Take Me Home (9781455552078)

by Garlock, Dorothy

  But minutes later, as he was drying his plate, Huck stopped again. This time he’d heard something. It hadn’t been much, faint over the sounds of swing music coming from his record player, but loud enough for him to notice. It sounded like the squeak of his side door. Setting down the dish, Huck wiped his damp hands on his pants and went to investigate.

  Much to his surprise, the door was open a couple of inches. Huck was puzzled. Earlier, he’d gone out to his squad car to retrieve something he’d forgotten, the music drifting out behind him, but he was sure that he’d closed the door when he went back inside. Maybe something was wrong with the latch. Maybe he’d been in a hurry and forgotten. The breeze that stirred the leaves of his elm trees had probably been enough to make the door swing back and forth, causing the noise.

  Whatever the reason, he pulled it shut with a click.

  Back inside, Huck went to the living room and removed the needle from the record, stopping a horn solo in midnote. An uncomfortable feeling nagged at him, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Something wasn’t right. It was then, just as he was trying to wrap his head around what was bothering him, that he heard another creak; this time it was right behind him, close. He spun around and his heart almost stopped beating.

  A man stood there, staring at him. For a moment, it looked as if the intruder was surprised to have been discovered, but the shock quickly left him and a deep scowl settled on his features. He was squat and thickly muscled, his clothes rough and mismatched. Huck had seen his share of men like this over his years as a deputy; mean, with no reservations about inflicting pain. To make matters worse, he had a knife clenched in a tight fist at his waist. Try as he might to recognize him, Huck was certain that he’d never seen the man before.

  Silently, Huck cursed himself. He should’ve trusted his suspicions, the instincts honed by years of being a lawman. But it was too late to listen. Now, he was in trouble. When he’d come home from work, he’d done as always and taken his holster and gun off, placing them on a table near the front door. Now, when he really needed his weapon, it was on the other side of the room. The only chance he had was to talk, play for time, and make his move when the opportunity presented itself.

  “All right, buddy,” he said calmly, holding up his hands in an attempt to preach for peace. “Let’s take a deep breath and talk this through.”

  But the man didn’t seem interested. His eyes narrowed as his hand clenched the knife hard enough to make the thick muscles of his forearm stand out. When he spoke, it was low, guttural. “Zeit zum Sterben!” he growled.

  Huck stared, dumbstruck. He had enough trouble speaking English most days, but he would’ve sworn that the stranger had just spoken German; it sounded an awful lot like the gibberish he’d heard Hitler babble in newsreels over the years.

  What the hell is going on?

  But before Huck could begin to contemplate the implications of what he’d heard, the man came charging at him. He didn’t move like an angry bull, out of control and smashing everything in his path, but more like a deadly predator, a wolf maybe, focused, intent on his prey. Huck’s eyes didn’t wander far from the knife. He tried not to panic, to stay calm and let his years of experience facing danger, or what passed for it in Miller’s Creek, guide him.

  His attacker came in low and feinted to his left before suddenly changing direction and coming in from the right. He slashed the knife through the air, missing by only a matter of inches. But then he backed off a bit, cautious, as if he was wary of a man the deputy’s size.

  “Why don’t you put that sticker down,” Huck offered. “It ain’t too late to find a way out of this.”

  But the intruder didn’t respond.

  Seconds later, the man came straight forward, jabbing with the knife as if he meant to skewer his foe. Huck once again barely got out of the way, but as he moved, he threw a punch of his own, clipping his attacker’s chin; it wasn’t much, but it staggered him, if only for an instant. Blindly, the man lashed out with his knife and this time Huck was too close to avoid it. The blade cut along the back of his forearm, deep, sending a burning ache racing across his flesh. Seconds later, the first drops of blood fell from his fingers to the floor. It hurt, but Huck didn’t even bother to look at it; he didn’t dare take his eyes off the other man.

  I have to get to my gun! It’s the only chance I got!

  Instead of waiting for the stranger to make the first move, Huck decided to take the initiative. He made a fast first step forward, causing the man to raise his arms in a defensive posture, and it was then that Huck tried to bull his way to the side, willing to take another cut so long as he could get past. In those first two steps, hope flared in his chest. He thought he was going to make it. But instead of slashing at him, the stranger kicked out with his foot, caught Huck at the knee, and sent him stumbling. His momentum carried him forward, but he couldn’t maintain his balance and crashed to the floor with a thud, the air rushing from his lungs.

  He looked up, sweat running into his eyes, and saw that he was only a couple of feet from the table upon which rested his gun. All he had to do was get to his knees, draw the pistol from its holster, and then he could turn and fill this son-of-a-bitch full of lead. It was just a matter of—

  But before Huck could even leverage himself up to his elbows, the man pounced on him. He felt the knife plunge into his back, the pain tremendous, overwhelming, searing hot, like a blacksmith’s poker on bare flesh. Over and over, the stranger pulled the blade out before sticking it back in. Strangely, the pain began to fade; the heat became almost comforting. It didn’t take long for Huck to feel nothing but a quiet peace. His eyes fluttered as the blackness closed in, enveloping him like a blanket.

  Otto felt triumphant. Everything had gone just as he’d hoped, if not entirely as planned. Stealing into the house had been easy, but when the lawman heard his footfall, the creak of a floorboard giving him away, and turned around, Otto had been momentarily surprised, a strange turn of events. But his resolve had hardened; his burning hatred for the enemy had given him the strength to act, to kill the bastard with his own hand.

  Once the man was dead, Otto had searched the house, looking for someone else, a wife or child hiding from the carnage. But it had been empty. The fool had lived alone. So he’d ransacked through cupboards and drawers for things he could use, slipping them into a knapsack he’d found in a closet. Finally, he’d taken the man’s gun; with it tucked in the waistband of his pants, Otto felt more powerful than he had in a long time, certainly since his unit had been captured in France.

  Now, he was more dangerous than ever.

  For a moment, he’d considered burning the man’s house to the ground, as the destruction would have hidden the corpse, but in the end had decided against it. He wanted the lawman’s friends and coworkers to wonder what had happened to him, wanted their curiosity to finally get the better of them, and for them to make a gruesome discovery. Otto could almost taste their fear. By then, he would’ve moved on to something else, another act to strike them where it hurt most.

  Leaving the scene of the crime, Otto drifted toward the center of town. Usually, he had no interest in seeing the place, but tonight, still riding high from what he had done, he was drawn to it, like a moth to a flame. Night had fallen and he no longer needed to hide himself, at least not as cautiously as he did during the day. He peered into houses, avoided the few streetlights that were lit, and soon found himself on the main street. American flags fluttered lazily in the night breeze, proudly displayed on most of the buildings he passed. The sight of them caused his anger to flare; it made him want to cut the fabric into pieces and jam them down the throats of these damn people, to choke them with their pride.

  Suddenly, Otto heard the sound of approaching footsteps. So far, he hadn’t seen anyone since he’d left the dead man’s house. Cautiously, he stepped into the black shadows of an alley and waited. The footfalls grew louder until he saw a man coming his way on the opposite side
of the street. He didn’t look to be in a hurry; maybe he was out for a bit of fresh air. Otto was considering following him, possibly killing him, when the stranger passed beneath a light and glanced in Otto’s direction.

  It was Peter Becker.

  Otto couldn’t believe what he was seeing. It defied all reason. At first, he thought it was a trick of the light, a tease of the imagination, an illusion. But the more he looked, the more he knew he was right. It was in the man’s gait, his build, and the few features he could make out.

  What in the hell is going on?

  His first instinct was to say something, to shout out to Becker and get his attention, but he quickly squelched that urge. Something had happened, some turn of events that he couldn’t see just yet. Here was a German soldier, escaped from a wrecked prison train, walking down an American street as surely as if he’d spent his whole life there. It didn’t add up.

  Otto’s second thought was to kill him in cold blood. All he had to do was follow him, wait for the right moment, and then bury his knife in the man’s guts. This was an act of betrayal. Becker had turned his back on him, on his nation, on his Führer, and had surrendered. Now, he was working for the Amerikaners. What other explanation could there be for why he was free? Though it was difficult, Otto tamped down his craving for revenge. Instead, he followed the man.

  Moving from shadow to shadow, he tailed Becker as he walked leisurely down the street. Otto was cautious, afraid to take too noticeable a step, suddenly fearful that his former ally was the bait, trying to lure him into a trap. But on and on Becker went, acting oblivious to being followed. Eventually, he mounted a flight of stairs affixed to the side of a barbershop, unlocked a door at the top, and went inside. Seconds later, a light was turned on.

  Otto was dumbstruck.

  Anger filled him. Becker was a traitor. He deserved something worse than death. Right then and there, Otto decided that he’d keep a close eye on his countryman, try to figure out what had happened; then he would inflict punishment. Becker would suffer along with all the rest, just like the enemy he was.

  He swore it.

  Chapter Twenty

  PETER WAS UNCOMFORTABLE. He shifted in his seat in Goslee’s Diner, feeling as if every eye in the room was on him. Olivia sat across from him. The night before, as he was getting ready to leave the Marstens’ for his new apartment, they’d agreed to meet the next day for lunch. At first, he’d been excited; any reason to spend time with her was a good one. But the more he thought about it, the more ill at ease he was about being seen in public. Though he’d been among the people of Miller’s Creek for a while now, he felt vulnerable, as if his lie was about to crumble at any moment.

  Olivia didn’t seem to notice. She talked animatedly about her day at the hardware store; he had wondered if she’d be self-conscious about being with him, especially when most people in town knew about her relationship with Billy, but if she was at all worried, it didn’t show. To Peter, she was more beautiful than ever. Afternoon sunlight streamed in through the restaurant’s large windows, making her blond hair shine a brilliant gold. When she smiled, the room seemed to grow even brighter. She was like an angel. Peter knew that if their situation were different, if they’d met some other way, without any lies between them, he would have felt a tremendous sense of pride that a woman as wonderful and attractive as her would want to spend her time with him.

  Instead, all he felt was nervous.

  “He thinks highly of you.”

  Peter startled. “What was that?” he asked; he was embarrassed to realize that he hadn’t been paying attention.

  “I said that my father must think highly of you to have arranged for that apartment,” she repeated.

  “I still feel guilty for having accepted. It’s too much.”

  “Don’t feel that way,” Olivia said. “That’s just the kind of person he is. He goes out of his way to do things for people he holds in high regard. When I was a little girl, there was a man my father occasionally brought home for dinner. On holidays, that sort of thing,” she explained. “I can’t remember his real name, but everyone called him ‘Bones’ because he was so thin and frail. Later, I discovered that he was a veteran, that he’d fought in the Spanish-​American War, and that he didn’t have any family left. My father thought he was a good man and that he shouldn’t have to be alone, so he brought him into our family. In a way, I suppose you’re a lot like Bones was to him; a good person without anyone else.”

  Peter knew that Olivia’s words were meant to warm him to the idea of accepting her father’s charity, but they did the exact opposite. John had helped the old veteran because of his honorable service to his country. While the sheriff had a reason for helping him, his keeping his daughter from being badly hurt and rescuing the horses from the barn fire, it was still built upon mistruths. If Olivia’s father knew who Peter really was, he never would have helped him; he would’ve drawn his gun and led him straight to the nearest jail cell.

  He was nothing but a fraud.

  And he felt like it was so obvious that everyone else knew it, too.

  Try as he might to suppress it, Peter was acutely aware of the diner’s other customers. Any glance his way felt as if it was a long stare, full of questions and accusations. A few of the looks from older women had a smile attached, as if they got some happiness from seeing a young couple sitting together. Others held frowns; he couldn’t help but wonder if those people were friends of Billy or his family. Still other were quizzical; Peter assumed they were wondering who he was or why he wasn’t in uniform.

  Which was what drew him to the man sitting at the far end of the counter. He was young, right around Peter’s age, and fit. He smiled as he dug into his plate, having a friendly conversation with the older man beside him. He was also a soldier, the first Peter had seen since he and Otto had escaped the wrecked prison train. His olive dress uniform was crisp and clean, the buttons shining as bright as Olivia’s hair; Peter recognized it as the dress of the United States Army. Once, the soldier looked up and noticed Peter staring at him; he didn’t seem to take any offense, nodding a greeting before returning his attention to his food.

  What rattled Peter was that this man, in many ways, was his enemy. He knew that the odds were surely impossible, but he could have fought against that very soldier on the snowy battlefields of France. How many Americans had Peter fired his rifle at? How many had he wounded or even killed? The war disgusted him, but he’d fought in it nevertheless. He believed that if there was anyone in the diner who was capable of knowing the truth about him, it was the soldier.

  When he turned his attention away from the man, he found Olivia looking at him. She glanced over at the soldier, then back.

  “It must be hard for you,” she said.

  “What is?” he asked.

  “Seeing other men in their uniforms,” she said. “I’ve noticed some of the glances you’ve gotten. People questioning why a man your age isn’t dressed like he should be. I just imagined that it’d be hard, especially since you’re a part of the service, just not in the same public way.”

  Right there, on the tip of Peter’s tongue, was an answer.

  There are plenty of times when I get to wear a uniform that looks an awful lot like that one.

  It wasn’t the truth, but it would work all the same. Peter took another look at the soldier. Right then and there, even though he was sitting in the middle of a crowded diner, he’d had enough. He was done lying, done pretending to be somebody he wasn’t. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t, deceive Olivia any longer.

  “Olivia,” he said. “I’ve tried to tell you—”

  “I know, I know,” she interrupted. “I’m not supposed to ask about what it is that you do. It’s all a big secret. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “That’s not it,” Peter replied, angry at himself. “I’m not talking about that.” Here he paused, steadying his nerves, trying to steel himself for whatever reaction she would give him. “Ever s
ince we met,” he began, “there’s something that I’ve wanted to tell you…something about me that might be hard for you to hear…”

  Olivia’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “When I saw you, I told you that I’d come to town in order to speak with the sheriff…with your father…”

  She nodded. “That’s right.”

  “It’s…it’s just that my reason…it wasn’t the—”

  But then, just as Peter was about to tell her that he’d come to Miller’s Creek because he was an escaped German prisoner who wanted to give himself up, there arose such a commotion in the diner that it was impossible for him to continue.

  “Quiet! Everyone quiet down!” a gruff voice shouted.

  Peter looked and saw a man in a grease-speckled apron standing in the kitchen, waving one hand up and down to his customers while the other turned a knob on his radio. Silence fell across the diner as everyone strained to listen.

  “…effective this afternoon,” a man’s voice explained through the slight hiss of static. “Word from Washington is that President Truman has accepted. I repeat, the war in Europe has ended. Germany has unconditionally surrendered to the Allies and control of the nation will—”

  Whatever else the newsman had to say was drowned out by the deafening shouts and cheers of everyone in the diner. People jumped out of their seats. A couple of women burst into tears, crying for joy. A couple of men slapped the soldier hard on the back, congratulating him as if he himself had been the one to make Hitler and his Nazis quit. For his part, Peter was speechless, unable to comprehend what he’d just heard.

  The nation of his birth had surrendered.

  The war was over. But he still had a battle to fight.

  Olivia was breathless as she listened to the words coming from the radio. After Sam Goslee’s shout, the diner had grown so quiet that she could have heard a pin drop. Now, the only sound was the newsman’s voice. Though she heard what he said, it was so unbelievable that it took a moment for the words to sink in. But then, all at once, at exactly the same time as it happened to everyone around her, she understood.