to me. Soup smells, when they made it. Some spices I didn’t recognize. Let me think. I thought there was a woman there, so maybe it was perfume of some sort, but I can’t think of what it was. I’m not being much help, am I?” She yawned.
I felt a surge of almost paternal love for her.
“You don’t need to be of any more help. You’re here and you’re safe and that’s all that’s important. The rest of it doesn’t matter now. I think you should get some sleep. Some rest will do you a lot of good. I doubt if you’ve slept too well for the past three days.” I stood and pulled her up. “I’ll phone Amelia and the police and the hospital and tell them you’re okay.”
“Yes, sir,” she said. “Thank you, sir.” She leaned against me. “Why don’t you come too?”
That seemed like a grand idea. I didn’t want to be apart from her. “Go on in,” I said. “I’ll be there as soon as I make those calls.”
I called the Chief and told him her story and that
we’d see him later in the day. Then I called Amelia and told her that Zee was home safe and sound and was resting and that we’d tell her the whole story later. Amelia, I thought, had enough concerns at the moment and didn’t need to worry about a kidnapping too.
When I finished telephoning and went into her bedroom, I found that Zee had closed the blinds to the bright morning sun and was fast asleep. She looked like an innocent child. Her hair made a black halo around her face. I got out of the robe and slid in beside her. She smiled and tucked herself against me, her body warm and smooth against mine. I put an arm around her and felt glad and good. For a while I lay balanced between gratitude for her return and deep anger at whoever had taken her. Finally I drifted away from the world of kidnapping, suicide, and thievery and was asleep.
When I woke up, Zee was leaning over me, her naked breasts grazing my chest. Her hands moved over me. “Hey,” she said as I opened my eyes. “I’m awake and so is part of you. How about the rest of you joining us?”
She no longer looked like a child, and I didn’t feel the least bit paternal. I put my lips to her throat, right where she liked to be kissed. A little shudder went through her. I ran my hands over the smooth curve of her hips, then cupped a breast to my mouth. Her breathing grew deeper.
Half an hour later we lay tangled in each other’s arms, sweaty and satiated. “Not bad,” she said. “I believe I’ve almost recovered from the weekend. You’re better than bluefishing, even.”
“Thanks a lot,” I said. “Bluefishing’s been lousy lately and you know it.”
“Now don’t fret,” she said. “A while back I read a book about how the Germans trained some of their spies in World War II. They were trained to use sex to get people to lust after their bodies and reveal state secrets in bed. You know . . .”
“No. Yes. I guess so.”
“No matter. The thing is that the spies were trained by these very scientific types in the tricks of the seduction trade, and I read all about how to do it. It’s got nothing to do with feelings, it’s all just a matter of properly stimulating your partner’s primary and secondary erotic zones. You don’t have to be emotionally involved at all. The scientists taught the spies how to do it. I thought it was a very Germanic approach.”
“Just a matter of properly stimulating the primary and secondary erotic zones, eh? Sounds pretty cold.”
“Doesn’t make any difference. It works, that’s what’s important. So even though right now you look like you couldn’t get it up with a crane, by properly stimulating your primary and secondary erotic zones I could soon have you rearing like a stallion. If I wanted to, that is.”
“I’ll bet you can’t do it,” I said.
It was a good bet. There were no losers.
It was early afternoon. We felt lazy and safe. Out of our second shower of the day, Zee rubbed her hair with a towel. “Let’s complete the cure,” she said. “Let’s go catch some fish.”
“First, the cops,” I said.
“Second, the cops,” she said. “First, the fish.”
“That’s what I said,” I said, “First, the fish, second, the cops. Why do you have to argue about everything?”
“It’s just my way. You have to learn to put up with it.” She kissed me.
“Well, all right . . .”
13
Just because August on Martha’s Vineyard is occasionally a not-so-good fishing time, does not mean you don’t go fishing. In those days you drive up and down the beaches a lot, carrying both light tackle for bonito and regular gear in case you run into a bass or a bluefish who decided not to make the trip north. The bass seem to be coming back after a few years when they were getting very thin, and some people like to catch them and let them go again just so they can be catching something, at least until the bonito show up.
It’s illegal to keep any bass under three feet long, and I disapprove of going after the bigger ones, because they’re the old females who lay the eggs that will someday—soon, perhaps—replenish the sea with lots of bass, which I’ll then be glad to catch. I think a lot die even if you let them go, so I don’t fish for bass at all unless I want one for supper, in which case I keep the one I catch whatever size it is, illegal or not. A no doubt dangerous confession for a policeman (only a special one, admittedly) to make, but there you are . . .
It was Tuesday, and Zee and I were fishing the Chappaquiddick beaches. We had cast in vain at Wasque Point, tried again at Bernie’s Point, tried for bonito at the Jetties, tried under the cliffs at Cape Pogue and had tried at the Cape Pogue Gut. We had gotten not even a swirl or a nibble. The sea had yawned at us, and the fish were asleep off in some fish motel. We drove back to the Jetties and found Iowa there making casts with a Swedish Pimple, which is usually a good lure for bonito. It is local wisdom that bonito won’t take a lure if it’s on a leader, so all of us tie our lures onto our lines. Zee and I had our own Swedish Pimples so attached, of course, and we began fishing without high expectations, beside Iowa.
There were boats anchored or drifting about two hundred yards off the beach. Iowa looked enviously out at them.
“Look at those guys. Catching fish while we’re here catching nothing. I’d like to spend just one day out there!”
Fishermen are very inclined to think the other guys are doing better than they are. Many a fisherman had abandoned a perfectly good spot for a worse one because he thought the rods over there were bending more than his was here. In this case, the guys in the boats weren’t catching any more than we were. I pointed this out.
Iowa was not about to change his mind. “I’d like to spend just one day out there!”
It was a lovely, lazy day, with blue skies, a hazy horizon that hid Cape Cod, and a gentle southwest wind which was easing sailboats up and down the Sound. The worst day of fishing is, as the bumper stickers say, better than the best day of working, so even though we had seen no fish, Iowa and Zee and I were content.
“There’s a helicopter,” said Iowa, looking toward the Cape Pogue lighthouse as he reeled in.
I followed his gaze. There, indeed, was a helicopter. It was coming over the Sound toward Edgartown. We watched it without much interest. As it came closer, we began to hear its engine, and shortly, as it went between us and Edgartown, I recognized it as being the very helicopter that I had seen on the Damon lawn. The helicopter seemed to be headed there again. We watched it disappear behind North Neck.
Just then a fish hit Iowa’s lure. Iowa, half-turned so he could watch the helicopter, spun around so fast that he lost his hat. “Hey!” he yipped.
A bit later, after a good tussle, he landed a nice Spanish mackerel.
“Not bad,” he said. “Not a bonito, but not bad.”
Zee and I could not but agree.
Iowa got a five-gallon plastic bucket from his pickup, filled it with water, and put the mackerel in it head down, throat cut so it could bleed.
A while later I got a hit but lost it. Then Iowa got another mackerel and landed it. Then Zee got one and landed it. There was life in the sea after all. I could see that Zee was beginning to feel pretty good. The shadows of the weekend were being pushed away from her. Fishing can do that for you, especially if the fish are hitting your lure.
“Let’s go, Jefferson,” said Zee. “We’ll catch your fish for you if we have to, but you’ll have a lot more fun if you catch your own.”
I finally hooked a mackerel and actually landed it. Zee patted me on the back. “Good boy,” she said. “I knew you could do it.”
“Watch it,” I said, “or I’ll grab one of your zones.”
“Oh, you silver-tongued devil, you. You aren’t just sweet talking me, are you?”
I faked a grab and she faked one of her own. Iowa pretended to ignore us.
We fished there all afternoon and had a lot of fun filling up our buckets with Spanish mackerel. Then, right before dusk, Iowa got the first bonito I’d seen all season.
“Hot damn!” he cried. “The good times are here
again!”
So they were. Within an hour Zee and I also each had a bonito. I looked at Zee. She had a good healthy smile. The therapy had worked. “What do you say?” I asked. “Shall we go see the Chief?”
“One more cast.”
She made her cast and reeled in. “Okay,” she said.
Iowa was going to stay awhile longer.
“Don’t worry,” I said to him. “When I get into town and show those poor lads who stayed at home what a bonito looks like I’ll be sure to tell them that you actually caught the first one.”
“Sure you will,” said Iowa. “I know I can depend on you not to lie about a thing as important as that.”
We kept two of the Spanish mackerel because they are fine eating, but sold the rest of the catch. For my share I got almost as much as I’d spent for gas, which for a surf caster is not bad.
Then we drove to Edgartown’s brand-new police station and actually found the Chief in his office. He was getting ready to go home. Instead, he gave Zee a steady look, seemed satisfied at what he saw, and got out a tape recorder.
“Do you mind if I tape us? Later I’ll have a transcript made.”
We sat and Zee told her story. The Chief asked her the questions I’d asked her and got the same answers. Then he got out his pipe, leaned back, and studied her face. “You look pretty good, Zee. You seem to have put this behind you pretty well.”
“With a little help from my friends.” She threw me a smile.
“Good. You have no idea what this was all about?”
“No.”
“Do you, J.W.?”
“Maybe.” I told him about my anonymous phone call.
Zee looked at me with surprise. “You never told me about that.”
“I thought you had enough to think about. Anyway, you know now. The thing is,” I said, “that the guy seemed confused when I told him you’d been gone since Friday. That caught him off guard, somehow.”
“You recognize his voice?”
“No. He’d muffled it somehow or other.”
“Any accent?” asked the Chief. “Anything odd? No? Who do you think he was talking about? You aren’t the Vineyard’s man of the year, but what off-islanders might want to do you wrong?”
