by Alex Grecian
“Baby?”
Skottie looked up at Emmaline and tried to smile. “It’ll be okay, Mom.”
“I know it will be. In your whole life, you never let anybody drag you down, and you sure ain’t gonna start now.”
Skottie’s smile felt genuine, if only for a second. She took a deep breath. On her way out of the kitchen she turned back. “Mom? You can step on him again if you want.”
October 2018
Ransom Roan opened his eyes with difficulty and tried to sit up.
“You’re finally awake,” Rudy said.
“What the hell?” Ransom strained against the leather straps buckled tight around his wrists and ankles. He was bound to a metal table in a brightly lit concrete chamber that looked like a bunker.
“Bless you for trying,” Rudy said. “You’re not going to break those straps.”
Ransom forced himself to relax, to conserve his energy. “Hello, Rudolph Bormann.”
Rudy shook his head. “I haven’t been that person in a long time. But I remember him the way you remember einen alten Schulfreund.”
“You call yourself Goodman now.”
“That’s who I am.”
Ransom glanced back down at the metal table and then around the room, looking for anything that might give him a clue as to his whereabouts. His eyes locked on a drooling man who sat hunched on a stool in the corner.
“Excuse me,” Rudy said. “I should introduce you to my friend Kenny. Kenny, this is Mr. Roan. Mr. Roan, this is Kenny. You needn’t bother conversing with Kenny. He lacks a brain.”
“How do you know who I am?”
Rudy held up Ransom’s wallet. “I looked up your Noah Roan Foundation. It’s funny, you’d think I would have heard of it. But I suppose I’ve been too busy to care what you people have been doing.”
“Whether you have heard of us matters very little.”
“You should be very proud of yourself. What you do, sneaking around, spying on people.”
“I am proud,” Ransom said. “And you must know I am not the only one hunting you.”
“Hunting? As if you have some real purpose or power? As if I’m the deer and you are the wolf, circling and sniffing after me?” Rudy threw Ransom’s wallet at him and slammed his fist on the metal table. “No! I am the wolf, not you. I am the hunter and I am also the healer. I take life and I give it. I bring down the weak and the worthless, the Jew and the black, and I will teach you to respect me.”
“Rudolph, no one respects you. At least, nobody worth knowing. You run a church full of mouth breathers who do not have the foggiest idea who you really are. I know all about you. Your army out there, they are all sheep, too stupid or unaware to know what you really think of them.”
Rudy sat back and composed himself. “You’re right about one thing. They are sheep. But they’re my sheep, my flock, and I am their shepherd.”
“They would follow anyone. When I arrest you, they will find someone else to follow. And there will always be someone willing to exploit their gullibility.”
Rudy smirked. “Neither of us is going anywhere, Mr. Roan. If anyone is gullible, it’s you. You seem to be under the impression you’re going to walk out of here unscathed. I assure you, that’s not the case.”
“If you were going to hurt me, you would already have done so. As you say, it has been a long time since the camps. I am not so sure you want to slide back into your old ways. Life has been good for you in America, and you would not want to jeopardize that, would you?”
Rudy swiveled in his chair and picked up a red rag from a cart next to him, revealing an array of silver instruments beneath it. He dabbed at his eyes with the rag. “You amuse me, Mr. Roan. May I call you Ransom?”
Ransom looked at the instruments on the cart. “Perhaps I misjudged you. After the camps, you kept it up? The torture? The killing?”
“The camps were only a stop along the way. I’ve always had my work, my studies.” Rudy scowled. “Tell me, how many others like me have you found out there?”
“I have found seven of you.”
“Impressive.”
“And my research has helped others. As I said, they will hunt you. If I disappear, someone else will find you. My investigation into you is on file with the Foundation. You cannot stop this by killing me.”
“No.” Rudy stood up and walked away toward the corner of the room opposite Kenny, who was watching something imaginary crawl up the wall. Rudy stretched his arms high over his head and groaned. “I strained my back lifting you into the van, Mr. Roan. I might be getting too old.”
“You are going to be subpoenaed and dragged out into the light,” Ransom said. “You will be hounded and vilified and spat upon until you are finally deported. You will lose everything you have built here, and when you find yourself back in Germany, you will most likely be put in prison. If it is any consolation, you will probably die of old age before you are convicted of your crimes.”
“Then why come after me at all?” Rudy started back toward the table. “Why not let me be?”
“You mean nothing to me as a person. I had not even heard of you before a witness came forward. But you are a symbol of the evil that men do. You represent an ugly time in our shared history, and it helps to see you brought down.”
“Helps who?”
“Everyone. Society.”
“Your society?”
“You have to know this is wrong. All of this.” Ransom’s gaze took in the entire basement room, the cart, the metal table, the soundproofed concrete walls, poor Kenny. Even the old yellowed poster with the struggling cat on a tree branch. “Or maybe not. Maybe you like this ugly little room.”
“This room is my sanctuary.”
Rudy picked up electric clippers from the tray and turned them on. He raised his voice, ensuring that Ransom would hear him over the buzzing sound that echoed off the cinder-block walls.
“Killing is not my ultimate goal,” Rudy said, “but I don’t shrink from it.”
He moved to the head of the table where Ransom could no longer see him. Ransom felt a tug at his scalp and the cold business end of the clippers.
“I am a student,” Rudy said. “Yes, even at my age. When we stop learning, we might as well go ahead and die, don’t you think?”
“And what will you learn from my death?”
“I had actually hoped to keep you alive. You present a number of problems for me. As you say, you’ve come to arrest me. Obviously, I can’t let you do that.”
Ransom saw a clump of hair, long and silver, land on the floor next to the table, and he shivered.
“If you kill me,” he said, “my sons will come for you.”
“And if I kill them?”
“You cannot kill everyone, Rudolph.”
“Yes, yes, an unending wave of Nazi hunters will come. How did you find me, by the way?”
“You made the same sorts of mistakes you people always make.”
Rudy cleared his throat. “You said there was a witness? Someone from the camps saw me?”
Ransom shook his head. “No.”
“I think so. When I have finished with you, I will find this witness and dispose of him. Or is it a woman?”
“No witness.” The pile of hair was building. Ransom wondered how long it would take him to grow it back. He wondered if he’d have the chance.
“I can’t spend the rest of my life in disgrace or in prison, Mr. Roan. Surely you understand that.”
“Whatever you do, that is the inevitable end of this. Unless you die first. You could kill yourself, you know. You have enough tools in here to do yourself in many times over.”
Rudy chuckled and the buzzing sound stopped. “No. That’s not what these tools are for. You’ve met Kenny. Kenny, show Mr. Roan your scar.”
The drooling man came to attention at the sound of his name. He jerked forward and pulled his hair back so that the arc of scar tissue at his temple was visible.
Ransom looked away. “You did t
hat to him?”
“Thank you, Kenny,” Rudy said. “That will be enough. Why don’t you go upstairs and play with the girls? Go upstairs, Kenny. Hold the railing so you don’t fall.” He moved back into view and set the clippers on the tray. He looked at Ransom and smiled. “I should make him wear a helmet, he falls down so often. But I don’t suppose there’s much left for a helmet to protect.”
Ransom pulled at his straps again and tried to push himself away from the table. Rudy sat back and watched until Ransom had exhausted himself.
“To answer your question,” Rudy said, “yes, I did that to him. Or for him, depending on your point of view. He was a desperately unhappy man, and now he’s cheerful. He doesn’t talk much, but he still knows a handful of words and he has a smile for everyone he encounters. He helps out at the church when he can, doing menial work—sweeping the floors, picking up between the pews, that sort of thing. So who’s to say his operation was such a bad thing for him?”
Ransom closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing. He felt a sudden certainty that he was not going to escape this time. The Foundation would send someone after him, but it would be too late. Ransom wondered which of his remaining children would follow him to Kansas. Would it be Judah or Travis? Poor Travis had been through so much already, and he was finally dealing with his anger issues. It would be better if Judah came. Judah was stronger.
When Rudy started talking again, his voice was soft and thoughtful. Ransom could barely hear him. “Did you know I was struck by lightning two times, Mr. Roan? Two times is a lot when we talk about lightning. It’s rare, but it happens. I’d be willing to bet you’ve never been struck by lightning even once. But there’s a man in South Carolina who’s been hit ten times. A park ranger in Virginia was struck seven times. You see, when it hits someone, it’s more likely to hit them again. And no one seems to know why, but if you ask any of us, those of us in this special club, we could tell you. It has chosen us, marked us. Look here. Come on, take a look.”
Ransom opened his eyes. Rudy rolled up his sleeve and turned his arm back and forth under the fluorescent lamps. Vivid blue scars snaked down toward his wrist, forking out from a thick central line, like the branches of an upside-down tree or a simplified coral formation.
“See that? The lightning etched itself on my skin, like a tattoo, like a brand. Letting me know that it owns me. But maybe I own it, too.” He rolled his sleeve back down and patted Ransom on the shoulder. “For some people, Mr. Roan, the lightning hurts them, damages them physically and psychologically. But for others, like myself, it changes them for the good, gifts them with insight and energy. Isn’t it possible that one man’s torture is another man’s freedom? You say I’m a symbol of evil, but who are you to decide that sort of thing?”
“I am not the one who decided that.” He was going to say something more, but Ransom’s throat had closed so that it was painful to speak.
Rudy waved his hand at the ceiling. “Up there is my church. And it wouldn’t exist without my talents.”
“A talent for hurting people? For killing?”
“If the lightning chooses a person, I can heal them, transfer a small part of my energy to them. I do good in this world, which brings us back to the subject of you. I can’t let you stop my ministry before I’m ready.”
“Rudolph—”
“You said you have sons?”
“They have caught monsters as delusional as you.”
“I have sons as well. Or I did. At least Heinrich stayed with the church. But you must understand the concept of a legacy. Having work that matters and someone to carry on the work.” Rudy moved the cart closer to him and examined the tools arrayed there. “But I worry that despite Heinrich’s best intentions, my ministry will disappear after I die. People are drawn to the church because of my abilities. Will they still come if there’s no one here to help them, to take away their pain? I don’t know the answer to that question. Do you?”
“Enough of this,” Ransom said. “Unbuckle these straps.”
“I had an idea a few years ago,” Rudy said. “A vision. It was after the second time the lightning came to me. I was fearful at first. I knew it would come again. It would never stop. I would never be able to relax, because at any moment I would be struck again. But maybe there was a reason for it all. Maybe I was being given more energy than I needed so I could pass it on to someone else. And when I do that, I can finally end all this, I can silence whatever’s in me that calls the lightning. The energy will move on to someone else and let me be. Its legacy will be preserved, and so will mine.”
“Do you ever get sick of your own voice?”
“Don’t be rude. The problem is that lightning is unpredictable. I can’t very well ask people to stand with me under a tree in a storm and hope that something amazing might take place. I need a way to control the transfer of electricity, to directly affect a man’s brain. But how? And what part of the brain?”
He pointed to a short tool with an electric cord. It looked like a wood burner that had been altered and glued back together.
“I made that myself. It provides a charge that I can direct. I touch a person’s brain with lightning, and perhaps someday I’ll create another like myself.”
“That does not …” Ransom needed water, his throat burned and fought him, but he forced the words out. “You are not magic. That is madness. You use the power of suggestion to dupe people into following you, into thinking they have been cured of whatever they bring to you.”
Rudy sat back on his stool and a thoughtful expression drifted across his face. “Yes, I have thought of that. Perhaps the migraines go away when the boy thinks they will go away. Perhaps the girl wakes from her coma because she hears someone tell her to do so and she believes it is time. It is what you call the placebo effect, right? If you have enough faith in the cure, your own brain will convince your body to cure itself. Something like that. But even if you are correct and this is what I’m doing, does it negate the work itself?” Rudy shook his head. “No, the lightning works, one way or another. Understanding it is a human requirement, Mr. Roan.”
“And what do you think you are, some kind of god?”
“Oh, I am very human. All saints are human at first. And I didn’t say I had no need of understanding, it’s just that I need to understand different things than you do. For instance, I would like to understand you.”
Rudy reached for the cart. He pulled it closer and picked up a short electric saw. He held it up for Ransom to see and he winked. “This comes later. For the skull.” He set the saw back down on the cart and selected a scalpel. “But first this.”
Chapter Ten
1
The parking lot of the Hays Walmart was nearly empty, stretching to the white-frosted grass at the edge of the highway. They had left Travis’s rented Jeep outside the compound and Sheriff Goodman had driven to Hays, where they parked close to the store and got out of the silver cruiser. The moon through the clouds had burnished the sky to a pearly sheen, but lightning lit up the horizon far out beyond the overpass.
“Big storm coming,” Goodman said.
Travis nodded. Kansas was living up to its reputation and he had resigned himself to the idea that the day could bring any kind of weather.
“Still don’t see why we need to stop off here,” Goodman said. “I got the rifle and shotgun in the car. You’re welcome to whichever of those. And you got your automatic.”
“I do not know how many people I will need to shoot before I find my father. I would not care to run out of bullets.”
“I know a guy not too far from here can set you up with just about any weapon you want.”
“We are here already.”
An old man in a blue apron smiled at them as they entered. “Happy Thanksgiving,” he said. “Got your turkey yet? Need help finding anything?”
“I know where it is,” Goodman said.
“Thank you,” Travis said to the man. He followed Goodman to the back o
f the store, past displays of snow tires and Christmas decorations, toy cars and furnace filters. He knew they were in the right department when the aisles of golf clubs and sleeping bags gave way to compound bows and shotgun shells. There was a long glass counter showcasing knives and scopes of varying lengths and an array of shotguns and rifles on view in a larger glass case behind it. An employee saw them and approached. He had a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper goatee, and his apron had been recently starched.
“You fellas looking for anything in particular?” He moved behind the counter.
“Yes,” Travis said. “I would like a Remington shotgun, the 870 Express, and the Winchester 54.” He shifted his attention to the glass case in front of him, where knives sat cradled between dark felt runners. “I will also require the Buck Special there. The six-inch blade, please, with the sheath, and the PakLite Skinner. What is your best scope for the Winchester?”
The man blinked at him.
“Leave the Winchester,” Goodman said. He spoke to the employee. “What’s your name, sir?”
He pointed at his name tag. “Caleb.”
“Caleb, my friend doesn’t know what he wants, so I’ll order for him. He’s gonna want that Weatherby up there, not the Winchester.”
“But I do want the Winchester,” Travis said.
“The Weatherby’s gonna outperform it.”
“I am buying the rifle for short-term use,” Travis said. “I am comfortable with the Winchester.”
Goodman held up his hands, backing out of the argument.
Travis turned back to the employee. “Caleb, please also give me the Colt semiauto, the .270 Short Magnums, and a half-dozen magazines, if you have them. I will require a rain suit, a good pair of binoculars, an adequate bow, along with arrows and a quiver for them, and a machete.”
