Final Mission: Zion - A World War 2 Thriller

by Chuck Driskell

  Sal made a show of crossing his heart.

  “I’ll go get ‘em, detective. But if I get a speeding ticket, or a parking ticket, or anything…you know who I’m comin’ to see for some help.”

  “You got it, Mister Musselwhite. I’m your man.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Sal headed home with seven years’ worth of handsome, leather-bound calendars from Musselwhite’s days at General Logistics. Musselwhite must have paid a pretty penny for such fancy books. On the cover of each one was the year in raised gold numbers. The calendars were thick, containing two full pages for each week. And Musselwhite wasn’t exaggerating when he said they were spot-on. Sal opened one, just to sample it, reading full paragraphs of information for each day’s entry. But he resisted the urge to begin matching dates. After being out of town, he needed to set aside at least a few days to relieve his wife of being the heavy hand with their two teenagers and one adventurous ten year-old, all of whom were probably on the verge of making her feel homicidal.

  And Sal also had a motive. He really needed that shoulder rub.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  ON THE SIXTH DAY AFTER HIS SURGERY, Neil slept longer than he had since some point before Emilee’s death. The first three days after the surgery had been horrible, and the most he managed to sleep was only a few hours at a time. The fall he had taken after the surgery had opened two of the stitches. After the vet had re-sewn them, Neil had wanted only water until just yesterday, when he drank a cup of broth with small bits of vegetables. Perhaps it was the calories from the broth, or maybe he was finally healing; but for whatever reason, on this Friday, he had begun to feel markedly better.

  After perusing a horribly one-sided, pro-Nazi German newspaper in the morning, and comprehending nearly every word, he managed to sleep for the balance of the afternoon and evening. Neil had just awoken, refreshing himself by guzzling a full glass of cloudy, slightly sweet well water. The air pressure in the room suddenly changed. Through the darkness Neil could see a white gown, realizing it was Gabi, the daughter, slipping into the bedroom like a ghost.

  Over the previous days, Neil could have sworn he had awoken to feverish images of Gabi, sitting on the edge of his bed, pushing his sweaty hair off of his forehead, or mopping his face with a cool rag, murmuring comforting words to him.

  She tiptoed through the room and took a place on the chair next to the bed. He turned his head to her and offered a small wave. “What time is it?”

  “Almost midnight,” she whispered. “You slept for a long time. We checked on you every now and then…we even heard you snoring.”

  Neil chuckled. His pain had subsided a great deal and the sleep had done him good. The discomfort was still there, but now only occurred when he moved. “Where is everyone?”

  “Asleep. I wasn’t able to.”

  “You need to get some rest,” Neil said, looking away. Talking to her like this, in the dark of the night—in secret—made him feel awkward.

  “Where will you go when you leave here?”

  “Why do you ask that?” he asked, sitting up. “Have you or your brother told anyone I was here?”

  “No,” she answered calmly. “I was only wondering.”

  Neil nodded, mildly embarrassed for being accusatory. “No one can know I’m here, Gabi. For your sake, and for your family’s.”

  She leaned forward and grasped his right hand with both of hers. And even though she did a man’s work on the farm, her hands were delicate and cool and smooth. Her thumbs massaged the tops of Neil’s hand in a nervous action and Neil could hear her breathing coming in short murmurs. “The evergreen branches started to brown, so we spent half the day taking your airplane apart and hauling it up behind the barn. The only piece left down there is the front portion with the engine.”

  “You did all that?”

  “Yes, with Peter and Mama.”

  “Is the engine hidden?”

  “It’s mostly under the mud so, yes, no one will find it. We covered what had been showing with dirt and rocks.”

  “Why didn’t someone check with me before doing all that?”

  “You were sleeping. Besides, we’re quite capable,” she said with a proud smile.

  Neil gave her hands a squeeze. “I do appreciate it. But there’s another day’s work I’ve cheated your family out of. I promise I’ll make all this up to your mother when I leave.”

  Gabi pulled his hand onto her knee. He stared at her. She was on the precipice of saying something, but it seemed stuck in her throat.

  “What is it, Gabi?” he asked, attempting to tug his hand back. She held it firm. “Come on now, I can tell you have something to say.”

  Her hazel eyes were alight with energy, her words hitting him like a strong right hook. “Take me with you.”

  His reply was in English, albeit with a stutter. “Pardon?”

  “You heard me.”

  Neil untangled his hand, switching back to German. “Gabi, that’s…well…that’s impossible.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s quite simple. When you leave here, you take me with you.”

  He leaned over and poured another glass of well water from the pitcher. He took all of it in three gulps and dropped his head back on the pillow, wishing the water had been vodka.

  “Has the weather started to turn?” he asked. “It feels a bit cooler.”

  “Don’t ignore me,” she said. “Where will we go? Who are the children you keep mumbling about? Are they your children? Are you married?”

  “Please.”

  “Are—you—married?”

  “No. Not anymore.”

  “Then it’s settled. I shall come with you.”

  “Gabi,” Neil breathed. “You just see me as a mysterious foreigner whose life is some sort of bizarre adventure, but that’s not it at all. I’m about to do something—”

  “Dangerous? I know that. Do you think I’m stupid?” she asked, her voice rising.

  “Shhhhhh.” Neil turned the paraffin lamp up a tad. “Of course you’re not stupid.”

  “This is Germany, the Reich, gripped under the violent hand of those criminal National Socialists. And here you are, an American, and you crash into our field in a blood-soaked English airplane, with a bullet wound, and you think I don’t know that you’re doing something dangerous?”

  “Bullet wound?”

  “Peter is the only one who didn’t know,” she said flatly. “And even he heard it from your veterinarian doctor.”

  “Gabi, listen to me. You have everything you need right here. My life…it’s over, Gabi. It’s all over. I’ve got one thing left to do and then I’ll have nothing left to give.” He rubbed his forehead, his eyes averted. “You don’t want to spend time with someone who has an outlook as utterly bleak as mine.”

  Her voice cut the still quiet of the night like a blade. “Do not tell me what I want.”

  He parted his lips to speak but she cut him off with a raised finger.

  “You talked, now it’s my turn. I’m twenty-two years old, and I would rather die this year just to know, if only for a few months, that I lived a real life. I don’t want to get married to some yokel farm-boy and have five babies that will probably die in a coming war or, perhaps worse, to live a life tilling our fields and praying for rain or sunshine.” She wiped tears that had begun to stream down her face. “I want to see new things and taste new foods. Before I die, I want to feel the ocean on my feet and I want to meet people who are different from me, who speak strange languages. I want others to know me and respect me, and I’d like to do something unusual or dangerous that doesn’t involve livestock or a damned rickety old tractor. I want to do risky things that bring me close to death and leave me exhilarated afterward.” Gabi jerked a handkerchief from her gown pocket and mopped her eyes. When she spoke again, her voice was low and velvety and, in the honey light from the lamp, Gabi Heinz looked as pretty as any creature Neil had ever laid eyes on.

  “Before I die,” she said, “I’m g
oing to leave a mark on this world so, someday, people will remember me.” She stood. “Because otherwise, I’ll simply be a walking dead person whose body will end up as part of the soil in the Heinz plot in that sad little cemetery over at the base of Kratzer Mountain.”

  Neil stared up at her, watching her chest rising and falling. He opened his mouth to speak but she held up her finger again.

  “I won’t die here. Do you hear me? I won’t.” She moved to the door, eyeing him for what seemed like an eternity. As she did, her face softened and the tears again began to stream. “Don’t talk. Just think…think about me…about us…about what I said.”

  Gabi left his room and pulled the door shut.

  Neil didn’t sleep again that night.

  ~~~

  Feeling loose and relaxed, Sal removed his hat as he strode into the San Francisco Public Library at Market and Van Ness. Under his arm was a stack of Musselwhite-authored, anally-retentive calendars along with Sal’s case notebook. In his free hand were two sharp pencils. Mona had come through with the backrub, and more, much more. So, even though Sal was short on sleep, he was long on afterglow. And Sal could go all day, and well into the night, on quality afterglow.

  The main floor of the library hummed with the Monday crowd. The tables were packed with men in their best clothes, probably unemployed, scouring the rolls of daily job opportunities. Seeing them, Sal felt a pang of guilt, though he didn’t know why. He wasn’t lazy and had certainly earned his position, but many of those men probably had as well. The economy wasn’t their fault. He shook the thoughts from his head and hurried down the center staircase into the basement, headed straight for the periodical records room. The still basement air smelled of newsprint, mildew and perfume.

  “Mornin’ detective,” Eunice said, drinking him in over the lenses of her wire rim glasses. Sal was well known here, and used the library for research more often than he utilized the SFPD archives. The library had better information, it was quieter, and Eunice was more helpful than anyone on the police payroll. She was probably around forty, quite stout and painfully plain. She always wore too much perfume. Sal enjoyed flirting with her just enough to give her a thrill without making her think he was serious about following through.

  He donned his hat again just to remove it with a flourish. “Eunice, m’lady, how does this day find you?”

  “In a foul mood, detective. My eastern shipment hasn’t arrived yet. And if it isn’t here by eleven, you just might witness the most open-and-shut murder of your career.” Eunice lowered her glasses to hang by their chain and leaned forward over the counter. Her colossal bosom, covered fully and tightly by her modest dress, strained as she pressed her only assets together with her arms.

  “Careful, Eunice, careful,” Sal said, cocking his eye at her. “Planning a murder is against the law.”

  “It is?”

  “Well, if your attorney is worthless.”

  Her maroon lips tilted upward at their corners. “Then cuff me, detective. Cuff me and do with me as you please. I dare you.”

  “I may just give you a reprieve for good behavior,” he said, winking. Sal opened his notebook and removed a piece of paper. He slid it to Eunice.

  “Business so soon?” she asked with a pout.

  “Your day is coming, dear. Be patient.”

  “Promises, promises.”

  Sal tapped the piece of paper. “I know you may not have all of these newspapers, but the incidents I’m looking for occurred in those areas. Pretty big news in some of the cases. Could you bring me the newspapers of those cities and dates, as well as the next few days’ worth, if you have them?”

  Eunice slid her horn-rim glasses back on and perused the extensive list. “Goodness, detective. It’ll take me an hour to gather all these together, assuming we have them.” Her eyes came back up. “What will you give me in trade?”

  Sal pondered this for a moment. Finally, he lifted his left hand, using his thumb to wiggle his wedding band. “Mona got to me before you did. But would you settle for knowing that, had she not, well…you and I would be sharing some adventurous nights together?”

  Eunice squeezed her lips together as her face and neck flushed. She glanced at the list again before beckoning him close and whispering conspiratorially. “Just so you know, I don’t think you could handle what I have to give.”

  Sal pondered her statement for a moment before wiping imaginary sweat from his brow. “I have no doubt, Eunice. But it wouldn’t be for a lack of trying.”

  Eunice, a satisfied grin plastered on her face, sauntered into the back to begin retrieving all of the copies on Sal’s list.

  Good old Eunice.

  Fifty-five minutes later, Sal sat at an eight-seat table, all alone, with a stack of newsprint a foot and a half high. He removed the top newspaper, the Denver Dispatch. Sal opened Cleveland Mixton’s journal to read the entry:

  12.35: Golden, Colorado, number 24, CM, HB. Automobile accident and fire at the lower foothills of the eastern range. LPS confessed to the shooting, a bona fide piece of shit. He cooperated until he realized what we would do. HB strangled him and the wreck went smoothly thanks to HB’s exp. Good thing we planned in advance. No witnesses and clean as a whistle. We were southbound by car just as snow hit and then took train from Lubbock. UPDATE: 16:35: officials wrote off as a tragic accident.

  At the beginning of the entry, 12 indicated the twelfth day of the year, January 12th. Sal lifted the three copies of the Denver newspaper. After looking through the edition from the 13th and finding nothing, he had a faint sinking feeling that the entire journal might be some sort of sick delusion, but that was quelled by the Post’s morning edition from the 14th. Apparently, due to the snowstorm, no one saw the accident until well into the day on the 13th.

  Denver Icon Perishes in Fiery Crash

  Golden— Prominent businessman and philanthropist Lawrence “Larry” Swayfelt died tragically in an automobile crash just outside of the town of Golden. According to Swayfelt’s wife, Evelyn, the Denver railroad magnate planned a full day on the mountain range “to shoot a few hundred rounds, the way he did when he was frustrated.” Officials believe his car may have struck a patch of ice or snow in the early moments of the fast-moving snowstorm that dumped seven inches on the Denver area.

  Swayfelt’s automobile, a 1934 Lincoln, was found twenty feet below the road, hung on a rock formation. The auto was completely burned. Since the wreck occurred on the western side of the mountain, the flames and smoke weren’t visible to any nearby homes. A passing motorist saw remains of the wreck after the storm cleared. After consulting dental records, authorities were able to positively identify the body as Lawrence Swayfelt.

  After several rote paragraphs about his business, Sal cocked his eye at the closing section of the story…

  In August of last year, Swayfelt was fleetingly investigated following the death of former U.S. Congressman Ulysses Powell in southern Texas. The two had been together on a group hunting trip. According to numerous witnesses, Swayfelt was the last person seen with Powell. Swayfelt vigorously denied any involvement with Congressman Powell’s death, insisting that the congressman accidentally shot himself when crossing a split-timber fence. The authorities soon exonerated Swayfelt, writing Powell’s death off as an accidental self-shooting.

  Before the accidental shooting, Congressman Powell was rumored to be pondering a presidential run in 1940. A colonel in the Great War, he was outspoken about his distaste for an industrialized Germany.

  Questions later arose about Swayfelt’s trips abroad: to Venezuela, Germany and Morocco. Despite these questions, no connections to the death of Powell were ever made. However, sources at the U.S. State Department said Swayfelt had been a person of extreme interest before his death, due mainly to his friendship and fascination with the newly installed National Socialist government in Germany.

  The newspaper article supported the diary entry. If the article was accurate, Swayfelt had been an extremely wealthy
Nazi sympathizer. And if Sal’s assumptions were accurate, Swayfelt was killed by an assassination team that made the murder appear accidental. Also, the diary stated that LPS confessed to the shooting—he’d killed the congressman.

  Sal took a series of deep breaths.

  He read the follow-up from the next day, noticing how the Denver Dispatch backpedaled just a bit without coming right out and admitting it—the way edgy journalists are skilled at doing. He made a note to have Eunice find the edition from the 16th, so he could read about the police’s pronouncement of the wreck being accidental.

  Sal inventoried what he had learned from the one story. First, his Julian calendar theory was correct. That much was certain. And unless Cleveland Mixton’s journal was some sort of sick re-imagining of accidental deaths, the journal seemed, indeed, to be a recounting of twenty-seven murders. But why were the victims murdered, and at whose command?

  And, again, did this somehow involve Neil Reuter, or was Sal chasing a rabbit trail unrelated to Reuter?

  The detective lit a Chesterfield and smoked for a moment. The Seth Thomas clock could be heard ticking on the wall. It was nearly lunchtime and the basement had cleared out. He twisted his head to look at the counter; Eunice was nowhere to be seen.

  After a bit of reflection, Sal decided he had made himself wait long enough. It was time to work on the individual represented in the journal as “PH.” Could the initials somehow be related to Neil Reuter? In Cleveland Mixton’s journal, PH appeared in three separate entries. Once for the killing in Venezuela. Once for a killing in New York. And once for a killing in Glendale, California. Since Venezuela’s newspapers weren’t available at the library, Sal decided to start with the New York killing and thumbed through the pile of newspapers until he found the New York Times. He placed the three copies before him, then flipped through Mixton’s journal until he found the entry.