by Eric Wilson
“A what? No, that’s not the—”
“We all long for purpose, don’t we? A natural desire. And you’ve fabricated this alternate reality to restore meaning to your life.”
“Whatever, Dr. Gerringer.” Clay pushed away from the table.
“Who? Where’re you going?”
“I came in voluntarily, remember? Shouldn’t have wasted my time.”
“You can’t leave now,” the detective ribbed. “I’m about to die.”
Clay wanted to strangle the man himself. This wasn’t how it was supposed to work. If God had a plan, if this was a gift, why was he facing this ridicule? What could he do for those who refused to listen? Maybe free will wasn’t such a good thing.
“I’m going to pray for you, Detective Freeman.”
“Ah. A praying man.”
“Used to be. Trying to be.”
“Well, listen to this,” the detective growled. He hunched over the table and whispered so quietly that Clay had to lipread to understand. “You tell that God of yours to leave me alone. Got the tests back last month. The doctors say I’ve got a brain aneurysm, nothing they can do. Only a matter of time—couple days, couple weeks or months at best. In a split second it’ll be over. Haven’t told a soul.”
Clay’s faith cowered in a corner of his mind, but he had to offer something. A lifeline.
“Let’s pray right now, Detective. What could it hurt?”
“Screw that!” Freeman hissed. “I’d rather die.”
33
Preposterous Claims
On Friday, Clay’s paycheck came with an admonition from Mr. Blomberg.
“Ryker, I’m not going to belabor this point, so listen and listen close. You skipped out on me once, threw my schedule into a tailspin, and cost me money. That’s not something I easily forget, you hear me? Plus, I’ve got my own troubles on the home front. I suggest you deposit this check, pay off some bills, and lay off the sauce.” He held up a hand. “Yes, Wendy told me about your little escapade at the Raven.”
“Sir, I made a mistake.”
“Sure did, mister. Your father’s made it plain that he expects no more favors. You do something like that again, even a minor thing, and you’ll be canned.”
“That’s more than fair. You’ve got a business to run.”
Blomberg combed thick fingers through his red hair. “I still can’t figure whether you’re a first-class brown-noser or just an ignorant punk still growin’ up.”
“Still growin’ up, sir.”
“See now, that’s what I’m talkin’ about. You think you’re some kind of wise guy? You just remember what we talked about a couple of weeks back. God’s got a plan. That’s a fact. And you’d best get outta the way of it.”
“Yes, Mr. Blomberg.”
Sitting in the bank’s drive-through lane, Clay played over that last bit. Should he be getting out of God’s way? He’d tried it for the past few months, and it’d brought nothing but confusion. Maybe the opposite was true; maybe he should be getting in line with God’s sovereign design.
Look, I tried doing it my way at Crater Lake … and you sent a whale after me!
In the driver’s seat, he signed the back of his check while his thoughts turned from Sergeant Turney to Detective Freeman. And to Jenni and Jason.
Please, Lord. I’m trying to learn how to trust your voice again.
Dmitri Derevenko received word Saturday morning. He was in.
He had sent priority mail to Gertrude Ubelhaar, explaining his need for a visit; with Oleg’s help, he had procured new identity cards. Now, as promised, the elderly inmate had submitted a visiting application form for him at the Coffee Creek Correctional Facility.
Dmitri and Oleg drove the distance together.
“Authorities have already screened your information,” Oleg said, as they reached the North Wilsonville exit off Interstate 5. “Your ID is good. The man we use is the best in Oregon, a former art-restoration expert from the Ukraine.”
“I’m not worried.”
“Be careful, though. They will watch as you speak with Gertrude.”
“We don’t want trouble. I understand, Oleg.”
“And she might lie. She’s known for it, with many years of practice.” Oleg’s high voice did nothing to conceal his venomous tone. “She is a blasphemer, same as Hitler, same as Rasputin. She must give back what she took for her own. Our Brotherhood will not rest otherwise.”
High barbed-wire fences rose into view, surrounding a complex of flat, tan buildings. Dmitri stopped at the main gate. He identified himself through the speaker to Control Central staff, who told him to proceed to the parking lot.
Dmitri cleared his throat. “Do not worry, comrade. I will find answers. Here.” He slipped his Maksalov-modified cell phone across the seat. “I cannot take this in.”
After registration forms, a thorough search, and identity confirmation, a female attendant led Dmitri through a series of clanging doors. Cameras scanned the corridors. Sounds echoed with no identifiable source or direction. In a sterile reception room, he purchased snacks from vending machines before entering a visitation room with a small table.
Two minutes later an elderly lady appeared in institutional garb.
The dossier opened in Dmitri’s mind …
Gertrude Ubelhaar, seventy-seven years of age, born in Mosbach, Germany, daughter of a Nazi biochemist. At seventeen inducted into the SS breeding program as a potential mother of Hitler’s master race. At war’s end US forces falsified her records and arranged for her employment at a military facility in Umatilla, Oregon. In the technological race against the Soviets, the Americans coveted the knowledge of such Nazis. They bent the rules accordingly.
While on the US government payroll, Gertrude Ubelhaar had funneled her anti-American sentiments and post-WWII bitterness into a small group of anarchists. They’d helped mastermind last October’s regional terrorist plot for which she was now incarcerated.
Dmitri scooted a Dasani bottle and a bag of pretzels across the table.
Gertrude limped forward in prison slippers and seated herself. “Dmitri, you’re a dashing young man,” she said, opening the pretzels. “Beautiful Aryan eyes.”
“And you’re a woman with a dark past, Ms. Ubelhaar.”
“Call me Trudi, if you will. I prefer it.” On her nearly balding head, wisps of hair played above powdered wrinkles. Her eyes were intelligent, alert.
“We may speak freely, Trudi?”
“Goodness, yes. At my age there’s no other way.”
“I mentioned in my letter that I’ve found ties to your son. When you added me to the visitation list, I knew you were curious, nyet?”
“I’m amused by this claim; I won’t deny it.”
“Where is he? Your son?”
Gertrude gnawed on a pretzel. “Are you inquiring after his soul or his mortal body? We have time to wax philosophical if you so desire.”
“But your son is alive,” he said. “This I must believe.”
“When you say you must believe, it is time to reevaluate. Unshakable truths inspire trust, but they never demand it.”
“I don’t have time to evaluate such matters,” Dmitri said. “I seek the bloodline of the Tsars, and you are the mother to this man. I’m not asking. I know it’s the truth.”
“Dmitri, you are too handsome for naive talk.”
“We’ve found documents in this evil program’s classified records. Hitler chose you. He found the Romanov heir, coerced him out of hiding, and used you to breed a final Tsar as a bridge between enemy nations. He thought such a child would bring the Third Reich favor in Russian eyes.”
“You can’t believe everything you read.” Gertrude laid one wrist atop the other on the table. “You intrigue me with these preposterous claims, but I do admire a healthy imagination.”
“Imagination? Nyet.”
“You already know the facts, Dmitri. Under Lenin’s direction the Bolsheviks set out to destroy the imperial li
ne. In one dreadful week alone, in July of 1918, they killed nearly thirty Romanovs—grand dukes and duchesses, princes and empresses. What is this nonsense about a surviving heir? You are jabbing at an old woman’s sorrows.”
Dmitri surveyed the visitor area, spoke in hushed tones. “I am from the Brotherhood of Tobolsk. You know this name?”
“I’ve heard rumors, yes. But it no longer exists, does it?”
“We still wrestle with God, Trudi. This is the mark we bear.” Dmitri thumbed down his trouser material to reveal his angel-wing scar. “My great-grandfather, he tried to save the Romanov family. He and others made plans, spoke with British ambassadors and intelligence agents. Across from the Ipatiev house, the British Consulate dug a tunnel to reach the family for escape, you understand. But the Reds suspected trouble and killed the family in cold blood. Only one child survived, protected by diamonds sewed into his vest. Young Alexei. The Tsars’ bloodline did not end. This is God’s hand showing favor to our Brotherhood.”
“A wonderful tale, I’ll grant you. Yet it’s public knowledge that during an official inquest each of the Romanovs was exhumed and identified. They died in that basement.”
“Guards reported so. If they failed, they knew Lenin would kill them as well.”
“So they perpetuated this deception to protect themselves?”
“Da. And to this day, falsehoods are told by my government. Leaders in the Kremlin do not want the threat of past royalty. They control news reports so that the country does not question. Trudi, I tell you the truth that Alexei escaped. Our Brotherhood smuggled him from northern Russia through Turkestan and into Shanghai. In early 1919 the British warship HMS Kent transported him into hiding on Ceylon.”
“So why didn’t you pursue your vaunted imperial leader long ago?”
“It’s our failure. Hitler found Alexei and swayed him with thoughts of glory. Alexei was a young man, isolated and—what is the word?—impressionable. He felt a destiny to lead, but he was an orphan with sickness in his blood. Hitler promised him a cure, recovered from Rasputin’s hidden chamber.”
“A brash lie. Hitler did not know the chamber’s location.”
“But he convinced Alexei to believe. To join with you.”
“I was barren, Dmitri. Unfruchtbar … unfruitful.”
“This is what the SS told you. It’s in the records. But Hitler was saving you.”
“For an assignment, you are correct.” Gertrude’s lips twitched with a grin. “You’ve done your research. Yes, Adolf hand selected me as the perfect Aryan mother for Romanov offspring, a blood link to be forged between empires, to consecrate his Thousand Year Reich. Germany has never conquered Russia’s vast steppes. But what if the countries were to be bound together by blood?”
“Madness.” Dmitri rose, his knee jarring the table. “My people would not accept this … this link with Hitler. Nyet!”
A guard’s head poked through the door.
“He’s okay,” Gertrude said. “It’s these tables. More polish and fewer slivers would be nice, don’t you think?”
The guard disappeared.
“So, Trudi.” Dmitri felt short of breath. “The Tsar is alive—you admit this?”
“I carried this child in my womb, yes. Hitler, however, was a weak fool, afraid to use the weapons at his disposal. His final cowardice brought the war to an end.”
“On this we agree. And you gave birth? You had your son here in America?”
“Yes. I was not so barren as first conjectured, eh? My child was born here in Oregon in early 1946.” Her fingers touched her scalp. “I’m an old woman, Dmitri. Does it do me any good to take this secret to my grave? Perhaps my son’s time has come. Certainly your visit seems providential.”
“I believe so.”
“I do not know his exact whereabouts, nor do I know the fabled fortune’s location—Tmu Tarakan. If you’re willing, though, to do the legwork and report back to me, I’ll provide a hint or two. There’s a young woman who possesses a vital element. Start with her.”
“It is my task. I’m listening.”
“Her name is Josee Walker. She has something which is not hers, by rights. Deal with her carefully and do not underestimate her friend, a Sergeant Turney.” A chilly expression crept over Gertrude’s powdered face and broke it, like cracking ice, into wrinkles and fissures. “They’re the ones responsible for my time behind these bars.”
Monde’s report was concise.
“In conclusion, I don’t believe Dmitri Derevenko has Engine 418’s secret in hand, but we know he wants it as desperately as we do. He’ll continue searching, turning over every stone. If we’re patient, A.G., he’ll do our physical labor for us.”
“And you’re positive we can get it from him if he finds it.”
“Once he finds it.” Monde’s eyes gleamed. “He is a persistent man.”
One of Asgoth’s own contacts had delivered news that Clay Ryker was carrying the engine’s treasure when he dove into the waters at Mount Mazama. There was no reason, however, to reveal this. Monde was occupied with his own pursuits; Asgoth would use the information for a separate purpose.
He played along. “But we can get it?”
“Yes,” Monde said. “Trust my skills for that. Using fear, we’ll leverage those around Dmitri until he has nowhere to turn. His Brotherhood believes this secret might help them resurrect the Russian monarchy. They need their Tsar, and they need Rasputin’s legendary riches to finance such a venture. We, on the other hand, want to buy the soul of a town.”
“Is that what you’d call it?” The phrasing amused Asgoth.
“Call it what you will. The result is the same. If we succeed—”
“Once we succeed.”
“Correction noted,” Monde said with a slight smile. “For long enough hell’s hounds have been held at bay. Once we get our finances lined up and get Clay Ryker out of the picture, we’ll be free to roam.”
“Exactly as I’ve always envisioned it.”
Mylisha saw the sign while returning from an accounting class at LCC.
Eighteen million dollars.
She pulled off Interstate 5, choosing to pass through Santa Clara on her way home. She stopped at a convenience store. There it was. The Oregon Lottery screen over the ticket machine confirmed the billboard’s claim.
She placed her hand over her purse, imagined she could feel the heat of eighteen dollars burning a hole through the brushed, dark purple leather. That morning she’d withdrawn two twenties from the ATM, taken in her car for an oil change, and this was the leftover cash.
Later, in class, she’d read her lucky numbers for the day.
Eighteen was one of them.
Any fool could connect the dots and see the dollar signs.
Somebody has to win. Why not me?
Mylisha vacillated. She didn’t believe in paying the “poor tax.” Daily she watched Safeway patrons dish out money for scratch-off tickets and reminded herself to stick to her budget—like every good business student should. She laughed at those who rushed to buy tickets when the jackpot bulged into eight figures, as though a measly three or four million wasn’t worth the effort.
Eighteen dollars, girl. It’s a small investment.
The money was in her hand now.
What was she thinking? If she mentioned this to her instructor as an investment opportunity, he would flunk her on the spot. He would say it was no different than holding a match to the money and watching it go up in smoke.
Eighteen million … eighteen dollars … lucky eighteen.
The machine sucked in the bills and spit out paper tickets in exchange. Mylisha folded them once, tucked them into the front pocket of her jeans. She had a good feeling about this.
The good feeling vanished as numbers ticker taped across the TV screen.
Mylisha fell forward onto her lime green beanbag. Groaned. She folded her hands over the back of her neck, embarrassed by her own silliness. Almost twenty dollars. Gone. Consumed by th
at greedy ticket machine.
She pulled herself up. Turned off the TV.
On a black lacquer shelf, her book of Langston Hughes poems offered distraction. She’d always loved his words, so earthy and empathetic. Mud-covered jewels.
She let the book fall open in her lap. She used to do this with her Bible, seeking the Lord’s direction through whichever passage appeared before her. It had even worked on occasion. Overall, though, she had to admit it smacked of desperation. Like plucking at spiritual flower petals: “he loves me, he loves me not.”
Mylisha’s lips twitched; her eyelids closed.
She knew God’s love for her. But what about his plans? Why the silence?
She took her finger and dropped it blindly on a section of the page. Through squinting eyes, she read a poem titled “Acceptance.” It spoke of God’s infinite wisdom, which foresaw his creation’s imminent folly.
She smiled weakly. Leave it to Mr. Hughes to strike the nail on the head.
34
Back for Revenge
Gerald Ryker clomped in from the garage. “Son.”
“Morning, Dad.”
“Garage’s looking mighty bare.”
Clay sighed. “Already told you, I’ll try to replace what I lost.”
“Darn right you will.”
Clay opened the Sunday sports section and thought about Kenny Preston. He’d called the kid last night, chatted, drawn encouragement from the high-energy voice.
No doubt Kenny had been out this morning delivering papers in town, and this afternoon he said he was heading to the McKenzie River for some inner-tubing. His mom’s idea. Life was looking up at the Preston household.
8.1.0.0.4 …
What about Jason, though? In two and half weeks, Jason and Jenni would be traveling this way. Could Clay offer any protection? He could pray, but that sounded hollow in the face of death—especially after Detective Freeman’s reaction.
