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, tape, 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.

* * *

“Drive careful but fast or I’ll blow your fat Irish head all over the windshield.”

“No problem, madam. No problem.”

They’d glided past two police cars unnoticed. Eamon was behind the wheel of his Pink Tuna taxi with a female passenger. Just another night in Montauk. What the police didn’t notice as they sped toward Ditch Plains was that Eamon’s right arm was bleeding steadily onto his pants, or that the woman in the backseat held an expensive weapon against the back of his head, or that the mangled body of her biker boyfriend lay squeezed into the rear of the station wagon. No reason to pay attention to Eamon. A motorcycle gang was wreaking havoc by the beach and the police were on the case.

* * *

“What are we gonna do when we get back to New York?”

“You’re gonna be a pop star and I’m gonna run a security company. Not a damn thing’s changed.”

“You think I’m that cold.”

“Bridgette, you’re not cold. You’re not heartless. You’re nothing hard. But I am a realist. So are you. I’m not ready to be a Chris Judd and I don’t believe you’re looking for one.”

They were now back on Highway 27, right by the old cemetery, the gray pond, and the windmill that introduced one to the main drag of East Hampton. There were a few cars on the road. The Hampton Jitney crossed in front of them, heading into town. The Jitney was going right and D went left. His legs were weary and his back sore. But he kept on pumping. He couldn’t hear the sound of motorcycles and that was all that mattered.

“D,” she said in his ear, “I think I love you.”

“Come on, Bridgette, we have a nice vibe. That’s all. We’ve been in an unnatural situation. Once all this gets back to normal, you’ll see. We’ll both see this for what it is.”

Bridgette knew he was right but she didn’t have another way of defining her feelings for D. If it wasn’t love, what was it? He’d protected her, revealed himself, and made love to her on the beach. That was about as much love as she’d ever experienced in her young life. Sure the situation was “unnatural,” but so was her life.

D made a right at the big, beautiful white house at the bend of Highway 27 into East Hampton. He loved this house. It looked enchanted, like the place you moved into and lived happily ever after in. He often fantasized about knocking on the white house’s front door and making the owners an offer they couldn’t refuse. D pedaled past the house, under the thick trees that hung over the road, past the bowling alley on his left, past the street that led to Russell Simmons’s summer home (D had provided security for a fundraiser there), and, finally, up to the right turn that led to East Hampton Airport. D heard a loud engine. Instead of looking behind, he looked up and watched a helicopter begin its slow descent.

The East Hampton Airport was a small airstrip designed for the private planes and the helicopters that ferried the rich and shameless from the city to their summer homes in less than thirty minutes. D was rounding into the parking lot when he heard gunfire. He threw himself, the bike, and Bridgette to the ground. But the bullets weren’t headed their way. A window on the helicopter exploded and a Pink Tuna taxi was coming up the street with a woman firing out the passenger-side window. D scooped Bridgette into his arms and began running toward the landing strip.

The helicopter floated in the air, halfway between escape and landing. D spied two people gesturing in the cockpit. He kept running. A bullet whizzed by. He kept running. Bridgette felt weightless in his arms. The helicopter came down and landed. Dust and wind clouded D’s eyes. Bridgette screamed as D fell to the ground. A bullet stung his left leg. Fly Ty jumped out of the helicopter, his police-issue revolver blazing. Bridgette scrambled to her feet and ran toward the helicopter. D rose to one knee. Fly Ty fired again, giving D some cover. D got to his feet, ran toward the helicopter, and launched himself in. Fly Ty fired again and again. The Pink Tuna taxi went in reverse. Fly Ty got in and closed the door. The helicopter elevated. Bridgette took off her shirt and shoved it against D’s wound. Another bullet from the ground penetrated the helicopter, which wobbled but didn’t fall.

D said to his friend, “Sometimes I love you like old-school R&B.”

“Well,” Fly Ty responded, “sometimes you have good taste.”