Shadows over Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  He looked down again at the gun. It suddenly seemed to represent the solution the old headstrong, stand-on-his-own-feet, bold Logan Macintyre would have chosen—storm the citadel of the enemy, if not with might like a man such as Claude, then with cunning and with plans of his own devising.

  But the charade was over. He could no longer be somebody unreal, some imaginary Trinity or Tanant or Dansette—no more L’Escroc, no more swindler. Storming the complexities of life with his own pitiful self was over. He had to be Logan Macintyre again. The time had come to allow God to take command!

  He tossed the rifle back to Claude.

  “No, Claude,” he said. “That is not the way. Neither is L’Escroc. Not this time. This time I will put my fate in God’s hands, not my own.”

  “Bah! You are more of a fool than I thought! You speak the pious words of a child!”

  “You may speak more of the truth than you know,” replied Logan. “Perhaps a child is what I should have been all along,” he added with a thin smile.

  “You are an idiot! You think you will go in there and sacrifice yourself to satisfy some . . . some insane urge inside your twisted brain! You will do nothing but betray us all!”

  Logan turned beseeching eyes toward Henri. “You understand . . . don’t you, Henri?”

  The old bookseller nodded. “I understand, mon ami. I would perhaps do the same were I in your shoes.”

  “Never!” shouted Claude. In an instant he leaped up and took aim at Logan’s head down the long barrel of his rifle. The others now realized that while he had been shadowed by the dim light in the corner of the room, he had slipped shells into the chamber.

  “Think, Claude!” pleaded Henri, knowing the angry Frenchman well enough to realize that his distorted emotions were taut and that he might do anything. “One shot will have half the Wehrmacht on you.”

  “What do I care? We are as good as betrayed anyway!”

  Quickly Lise stepped in front of Logan. Henri, scrambling from his chair, joined her.

  “Then kill us all,” she defied.

  “Why shouldn’t I?” he returned.

  “Because then you would be no better than the murdering Nazis you have fought so hard against,” argued Henri. “What could your life mean if you were just like them?”

  They stood thus for several seconds that seemed to each as an eon, the tension palpable. Then with an angry curse Claude threw down the rifle and stalked toward the door. There he paused and turned, glaring.

  “You are all fools!” he spat hatefully. “I am done with you!”

  When he was gone, Logan looked down for a moment at the gun where it lay on the floor, sighed, then turned with a heavy smile of thanks to his friends.

  “I cannot promise anything,” he said, “but I will do my best not to talk. I wish I could give you more assurance for all you have done for me. But this is something I must do, come of it what may. The Lord has many ways to deliver His people.”

  “We need no more assurance, Michel,” said Henri. “We have no fear.”

  After speaking quietly together for a few final moments, Logan placed his arms around the old bookseller in a warm embrace.

  “I doubt I will see you again, mon ami,” he said, tears standing in his eyes. “But I will never forget you. Please do what you can for Allison if you have the chance. Adieu, dear friend.”

  “No, Michel,” replied Henri, “not adieu, but au revoir . . . something tells me we will yet again look upon each other’s faces.”

  Tenderly he kissed Logan’s cheek.

  Logan turned to Lise. They exchanged poignant gazes. War had thrown them together, forcing upon them forbidden desires and painful sacrifices. But out of it each had grown, and out of the rubble of what could never be had blossomed a friendship that would remain forever in the memory of both, though they would never lay eyes upon each other again.

  “Adieu,” Lise said to him, and Logan knew she had chosen the word purposefully.

  “Adieu, Lise.”

  Logan exhaled a deep breath, took one last loving look at his two friends, then turned toward the door.

  70

  Full Circle

  The small room was icy cold.

  Allison shivered and drew the coarse wool blanket more tightly about her shoulders. She glanced at the barred window. It was dark out, but she had no idea what time it was—probably nine or ten at night.

  What a fool she had been! She realized that now.

  But it all seemed so different yesterday when the two men had stopped her as she walked home from work. “We can take you to your husband,” one of them said. She hadn’t even paused to think it over rationally, hadn’t thought to ask for an explanation or some kind of identification. She still did not suspect foul play when she had mentioned that she should notify her mother and they insisted there was no time, a slight sinister edge creeping into the second man’s voice.

  Stupidly, irrationally, thinking only of seeing Logan rather than the dangers of wartime, she got into the car with them.

  It was too late for sensible thinking once they drew guns and hustled her aboard a private plane. They’d landed once in Lisbon, but she had remained inside the plane the whole time, dozing occasionally, cold, hungry. And now here she was in France—she had seen the Arc de Triomphe from the car window on the way from the airport.

  She had been kidnapped, that much was clear, and put in this room, or prison cell, she couldn’t quite tell. Until two hours ago she had had no idea why, or if it had anything to do with Logan or if she would in fact see him.

  Then she had had visitors.

  The door had opened and Allison shot up from the bunk where she had been lying. Two men entered. One appeared to be in his late forties, very refined looking, dressed in a trim black uniform, obviously a German officer, though Allison didn’t know enough about their insignias to tell his rank. The other man was considerably older, probably in his sixties, though vigorous enough. He was handsome for a man of his age; dressed in an expensive blue surge suit. He also appeared quite distinguished, though with an entirely different air than the German officer.

  The officer stepped forward and held out his hand graciously. “I am General von Graff, Frau Macintyre,” he said politely in well-cultivated English. “I trust you are doing well.”

  “What do you expect me to say, General?” she answered petulantly. “I am hungry and cold. I have been forcibly taken from my home and locked up like a common criminal with no idea—”

  “Forgive me for these accommodations. I wish we could provide something more fitting your station.”

  “They said I would see my husband.”

  “That is yet to be seen,” answered von Graff.

  “But I thought—”

  “It is entirely up to your husband, Mrs. Macintyre,” put in the other man, whose accent now further identified him as an American.

  “What is this all about?” asked Allison. “I don’t understand.”

  “Perhaps I might introduce myself,” went on the older man. He held out his hand as if he were trying to mimic the general’s earlier gesture. “Jason Channing, at your service!”

  Allison’s brow suddenly creased. She immediately recognized the name, but her perplexity stemmed from the fact that it came so unexpectedly, almost as if she were meeting some historical figure from the distant past.

  “You are familiar with my name?” he asked in an almost jovial tone, clearly enjoying the moment so richly satisfying to his vengeful nature. This might not quite settle the old score, but it would certainly help him at least sleep nights with a smile on his face!

  All at once in her mind’s eye Allison saw her mother, young and untried, standing in a meadow of Port Strathy, facing an influential, debonair man of the world, a man who had flattered her with empty words, a man who had lied and cheated and had tried to bring destruction upon the whole town. In the vision of her imagination—just as her father had described to her many times—she could see her t
hen shy, retiring mother pull back her shoulders and denounce that man before all the residents of Port Strathy.

  And now here he was again, with that same arrogant look upon his face that Joanna had so aptly described to her family. Allison wondered that she hadn’t recognized him just from that smirk on his face even though she had never seen him before. How could he be mixed up in all this mystery involving Logan? she wondered. Was he still, after all these years, striking out against the family of the woman who refused him? One look into his eyes gave her all the answer she needed.

  But Allison was not to be cowed. In her veins flowed the blood of Lady Atlanta and Lady Margaret, the same blood that had given her mother courage in her moment of crisis. Allison stuck out her chin, every inch of her small but hardy frame emanating that feisty Duncan stock.

  “Channing . . .” She appeared to muse over the name. “Yes . . . it does sound vaguely familiar, though I must say it warranted hardly more than a passing mention.”

  Channing’s eyes sparked at the barb like steel against steel. But he was too proud to show that the wound had penetrated. He, too, was suddenly thrust back in memory to that same Strathy meadow facing the only person who had ever dared refuse him—a frail, worthless, bumpkin of a woman at that! This ridiculous girl was just like her mother—haughty in the face of superiority, fearless even when facing imprisonment or death! But her arrogance would only make his vengeance all the sweeter!

  “Have your moment, my dear,” he said coldly. “It will be your last.”

  “What do you want with me?”

  “For myself,” replied Channing, “it is just a bit of sport. But for the general here, your presence is of purely utilitarian value.”

  “It is nothing personal, Frau Macintyre,” put in von Graff, “for me, that is,” he added, casting a quick glance toward Channing. “You were simply an extremely convenient way to obtain what I really am after.”

  “And that is . . . ?” said Allison.

  “Your husband, actually.”

  Allison closed her eyes as the full reality of her circumstances finally dawned upon her. She was being used as bait! But she tried not to show the faltering of her courage, though when she spoke again, her voice was weaker than before. “I’m afraid I still don’t understand . . .”

  “You need not understand anything further, mein Frau. But Herr Channing was anxious to meet you. He insisted that you know something of the situation.”

  Von Graff clicked his heels together and bowed slightly. “We will take our leave now,” he said. “It is entirely possible that you might also be free to go as soon as your husband graces us with his presence.”

  Von Graff turned smartly and opened the door. Channing lingered a moment.

  “It has truly been a pleasure, Mrs. Macintyre,” he said with a smile. “You are every inch your mother’s daughter, and I must say that makes the satisfaction of meeting you all the sweeter.”

  Then he turned and followed von Graff out.

  That had been at least two hours ago, maybe four, for all Allison could tell. In anguish she had spent those hours praying that there might be some way to warn Logan. For no matter how long they had been apart, she knew he would turn himself in immediately upon learning these men had her. Knowing he was safe, she could endure this place. If only she could warn him somehow!

  71

  Together at Last

  Slowly Logan made his way down the darkened avenue Foch.

  He had been along here many times in the past months as a supposed German informant. But never in the middle of the night.

  After leaving his friends he had returned to his room. He knew it was being watched, just as he knew he had been followed ever since. But none of that mattered now.

  He had needed a little time alone, to think, to collect himself for the ordeal that was sure to come. Time to solidify his commitment, both to Allison and the Lord, and to gather strength through prayer for the path he had chosen to walk—a path he had little doubt would lead to his ultimate death. When he left a few hours later he knew he was ready, for the first time in his life, to face the final consequence of war. He was at last ready to lay down his life, in quite a literal sense, for his wife. He was finally a man at peace—with himself and with his God.

  On a more practical level, he had wanted to pay his final bill as well, and to scour his room to make sure all traces of any connection to La Librairie or any of its people were utterly gone. That done, he glanced around one more time. His personal effects, of which there were few, hardly mattered now either. He made sure he was dressed warmly, bundled up in his overcoat, then turned and headed out into the night.

  There would be only one more stop—at the cafe where he spent so much time while in Paris. There was time for a good hot meal. Who can tell? he thought grimly. It would probably be his last.

  When he finally began the long walk down the avenue Foch, it was just after ten p.m.

  Thirty minutes later, he stood before the somber outer walls of the S.S. garrison. He walked toward the guardhouse, where two uniformed men were stationed. As he approached, they poised themselves with rifles ready.

  “Logan Macintyre to see General von Graff,” said Logan simply.

  “Ah yes, Herr Macintyre,” replied one of the men, relaxing his weapon. “We were told to expect you. I will call and tell him you are here.”

  Even as he spoke, the other guard walked around behind Logan and began binding his hands.

  Logan said nothing further, and made no resistance to his captors.

  ———

  When Channing and von Graff left her, Allison lay back down and tried to sleep. The bed—a thin mattress over a wooden bunk—wasn’t much. But she was too exhausted to care. Within moments she was sound asleep.

  Suddenly Allison started awake. She had no idea how much time had passed. It was still the dead of night. Sounds outside the door had roused her. She sat up.

  The door opened, and light blazed in from the single bulb in the corridor outside. Allison squinted as she looked toward the door. A German soldier stepped in, followed by a man dressed in civilian clothes, and another soldier who held a drawn pistol.

  Suddenly Allison’s face came aglow and seemed to lighten the darkened cell where she sat.

  “Logan!” she cried, jumping up. “It is you!”

  “Oh, Ali,” he said softly, “I am so sorry it has to be this way!”

  Tears of joy streaming down her face, Allison rushed forward, but instantly the two guards closed ranks around Logan. She stopped, and for the first time beheld her husband’s appearance.

  She could tell at once that he had changed, yet not in the way she had always feared. He had not hardened, but rather—in spite of the visible strain and the toll of the past year—seemed softer, at peace. It was as if a mask had been removed and she was at last seeing into the depths of the real man—the man she had always known was there but which had remained hidden below the surface. She felt that she was seeing into him, as she had always wanted to be able to do. What she saw on his face made her glad and ache all at once. There was love, and yet pain and sadness in his eyes. Something had happened to him since leaving London, and she saw that the changes had not come easily.

  Logan turned to one of the guards. “Neumann,” he said, “can’t you give us some time alone?”

  Neumann hesitated, glanced from Logan to Allison, not so much assessing their potential capacity to escape, but rather with a kind of pity. Then he looked at the other guard.

  “Warten für mich draussen,” he said. The guard about-faced and left the room. Then to Logan, Neumann said, “Five minutes, Herr Macintyre; that is all.” And he too was gone.

  Allison and Logan stood still a moment longer, gazing upon each other, then as if of one mind each took a step. Allison opened her arms to embrace her husband, then saw that his hands were manacled together. She fell into fresh weeping and threw her arms around him, resting her head on his shoulder.

 
; “I’m so sorry for getting you into this, Ali,” he said tenderly.

  “Oh, Logan . . . dear Logan!” she sobbed through her tears. “I’m just so happy to see you!”

  He took a half-step backward, then raised his bound hands and cupped her chin then—that sweet, soft, determined chin!

  “Logan . . . I want you to know—”

  “Ali,” he interrupted, “there’s so little time, and I must tell you something—I may not have another chance.”

  He paused, as if he thought she would protest. But he too saw a change in his young wife.

  “Ali,” he went on, “I was a selfish fool. I know that now. I had everything so wrong, so turned around. Lady Margaret tried to show me, and Dorey, and even your parents. But I wouldn’t listen. I don’t know why. I guess I was so stubborn I had to learn the hard way—”

  “Logan, please! Don’t—”

  “Hear me out, Allison. It’s all true. I didn’t have the slightest inkling what love meant, that it goes beyond happiness and feelings. The kind of love that makes a marriage work is so much different than anything I ever thought. But God is showing me, Ali. He’s finally opened my eyes to see that the commitment we made to each other goes beyond all that.”

  He paused and smiled at her. “I know it’s too late now, but . . . as poorly as I’m explaining this, I had to try to make you understand. I never was much good at expressing what was on my heart—I suppose I never really knew my heart before. But, Ali . . . will you forgive me?”

  “Oh, Logan, we both had so much to learn,” Allison replied. “So much of it was my own fault too. But you know I forgive you.”

  “I wish we could have the last nine years back, Ali,” he said. “I want nothing more than the chance to try to do it right . . . but these five minutes might be the only second chance we have—”

  “Logan, no! Don’t say it!”

  He motioned to the bed. “Let’s sit down.”

  “We must be strong,” he said as they sat together on the edge. “But then you never had a problem with that. I suppose it’s me I’m worried about. I can be strong too . . . if you’ll help me, if I know you’ll be all right after I’m gone—”