Three hours later, after driving past huge groves of orange trees, we arrived in Santa Monica and saw a large pier with the sign "Route Sixty-six ends here." I had made it. A warm sense of triumphant came over me for driving the entire historic route from Chicago. I wanted to walk on the boardwalk and enjoy the liveliness, but was afraid Carla and I would be recognized.
It's not easy to find a parking place with a trailer, but we found one near the beach where a few other trailers parked. We sat in the truck and looked out at the Pacific and watched the waves, smelled the salt air and listened to the sound of the surf. The beach was lined with palm trees and hundreds of sail boats and large yachts sparkled on the slate gray water.
It was a warm, sunny day and the beach was crowded. People walked by our trailer in bathing suits and light clothing. Everyone seemed tan. Some ate ice cream cones or carried beach umbrellas. Many were riding bicycles, skate boards or went by on roller skates. It seemed festive especially after a week on the Mojave desert.
I had to get out and stretch and took the chance I wouldn't be noticed. Carla and I walked over to a bench on the edge of the boardwalk and looked out at the ocean. Just as I took a deep breath of salt air, I glanced down at a trash can and saw a folded up newspaper. I picked it up and saw the headline—Five State Manhunt for Kidnapper Continues.
"Fuck!" I showed it to Carla.
"I'm sorry. This is horrible."
"Carla, you have to call your mom and tell her you weren't kidnapped. This has to be over. I had no idea this would happen when I agreed to take you with me."
"Are you sorry?"
"I don't know what I'm feeling. I'm not a kidnapper. I understand you're afraid to talk to your mother, but unless you do, we will be hiding and and running, I don't want to live like this."
Carla walked away from me, but I could see by her tense shoulders and the way she moved she was upset. I glanced back at the newspaper then looked out at the ocean and crowded beach. I was angry, but wondered if I was angry at her, or at myself for being in this situation, for not insisting that Carla call her mom and clear things us. I cursed my own stupidity. I did this to myself. What's wrong with me?
While I was standing there, a police car drove by. I didn't want them to see me so I faced the ocean, but I also didn't want them to recognize Carla. Her picture was in all of the papers and on television and I knew the police had seen bulletins. I glanced over at her and knew she didn't see the police.
I heard the police car stop and a door slam. I didn't want to turn around so I lifted the newspaper to hide my face and pretended I was reading. Carla was standing about ten feet from me when I saw the police walk up to her. I didn't know what to do. I knew if I went back to the trailer and they realized they had found Carla, they would find me. If I walked away, I could hide in the crowd, duck into a bar or coffee shop. When the police started talking to her, she glanced at me then quickly started speaking. I had no idea what she was saying. Perhaps she was lying and saying she's not the person, but then I realized this is nuts. I'm not a kidnapper. If Carla wasn't going to face reality and call her mother, I was going to end this and tell the truth.
I walked over to Carla, took her hand and faced the two policemen. I lifted Carla's hand to them and felt her gripping mine. We looked at each other before I spoke.
"She wasn't kidnapped. She's running away and came willingly. This is all a huge mistake."
"What are you talking about?" The taller policeman stared at me, bewildered.
"He's right. He didn't kidnap me. I asked him to take me with him. My mom got it all wrong. This is a huge mistake. I wasn't kidnapped."
The taller policeman glanced at me and then at Carla."Why didn't you call her and tell her you weren't kidnapped. The report said someone called and said you were taken against your will."
"That was Dustin. I left my truck there. He's not a nice man. He must have told my grandfather what he saw and then my mom called the police. I asked Josh to take me with him. I wasn't kidnapped."
They were both quiet and looked at us then at each other. I noticed the small policeman had a scar next to his mouth. He took a deep
breath. "Are you sure you weren't brainwashed by him—that happens."
"I'm not brainwashed. This is not his fault. I asked him to take me. Please believe me. He's not a kidnapper."
"If I was a kidnapper, do you think I'd come over to you? I'm trying to end this nightmare."
I saw the taller policeman narrow his eyes and step towards me. "Listen, I can't let you go. She could be brainwashed."
The other policeman grabbed my arm. "Come with us. We're taking you in."
I let go of Carla's hand and tried shaking his arm loose, but he suddenly grabbed my other arm, turned me around and snapped handcuffs on my wrists and told me my rights.
"Hey!This is a mistake."
"Let him go," Carla shouted.
"God damn it Carla, call your mom, now."
"Let him go. He didn't kidnap me."
Suddenly, while I was being shoved into the police car, a crowd gathered around us.
"That's the kidnapper," someone shouted.
"No, he's not," Carla shouted back.
"Call your mom," I yelled as I was being pushed into the backseat of the car.
