by Bill Walker
Roberto had them sit on a stool in front of a light gray background identical to the color used by State Security when they took citizen ID photos. He worked quickly, snapping the pictures with professional alacrity.
He spoke for the first time, his accent placing him squarely in New Jersey. “Your new IDs will be ready tomorrow evening, along with travel permits through to Buffalo.”
“Thank you, Roberto,” Denise said.
He bowed slightly and set about putting his equipment away.
After Roberto left, Art disappeared into the storage area with the makeup case and returned with the weapons. They were the dreaded MP89. No citizen was allowed to own any firearms. The Second Amendment, and the rest of the United States Constitution, had been an early casualty of the Nazi regime. In Avalon, the penalty for possession of a rifle or pistol was twenty years at hard labor. Possession of a fully automatic weapon like the MP89 was death—no trial—no appeal—no mercy.
Jack noticed that Denise was completely familiar with the weapon. In seconds she field-stripped the gun and inspected its mechanisms. It gave off a faint odor of solvent and oil. Satisfied, she snapped it back together nearly as quickly, repeating the procedure with the second one.
“I wish these weren’t necessary,” Jack said.
“So do I, Jack,” she said. “But we have to be ready for anything. If they recognize us, chances are excellent they will shoot first and ask questions later. Just like they did with Curly.”
Jack’s eyes blazed. “Show me what to do.”
She handed him the weapon. It was short, stubby, and the pistol grip had a spongy, neoprene feel, to facilitate a tighter grip. He was surprised at how light the gun felt.
Denise held up her own weapon and described the gun’s features, sounding very much like a government training film.
“The MP89 is a four point five millimeter, select-fire weapon made from hardened steel and a high-strength, polymer plastic. It uses a caseless ammunition that fires armor-piercing projectiles from a disposable magazine containing fifty rounds at either six hundred or a thousand rounds per minute. Do you see that lever on the side near your thumb? That’s the safety and selection lever. All the way up is safe. In that position, the trigger cannot be depressed, and the gun will not fire. From there, the first click is single-round fire, second click is three-round burst, third click is full auto at six hundred rounds per minute, last click is full auto at a thousand. Got it?”
Jack nodded.
“Okay. All you need to remember is to take the weapon off safety, point the thing, and fire. Because of the caseless round and the small calibre, there is almost no recoil. It’s like firing a cap gun,” she said.
Art interrupted. “Roberto will be back tonight with your papers and a car registered in your new identities. You are now Mr. and Mrs. Harold Manning of Toledo, Ohio. You are on vacation and will be visiting relatives in Toronto. You will leave tonight.”
“I thought we were staying another day?” Jack said, alarmed.
Art’s expression turned grim. “I regret that you cannot. The SS has begun house-to-house searches. They could be here at any time. As soon as everything is ready, you must leave. I am sorry.”
“It’s okay, Art,” Denise said. “We appreciate all you’ve done.”
He smiled and bowed his head. “You will look up Wilhelm when you get there?”
Denise went over and hugged the older man.
“I’ll give him a big wet one direct from you,” she said.
Art sobbed quietly, holding on to Denise. Jack’s own eyes began to tear up. He looked away and fiddled with the MP89, trying to remember exactly how Denise had disassembled it. But the details escaped him. He felt angry and frustrated again, but for a different reason: What the hell kind of world would keep a father and son apart?
A world he had to change.
Chapter Twelve
Jacksonville, Florida
24 April 1994
Art came for them about 1800 hours, looking nervous and worried.
“The SS are at the end of the street,” he said. “We must hurry.”
“What about Roberto?” Jack said.
Art couldn’t hide the fright in his eyes. “He is late.”
They climbed up the steps, went to the front of the shop, and peered out the door. Several large vans stood a few hundred feet down the block. In the deepening twilight, Jack could make out a squad of soldiers under the command of a Hauptsturmführer. As he watched, they filed out of a drycleaner and marched to the next business, a cheap restaurant. The streetlights snapped on when the black-clad soldiers entered the storefront. They would be here in minutes.
Denise turned to Jack. “We’ve got to go back down.”
Hurrying, Jack and Denise scrambled down the stairs and the trapdoor slammed shut. They could hear Art grunting as he shoved the metal cabinet back into place, the scraping noise echoing loudly.
“The light, Jack!” Denise whispered.
He mounted the stairs in two cat-like leaps and snapped it off, plunging the basement into darkness. It took a moment, but his eyes grew accustomed. A small amount of light seeped through the cracks from the floorboards over their heads, revealing dust motes swirling about in the now oppressive atmosphere.
They waited.
After what felt like an hour, Jack heard the bell on the shop’s front door tinkling, followed by the clumping of hobnailed boots. Denise grabbed his arm and placed one of the MP89s in it.
“Whatever happens,” she whispered, “just aim and fire. We’ll take as many of the bastards as we can.”
Cradling the weapon, Jack felt for the safety lever and clicked it until he reached full auto. He had no idea how long the magazine would last. Seconds, probably. He knew it wasn’t like the movies where the guns only ran out at convenient moments. Here, it was real guns with real bullets. The prospect that it all might end right here froze his heart. Would he be able to pull the trigger? He saw Curly’s face, saw the bullets rip up his body, and he knew that he wouldn’t hesitate. He gripped the gun tighter.
And they waited...
Suddenly, the clumping got louder, and they heard shouting from the Haupsturmführer, the crash of broken glass, and something large thudding to the floor.
“What’s going on up there?” Jack said.
Denise said nothing. Jack was sure she knew all too well that Art was being subjected to what State Security called “field interrogation.” Simply put, it meant the one being questioned got the crap beaten out of him. If that didn’t work, they brought out the cattle prod. That usually did it. If not, they took them back to headquarters and used the drugs. State Security had long ago perfected a regimen of various psychotropic drugs, reputed to reduce the weak-willed to pliable puppets at an impressive success rate of eighty percent. Regardless, they preferred the cruder methods because they enjoyed them.
Denise flinched as Art screamed. His voice rose in pitch as the pain increased. The scream trailed off into a hacking cough and muttered pleadings.
Someone barked an order and the boots marched across the floor. The bell tinkled again, followed by the slamming of the front door. And then... silence.
“I can’t stand this,” Jack said, moving toward the stairs. He climbed up and put his ear to the trapdoor, trying to hear anything at all.
Nothing.
Art was an old man. If the SS had killed him either deliberately or through their brutal interrogation, they were sunk. Who knows how long they would sit there trapped under a heavy cabinet they hadn’t a prayer of moving? They could easily die of thirst or starvation before someone came.
A match flared, and Denise lit one of the hurricane lamps, adjusting the flame to minimize the flicker.
“Let’s see if there’s another way out of here,” she said.
Carrying the lamp, they explored every inch of the basement, becoming more discouraged and disheartened with every passing moment. What used to be windows were now bricked over. Th
ere was no way out except through the trapdoor. Despondent, they dropped onto the bed and lay there, staring at the ceiling. Jack prayed that Art had only passed out or that Roberto would come. After a while, the excitement of the last hours took their toll, and Jack’s eyes grew heavy. Soon, in spite of their growing anxiety, both Denise and Jack fell asleep.
Jack awoke with a start, the dream he’d been having receding immediately into the subconscious. He remembered nothing except that it disturbed him. But it was nothing compared to their present situation.
“Malloy,” he said, shaking her. “Wake up.”
“Mmmmm... What!”
She bolted upright, her eyes wide open.
“Jesus, Dunham, don’t scare me like that. What time is it?”
He squinted at his watch, his eyes still unfocused from sleep.
“Either oh-two-thirty or fourteen-thirty.”
“Shit,” she said.
They heard the bell tinkling. Someone was here. Immediately, Jack leaped off the bed and doused the hurricane lamp, then darted over to the stairs and stood, holding his breath, straining to hear the slightest sound.
Who was it?
He felt Denise press against him. Seconds, minutes, hours, they couldn’t tell which, they heard a scraping noise. The cabinet. It was moving!
Denise handed him one of the MP89s and he felt for the safety and clicked it off.
“Come on,” she said, pulling him under the stairs. They both crouched down... waiting. Jack felt a small bead of sweat run down his spine and his breathing grew shallow and rapid, as if suddenly they were on top of a very high mountain. He wondered if he was about to faint and gripped the gun tighter when he heard the trapdoor creak open and flop onto the floor.
“Denise? Mr. Dunham?”
“It’s Roberto!” Denise said, her voice an explosion of sound in the quiet basement. “Roberto?”
“Please. You must come. There is no time to lose.” He sounded both relieved and scared.
Jack and Denise bounded up the steps and into the small shop. Roberto had not turned on the lights, but Jack still found himself shocked by the wanton destruction. Every piece of clothing or equipment had been ripped to pieces, overturned, or smashed. Even Art’s prized Singer sewing machine lay twisted and rent, its gears scattered across the floor. His eyes darted to the floor, where a dried pool of blood nearly two feet in diameter glistened in the pale light streaming through the shattered plate-glass window. Art was nowhere to be seen.
Roberto stood, his hands shaking. Jack thought he was scared, but he quickly realized it was repressed fury.
“Where’s Art?” Denise asked, her voice betraying her growing dismay.
“They took him,” Roberto said.
“Oh God.”
Denise began to cry. This alarmed Jack in more ways than one. He’d never seen her like this.
“What about us? Has he talked?” Jack said.
Roberto stared at them, his eyes telling the whole story. Jack knew Art was as good as dead and tried putting the thought out of his mind. He’d liked the old man.
“I do not know,” Roberto said. “You know he would never betray you... willingly.”
Denise shook her head, fighting back the tears. Roberto’s eyes flashed as he cocked his head to one side.
“What?” Jack said.
“Quickly. You must go! It is not safe.”
Roberto led them out the back door past the dumpster. In the deepening gloom, they could hear a siren, its pulsating wail growing louder as it approached.
“Is everything ready for us?” Denise asked.
“The car is parked around the corner,” Roberto said hurriedly. “It is a blue Chrysler/Heinkel, and the keys are under the front seat. Your new papers are in the glove compartment along with extra magazines for the MP89s.”
“Thanks, Roberto. I’m sorry it turned out this way.”
He shook his head again.
“You need not apologize. This is the risk we take. Art knew as well as any of us. Just get to Toronto. Then it will all have been worth it.”
Denise hugged Roberto. “You take care of yourself, okay?”
“Okay.”
Shoving the guns under their jackets, Jack and Denise raced out into the street. The siren sounded much closer now, and both knew they had mere seconds to spare.
They found the car a moment later and climbed inside. Sleek and modern, the Chrysler/Heinkel appealed to the mid-priced sporty market. It had a 300-horsepower engine and was renowned for superb handling. Jack found the keys, pushed them into the ignition, and turned. The engine caught instantly, purring like a large cat. There was power there, ready for anything. He pulled away from the curb and sped off down the street. In his rearview, he spotted a black van cross the intersection, followed by the screeching of brakes. He hoped Roberto had gotten away.
“Check the glove,” Jack said, taking a corner with a deft turn of the wheel. The car responded to the slightest touch, like he’d become connected to the road. It was a small measure of comfort in a situation devoid of it.
Denise clicked open the compartment and pulled out six extra magazines for the weapons now stashed under their seats. As they were made from a translucent plastic, he could see the squared-off cartridges lined up inside and marveled that so many could be stuffed inside something barely eight inches in length. He couldn’t believe each one held fifty rounds.
Next came the new IDs. From what he could tell, they were flawless. He stared at his picture, wondering if the wide-eyed expression betrayed his anxiety. Probably not. No one ever looked good in their ID pictures. Denise put everything back and closed the compartment. Reaching for her gym bag, she pulled out their map.
“Take Monroe to Adams. We should be able to get on the Hindenburg from there.”
Jack nodded and swung the car around. Traffic was nonexistent, and Jack had to resist the urge to test the car’s power. That would have to wait. For now, they were two tourists on their way north in no particular hurry. Their next stop on the railroad, Cincinnati, lay nearly 700 miles from Jacksonville. It was a long way and almost anything could happen. At least for now they were safe.
Once on the Hindenburg Highway, they took the interchange and got on 10 going west. From there, they took 75 north. They drove straight, stopping only for meals, gas, and border checks when they crossed state lines. As Art had told them, security had been tightened throughout the Southeastern sector. The traffic near the Georgia border slowed to a crawl. Far up ahead, they could see the flashing purple lights signifying the presence of State Security. Time stretched endlessly as they crept forward. Jack could feel a small bead of sweat trickling down the side of his face in spite of the cool blast of the car’s efficient air conditioning. The small of his back was soaked.
Another half an hour passed before they were able to observe the goings-on. The SS were methodically searching a car, its inhabitants standing awkwardly nearby, their expressions fearful.
“I can’t stand this,” Jack said.
Denise held his hand tightly, her smile warm and reassuring. “I’ve been through this before, Jack. Just stay cool.”
Soon, the car at the checkpoint was allowed through. The troopers then scrutinized the papers of the occupants of two more vehicles, allowing them to pass more quickly. Jack realized they were searching every third car. He also realized that they sat seven cars back from the checkpoint. He’d never been any damn good at math, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out they would be searched. And if they were searched, the troopers would find the guns. Their fancy new IDs wouldn’t matter a whit.
The next twenty minutes passed like an eternity, bringing them closer and closer. Jack had an irrational urge to pull a U-turn and bolt, knowing it would invite disaster. It was just like those moments, glancing over the edge of a dizzyingly high building and that small voice in your head told you to jump.
The car right before them passed through the checkpoint and the trooper in charge,
a stocky balding man with a shock of gray in his jet-black hair, motioned him forward.
“Please step out of the vehicle and submit to search.”
The search team, consisting of three Sturmmann, stood by. Jack stared straight ahead, his hand shaking when he reached for the door handle. It hovered there, quivering, as if it had a mind of its own and was trying to decide what to do.
“Step out of the vehicle at once!” the trooper said, his voice strident and sharp.
“Hey, Charlie!” someone said.
The black-haired trooper, a Scharführer, turned his head as a younger trooper, also a sergeant, stuck his head out the window of a portable checkpoint booth.
“Yeah, what is it?”
“Headquarters got a call that Dunham and Malloy were spotted in Gainesville. Wants us to speed things up.”
“Yeah, so what else is new?” the Scharführer said. “They want every verdammten thing yesterday!”
The young sergeant shook his head. “They want you to start searching every ten cars!”
“Scheissekopfen,” the Scharführer muttered as he walked toward Jack and Denise. He motioned for Jack to roll down the window. “Your papers.”
It was not a request. Jack grabbed their new IDs and handed them over. The man scowled, gave the pictures a cursory glance, then fixed Jack and Denise with a penetrating glare. Jack managed a pleasant smile, though it felt exaggerated, as if his face was splitting open.
The Scharführer thrust the IDs back at Jack.
“Move on,” he said, waving them forward.
Putting the car in gear, Jack glided through the checkpoint past a contingent of idle troopers who stared after them with sullen nonchalance. He was giddy, as if suddenly feeling the effect of an unknown narcotic.
