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by Randy Wayne White

  I rang the bell again, then used my fist.

  Door was locked.

  I remembered telling Chestra to lock her doors when she went out as a precaution. Did this mean she was outside?

  I wore my foul-weather jacket, but was already soaked, the ocean-heated rain helping me sober. No, the locked door didn’t mean she was outside. She could be outside, but she could also be inside playing the piano, listening to music.

  I banged on the door again. No response.

  If she was inside, she was safe. But if she wasn’t outside…?

  I looked toward the beach. Saw a lightning bolt touch sand, the explosion instantaneous.

  I rang the bell again. Nothing.

  I turned the knob and threw my shoulder against the door, a last attempt…

  40

  When a vehicle turned into Mildred Engle’s driveway, Bern Heller was inside the house. He saw car lights pan across the woman’s bedroom ceiling, and thought: Damn. It’s gotta be cops. Nobody else would be out in this storm.

  Cops, or someone desperate. Someone on the run—like Bern. It was because of something that had happened just after sunset, only a few hours ago. What a day.

  It seemed longer.

  Bern looked at the clock on the woman’s nightstand: 11:28. He’d been in the house for less than ten minutes. Yeah, about that. The front door was locked, but the downstairs sliding doors weren’t, so he had come in silently, hearing the wind whistle…then music coming from somewhere. Upstairs. Longhair kind of music. Fancy piano.

  That’s where Bern headed. No one there, just the stereo playing.

  Five minutes later, he was downstairs again. In Mildred Engle’s bedroom, going through drawers, and about to open her closet when the car lights stopped him.

  Shit!

  Bern ducked, went to the window, and peeked out: It looked like a pickup truck coming down the shell driveway, headlights yellow in the rain, the vehicle was so old.

  Not like Moe’s fancy Dodge pickup with the big tires and gun rack, which was parked in a public access lot nearby. Bern had learned that tourist cars often sat for hours there without drawing attention from island police.

  He watched as a man stepped out of the old truck, his head down in the angling rain. A big man, wide shoulders, about the size of the guy he’d seen exit the house a few hours earlier. The man he’d seen a few times last week. He came and went from the old lady’s house on a bicycle. Linebacker-sized, that’s the way he thought of the guy. Not by pro standards, of course. Small college.

  It was a relief seeing it was the bicycle guy, not the cops.

  The bicycle guy Bern could deal with, but it was still a serious matter because it was unexpected. One more surprise that caused things not to go according to plan.

  B ern had been doing drive-bys for the last several days, checking out Mildred Engle’s house, planning how to work it. Staying positive, as he was determined to do. A plan was important, or else bad things happened…as he knew too well.

  The first time he’d driven by Southwind was in his BMW sedan, which didn’t attract a look on an island with so many rich people. Tonight, he had the truck.

  Changing vehicles—smart.

  The last few nights, he had watched the woman move across the lighted windows. He’d watched the man come and go.

  Irritating, they were together so much.

  Bern hadn’t gotten close enough to bicycle guy to see his face. No need to. Who cared? It didn’t matter because Bern had seen the woman’s face. What a face, too. Quite a surprise! A nice surprise.

  A couple of days ago, after dark, he’d crept up to her bedroom window—this window—and watched her get undressed by candlelight.

  It was good timing because, for once, bicycle guy wasn’t around.

  Oil lamps and candles, that’s about all the woman used for light.

  Bern watched her pin her hair up, then peel a gold lamé gown over her head as she turned toward the window in bra, garter belts, panties, and stockings, her face illuminated for the first time by the candle on her dresser…

  Jesus Christ…and there she was: the glamorous woman in the photograph. The cheekbones, her full lips, the smoky eyes dreamy looking, as if she was thinking about something sexy as she got naked. A man, maybe, the expression on her face naughty; enjoying something, it looked like, that women weren’t expected to enjoy.

  She was a lot older than the picture, of course. But it was the same woman. Had to be. She hadn’t turned into an old hag, either, unless…wait a minute…

  Something didn’t make sense.

  If the woman he was watching undress was the glamorous woman in the photo, why had Jason Goddard said her name was Mildred Engle? The woman in the photo was Marlissa Dorn. The lawsuit-happy bitch, Mildred Engle, was supposedly the movie queen’s heir. Which meant the movie queen was dead. Right?

  Could women relatives look that much alike?

  Bern wondered about that, but not for long, because the woman leaned toward him and began taking off the garter belts, the tops of her breasts vanilla white in the bra’s half cups. Then she sat and stripped off her stockings.

  It was a night of firsts: He had never seen a woman wearing stockings. Real stockings, not the panty hose things. And he had never seen an older woman naked.

  It wasn’t like watching the neighborhood girls strip at the nudie bars south of Milwaukee. Her body was skin over bone, stomach firm, breasts flat but real, nipples as long and pale as they probably were when she was sixteen.

  Damn. It didn’t matter what the woman’s name was, or how old. She was sexy. The old man had screwed her…or screwed her dead relative, the movie queen, which was close enough. That’s what mattered. Like visiting a museum. That’s the way Bern decided to approach it. Get her naked again and make the old girl bounce.

  Then sit back and wait for the earth to rumble. It would be the sound of his grandfather rolling over in his grave.

  B e positive, stay focused. In football, it was the only way to change momentum…

  Was that true? A lot of stuff coaches said was crap, although Bern would only share that information with fellow athletes. It was not the sort of thing a man purchasing a Cadillac or a Florida condo wanted to hear.

  Make a game plan, then follow it: That’s why Bern had been on Sanibel every free evening for the last week, getting to know the area. Which was convenient, in a way. Killing two birds with one stone because the beautiful yacht his idiot nephew had lost, the Viking, was tied up at a dock less than two miles away, near Sanibel Lighthouse.

  Bern had his own set of keys to the Viking, having taken them from Augie’s condo. It’d been no problem at all getting aboard the boat, either, especially with the island almost empty.

  Bern had boarded the Viking, but only for a few minutes, just to start the engines, make sure everything was working, and to transfer three suitcases he had packed before leaving Indian Harbor.

  He’d carried the suitcases down to the dock, stepped aboard like he owned the place. No one around to say a word.

  He had to do it because of another surprise: Tonight, they’d closed the bridge to the mainland at ten-thirty, due to the storm. Not midnight, as the previous week. Bern had discovered this after almost being spotted by bicycle guy earlier when parked, lights out, in the woman’s driveway.

  Not good news.

  The bridge being closed was an extremely shitty surprise because it meant there was only one way off the island—by boat—unless Bern wanted to wait around in Moe’s pickup truck until morning.

  No, thanks.

  Bern would be taking the Viking tonight, even though he hadn’t planned to do it until later in the week.

  What he had planned to do was grab the loan documents and Mildred Engle tonight, drive her to Indian Harbor, have some fun, then tuck the lady into a fifty-gallon drum that was already waiting.

  By midnight tonight, he wanted to be halfway to Miami. The beginning of a four- or five-day road trip that i
ncluded a visit to a man who specialized in fake IDs and passports. Also visits to a couple of banks. He’d cleaned out the marina’s safe, and had twelve thousand dollars cash on him, which he wanted to change into traveler’s checks. Isn’t that what they used in foreign countries?

  Friday or Saturday night, when the weather was better, that’s when he’d planned to return to Sanibel and take the boat. Good-bye, Florida, which had been like a curse to him. Hello, new life.

  But that wasn’t the way things were shaking out.

  Bern would have to leave tonight—crappy weather for boating. Which worried him. Big storm, lots of wind…but the bay was amazingly calm when he went to take a look. Big moon, too, with clouds streaming by. And the boat was close to the woman’s house.

  Maybe his luck was changing.

  T his Monday morning had started in an unusually positive way. Jason had left a phone message saying the promissory notes had finally arrived on Sanibel. Ms. Engle was ready and waiting.

  Well, Bern was waiting, too, ready to introduce himself to the old woman with the beautiful face. He’d been looking forward to it a bunch since the night he’d watched her strip naked. The glamorous photo, which he had crumpled, was now taped to his bedroom mirror. From a distance, the woman was as beautiful as before.

  A new detail Bern noticed: The woman’s eyes followed him around the room no matter where he went.

  That afternoon, though, Moe came to visit, the hick from South Lick, and instantly, Bern’s life began to change from good to bad, then from bad to worse.

  So what else was new?

  When Moe arrived, Bern was in the marina office, using the Internet, following steps as listed in the document How to Change Your Identity and Disappear Forever, planning his escape, just in case the Hoosier turned out to be the spineless bohunk Bern feared.

  Which, of course, he was.

  Identity theft was the key to disappearing. Find information on a person who had died recently. Ideally, someone with many assets but few relatives. Use their Social Security number to obtain a copy of their birth certificate, to get a new passport, and take control of whatever assets they had.

  His grandfather had done it successfully in 1944. Why couldn’t Bern?

  In truth, it had been easier for the old man—the old man being, essentially, a ruthless Nazi murderer, Bern had decided.

  At Bern’s elbow, near the computer, was his grandfather’s passport. His real passport. A German passport, green, with a Nazi eagle embossed on the front cover, many, many swastika stamps but no big red J inside.

  He had gone through the passport enough to have the information memorized: Issued 1938, Berlin, his grandfather’s precise signature legible beneath the photo: Heinrich Bernard Goddard.

  Heinrich Goddard. Jesus, the perfect name for a proctologist.

  Vicious son of a bitch. His whole life was a lie.

  Bernard?

  Fuck you, old man.

  Even at nineteen, his grandfather’s piggish face and brutal eyes were unmistakable. He looked nothing at all like the blond guy whose identity he had swiped, along with the guy’s assets—a box full of real estate deeds—before catching a boat to Colombia, then Brazil, then home to Germany.

  Bern knew this because, along with the passport, he had also taken several letters, Jason Goddard writing to Augie. Confidential, of course. Typically, you had to skip to the last pages to avoid Jason’s bullshit.

  An example: “…our great-grandfather did what was necessary to survive in tough political times. He was a brilliant medical student, personal assistant to Dr. Carl Clauberg, world authority on genetics. However, he knew ridiculous charges awaited after the war, so he fled to Florida, where a German agent provided assistance in return for…”

  In return for a couple of bars of gold bullion, that’s what.

  Bern found that tidbit in yet another personal note to Augie—Augie and Jason being the only two Wisconsinites named in the late Heinrich Goddard’s primary will, clearly favoring his firstborn son in Germany, and the son’s family.

  The old man had stolen a bunch of it. Gold bullion.

  “…he liberated a significant amount while U.S. troops advanced.”

  What else could that mean? Sometimes, you had to read between the lines.

  Another for instance: “…tragically, the agent who transported grandfather out of Florida waters was piloting a U.S. vessel, enemy of the Reich, so was fired upon and sunk, as duty required…

  “…grandfather used Frederick Roth’s passport to ensure his own freedom, which he viewed as tribute to Mr. Roth’s bravery. He continued to use the name out of respect…”

  Translation: The old man stole the blond guy’s identity, stole his real estate deeds, then made sure the guy was dead.

  Which was the smart thing to do, Bern had to admit. He had been reading a lot about identity theft lately and it was the best way.

  But what about the gold bullion? Had the old man paid the German agent first? Maybe that’s why the nautical map was in the briefcase. Bern knew where the wreck was. If he got the Viking back, got this other bullshit settled, and there was a nice calm day…?

  Bern was wondering about the gold when the office door opened, and in walked Moe, ducking his head into his cowboy hat, already sweating on this storm-cool Monday afternoon. Nervous. A little drunk, too.

  Hmm-m-m-m. Suspicious.

  Right away, Moe started talking loud. Too loud. Enunciating his words, as he probably had in class while reading aloud prior to dropping out of the third grade. Asking dumbass, transparent questions, too, such as, “Bern, I’m trying to remember. What was it you said poured out of that barrel the other night? The fifty-gallon drum. A girl?”

  Uhh-oh. Time to think fast.

  Bern was on his feet immediately, big salesman’s grin in place. “Great to see you, Moe, just the man I want to talk to! A girl? I don’t remember anything about a girl—unless it was the one you were joking about.”

  “Huh?” Moe couldn’t talk, he was so taken aback.

  “The college girl you said you murdered ’cause she expected you to have two dicks—your IQ being half the male average. Funny. Man, how do you come up with that stuff?”

  The look on Moe’s face. That was funny.

  Bern placed his hand on the back on the Hoosier’s Wrangler jacket, feeling for the tape recorder or microphone that had to be hidden somewhere.

  As he did, he steered the man outside to see if there were cops around in unmarked cars listening.

  No cops. No unmarked cars for half a mile down the road either direction.

  Bern said, “Moe, let’s go for a walk,” and led the redneck past the collapsed barn, boats sitting in rows, to the little hill where the dumbass had dug up the barrel. But there were a couple of guys fishing near the boat ramp. Witnesses.

  Shit.

  So Bern said, “Moe, let’s go for a ride.”

  They took the redneck’s Dodge pickup, Bern at the wheel, and turned down a sand road bordered by mangroves. Moe started crying when Bern found the tape recorder in his jacket pocket.

  To get the truth, Bern had to slap and kick the shit out of the Hoosier, who was tougher than expected. But he finally talked. The tape recorder was Moe’s idea, because he wanted to cover his ass, no cops involved. And, yes, he had told them about the dead girl in the barrel.

  Moe was sobbing. “I hope this doesn’t mean my job here’s been terminated. My old lady would break off our engagement.”

  Jesus, the guy’s IQ took a nosedive every time he opened his mouth. Maybe air was leaking into his brain through a bad tooth.

  Bern replied, “Well, Moe, it does kind of create a trust issue.”

  He used the Luger.

  B ern was still at Mildred Engle’s bedroom window, peeking from behind the curtain, watching as the man from the pickup truck approached the house. He watched the man pause, standing like an idiot out there in the rain, looking at something. What?

  The moon.<
br />
  It wasn’t raining as hard now—the storm came in waves—but even so. Bicycle guy was a dumbass to stand there and get soaked.

  Bern watched the man approach the house, then he heard the doorbell ring. Heard it ring again. Now the man was pounding on the door.

  Bern stepped away from the window and walked toward the door, a pistol in his hand. It wasn’t his imitation German Luger. It was Moe’s chrome-plated cowboy pistol, the .357 revolver that the cops had recently returned after deciding, yes, the Hoosier had done society a favor shooting his attacker.

  The cylinder was loaded with five pinky-sized bullets, hollow-points that expanded when they hit flesh. The missing slug had certainly done a job on the Cuban, hitting him in the arm, but killing the man, anyway.

  Bern hoped the other five were just as lucky. Good omens in the heavy handgun that he now raised as he approached the door where the man, bicycle guy, was hammering away with his fists.

  If the man opened the door, Bern would shoot him. He was sure of it. First, though, maybe he’d ask him where Mildred Engle was. Bern had been upstairs and downstairs; hadn’t seen her. More important, he hadn’t found the promissory notes that were supposed to be somewhere in the house.

  Bern had to have those old loan documents. They were the main reason he had come to Sanibel. No, after what had happened this afternoon they were the only reason. The loan documents, signed by Frederick Roth—the real Frederick Roth—he needed them.

  The promissory notes and the Viking. Without both, he was screwed. No way to pay for his new life in a country Bern had yet to choose—as if he’d had the time. And no way to escape.

  All because of that trailer lizard Moe.

  Outside, the man was still pounding on the door. Then, after a brief silence, the frame and brass lock both cracked when he tried to knock the door open with his shoulder.

  The guy seemed determined. Did he somehow know the old lady had company?

  Bern aimed the revolver, chest height, and pulled the hammer back…

  41

  When I threw my shoulder against the door, I felt the wood frame and dead bolt screws give. I stepped back to ram the door again but caught myself.