One of them starts climbing. He’s not a stealthy climber. He bulls his way up the rock. I’m grateful for that because it makes it easy to track his progress.
Maybe it took me half an hour to climb the rock last night. It takes him about ten minutes. I see him, moments before he reaches the platform, emerging from the mist. His head is shaved. He hoists himself onto the platform easily. He’s a big, strong-looking guy, with a Maori-style tattoo curling up from the neck of his Windbreaker. He opens the metal cover of the box bolted below the upper cable and throws a switch. He pulls a walkie-talkie out of his pocket. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s go.”
I realize what this is: a test run.
A rope is tossed up and catches on one of the loops. The mechanism suspended from the upper cable moves, obviously on a signal from a remote-control device below. There must be some kind of homing mechanism attached to the end of the rope, because the pipelike device, which has a kind of articulated neck, descends, locates the rope, and tightens over the rope’s end. Winches and pulleys spring into action on either side of the chasm, pulling the cable – and with it the rope – taut as a drum. The machinery is amazingly silent, all this occurring with no more than a faint whir.
“Got it,” the big man whispers into his walkie-talkie. “Coming back your way.”
He flicks a switch on the gray box and the mechanism reverses, cables slacking, jaws holding the rope end opening to release it. The rope slaps back down to the ground.
To my relief, the big man also descends.
Twenty minutes later, I hear music from down below. Drums and a sitar. Not long afterward, the guests arrive. They make an enormous amount of noise as they enter the area of the stage.
I try not to think about the “guests” as the clink of glasses and the murmur of conversation float up to me.
At one point, I get a tickle in my throat and work hard to suppress the urge to cough, my eyes streaming tears. I’m stiff as a rock and beginning to worry that when the time comes for me to move, I’ll be unable to do so.
And then the show begins. I can hear Boudreaux’s banter as he performs different effects, and very occasionally, Kevin’s voice – or is it Sean’s? – in counterpoint. From the audience: crescendos of laughter, bursts of hearty applause and exclamations of astonishment.
The Piper, performing his tricks.
And then it happens. The Piper heaves the rope up. “Get up there!” he commands. The rope plops to the ground. “I don’t know what’s wrong,” he says. “The heavens are defying me.”
A sprinkle of laughter.
“I’ll have to really concentrate.”
Again, the rope slaps back down onto the gravel.
Again the Piper complains, urging the audience to help him will the rope to “catch in the sky.”
The child’s voice says something I can’t hear, but it earns an appreciative burst of laughter.
Another try. And then the end of the rope comes into view, ascending through the mist. How far does he have to throw it? It’s quite a feat.
And then he gets it – the rope catches. The audience cheers.
The mechanism moves into action, catches the rope in its jaws. Instantly, the pulleys and winches begin to do their job, tightening the rope from both directions until it’s taut.
“Let’s just see if it’s really up there,” the Piper says. The rope shakes – he’s testing it to make sure it won’t fall out of the sky.
“Why don’t you climb it? See what’s up there?” the Piper suggests to my son.
“I don’t know,” Kevin replies. “It’s high.”
“You’ll do as you’re told,” the Piper tells him.
“Oh, all right.”
A big round of applause as the boy starts up the rope.
The Piper continues to talk, but I’m not listening. The rope twitches back and forth.
I watch the rhythm of the rope and then I see it – Kevin’s blond hair shining as he comes up out of the fog.
He’s dressed in a loincloth, with a sash across his chest. He’s concentrating so intently that he doesn’t look toward the platform until he’s very nearly to the top. When he sees me – tears in my eyes, finger to my lips, head moving side to side in warning – there is complete and total astonishment in his eyes. I’m afraid, for one terrible moment, that the shock will loosen his grip and he’ll fall.
He fits himself into the sling with practiced ease, and then pulls himself toward me.
Then he’s on the platform. I have my arms open to embrace him, but he’s wearing a lavalier mike, alligator-clipped to his sash. I hold my finger to my lips, unclip it, fold it into the hem of my fleece jacket, squeeze it into my fist.
“Dad,” Kevin says in a whisper, his face a mix of delight and perplexity, “what are you doing here?”
I don’t know what to say.
He continues in a furious whisper. “He said we wouldn’t see you till Christmas. He said that they came to get you at the joust, the station did, that you had to go on ’signment, that he would take us home until Mommy got there. He bought us pretzels. And he did take us home, but only for a little while. And we tried to call you – he said you were on your way to the airport. I tried to call you, and you said hello, but we got cutted off. And then he told us you got in a car accident and you were very very hurt, that Mommy had to take care of you and she couldn’t take care of us, that-” His voice trails away. His face begins to collapse.
He must have known that there was something wrong. On some level, he must have understood that he was a captive. But he’s held himself together all these weeks, fitting in with what he’s been told, accepting the strange life he and his brother have been leading, trying to frame it as somehow okay, as some kind of normal existence. But underneath, he must have worried about the holes in The Piper’s story. He must have wondered why his grandparents didn’t step in. He must have wondered a million things.
Now he’s my little boy again and he starts to cry.
At last he comes into my arms and I hold him.
It’s not possible, really, to describe how this moment feels, the ineffable sweetness of reunion as I hold my son in my arms.
But it doesn’t last. I push him away, hold him at arm’s length. “Kevin, listen to me. What are you supposed to do now?” I gesture down toward the stage. “You’ve got to do everything just the way you’re supposed to.”
He shakes his head. He looks terrified. “Nothing. Oh. I have to slide this back.” He flicks his wrist and sends the sling back to the middle. “Then I just wait.”
“How long?”
He shrugs.
“Until he calls up to me.”
“Look, Kev.” I put a hand on his shoulder. “You have to understand that-”
“I thought I made you crash,” he tells me, his voice thin and full of tears. “Mommy says cell phones are dangerous.”
“Kevin – I wasn’t in an accident. Mr. Boudreaux lied to you.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Carrefour?”
“Doctor Carrefour,” he corrects me. “Doc.”
“Okay. Well, whoever he is – he kidnapped you. I wasn’t hurt or sick. Mom and I have been out of our minds searching for you. Do you think your mother would really not be with you boys, no matter what?”
“But he said we were helping, he said we…” His voice is querulous now, unsure. He starts to cry again.
“Kevin.” I pause, shut my eyes. “He’s planning to kill you – it’s part of his magic. It’s a part of his show. And then he’ll kill Sean, too.”
“But why?”
I shake my head. “You have to help me now.”