Where Shadows Linger (Intertwined Souls Series Book 2)

by Mary D. Brooks

“No,” Zoe replied. “I would have paid attention just to be the teacher’s pet.”

  “I’m willing to work in a factory so you can fulfill your dream. Won’t you let me do that? You are going to be a great artist. I can feel it here.” Eva put her hand over her heart. “You have to learn to trust your abilities.”

  “You are giving up a lot.”

  Eva shook her head. “No, I’m not. I don’t consider this a burden or some sort of sacrifice. I want to do this.”

  Zoe sighed. “I love you,” she whispered, and kissed Eva tenderly on the lips. “I hope I don’t fail.”

  “You won’t fail,” Eva stated firmly. “I know you won’t fail.”

  Zoe snuggled back against Eva. After a moment, she tipped her head back, showing a new sparkle in her emerald eyes. “Do you think Elena would want to go to college with me?”

  “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask her,” Eva replied, knowing Zoe’s mind had gone from “insecure young woman considers college” to the “out of my way, I have things to do.” The battle was over, and Eva felt very pleased with herself.

  “I still don’t like the fact you’re working in that factory,” Zoe said.

  “I promise, if a better job comes along, I’ll take it,” Eva reasoned. “Being a process worker is not my dream job either,” she added, and they chuckled.

  “What about your back? Did you tell the fellow that hired you about your back?” Zoe asked, and frowned when Eva shook her head. “I worry you might hurt yourself. You know Dr. Mavropoulos said—”

  “I know, love.” Eva nodded. “It’s only going to get worse with age.”

  “You won’t be lifting heavy things, will you?”

  “No, I don’t think so. The women were taking the cookies off the conveyor belt and putting them in a box. Then the men took the boxes away.”

  “You will tell them if you have to lift heavy boxes, right?”

  “Yes, I’ll tell them,” Eva agreed, although she was not sure if anyone would care. Factories did not have a high regard for the infirmities of their employees, as far as she knew.

  “So who was your new boyfriend?” Zoe asked.

  “His name is Earl Wiggins. He wants to marry me.”

  “Over my dead body he will,” Zoe said. “Really?”

  “Yes. He proposed to me on his knees. You didn’t propose to me on your knees,” Eva teased Zoe.

  “No. That’s because you were on your knees to me, Miss Eva.”

  Eva laughed and remembered the day she had asked Zoe to be with her for the rest of her life. The feeling of anxiety and then the euphoria at Zoe’s response were still sharp in her mind. “I’m so glad I did.”

  “Yeah, so am I,” Zoe said, chuckling. “I would have done it, but you beat me to it.”

  “You would have gone down on your knees and asked me?” Eva asked with a huge smile on her face. It had taken several days for her to pluck up the courage to ask Zoe. She never regretted it, but what she would have liked was not to have been sick with the flu while she had been proposing.

  “Yes, but without the throwing up, or the aches and pains,” Zoe said teasingly.

  Eva hugged her. “I would have done it in any condition.”

  “You are such a romantic,” Zoe said, and tweaked Eva’s dimpled chin. “So do you think you’ve found a friend?”

  Eva nodded. “I think so. He’s very sweet and I feel comfortable around him. I think there is more to him than the joker he portrays.”

  “Really?”

  “Hmm.” Eva nodded again. “I don’t know what it is, but there is more there.”

  “Very interesting, Sherlock.” Zoe tried to put on an English accent but failed, making Eva laugh. “Are you hungry?”

  “I am a bit. It’s my turn to cook—”

  “Er..no.” Zoe shook her head. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “But—”

  “No, I don’t think I can eat last night’s dinner ever again.” Zoe gazed lovingly at Eva and shook her head.

  “I can cook,” Eva replied and smiled as Zoe scrunched up her face.

  Zoe got up and looked back for a moment. She laughed and walked away into the kitchen. Eva sat on the sofa for a moment shaking her head before she got up and followed Zoe into the kitchen.

  Chapter Five

  “He won’t be too long.”

  Henry Franz sat on a hard seat and wished he were elsewhere. He nodded thanks to the secretary who had conveyed the message. He had been summoned to the War Crimes Unit Director’s office without an explanation as to why he was being sent there. He was a tall, well-built young man with a bald head and deep-set green eyes. He played with the rim of his hat as he waited.

  The door opened and a middle-aged man indicated for Henry to enter. He almost tripped over as he rushed to his feet and followed Director Fischer inside the office.

  “How long have you worked with us, Herr Franz?”

  “A year, sir.”

  “Hm.” Fischer nodded. “Where were you during the war?”

  “In the Army, sir.”

  “Where?”

  “France, and Greece, sir.”

  “Hm.”

  Henry tried to remain calm at the questioning. He was certain Fischer knew all about him, since he had his file open.

  “Where in Greece?”

  “Larissa, sir.”

  “Under whose command?”

  “Major Hans Muller, sir.”

  “Did you know Major Muller well?” Fischer looked over the top of his glasses at Henry.

  “Yes, sir. I served under him in France and Larissa. I was his daughter’s personal guard.”

  “He brought his daughter with him into a war zone?”

  “Yes, sir, I was assigned as her driver in France by her physician Dr. Dieter Muller and Major Muller. I was promoted to Sergeant and then was given the job of guarding Fraulein Muller.”

  “That was your primary role till the end of the war?”

  “No, sir. I was part of the Resistance with Fraulein Muller in France as well as in Greece. We helped the French Resistance and then the Greek Resistance.”

  Fischer looked up. Henry could see a very faint hint of a smile on his craggy face. “You were a Resistance cell in the middle of a German command?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you married, Franz?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What do you know of General Erik Rhimes?”

  “He was in command at Thessaloniki, sir.”

  “He was. What’s his relationship to Muller?”

  “They were friends, sir.”

  “I have a job for you, young man,” Fischer said as he took off his glasses. “As you know, the Nuremberg Trials are underway. We want to bring as many war criminals to justice as we can.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Many of them have escaped abroad. General Rhimes escaped and we believe he has gone to Australia.”

  “Australia? Why go all the way there?”

  “I don’t know. We also believe Hans Muller is with him, along with other Nazi officials.”

  “No, sir, that can’t be. Muller was killed during a bomb attack. I saw the building afterwards.”

  Fischer put his glasses back and retrieved a photo from a second file. He crooked his finger at Henry to approach and look at the photograph. “Who are these men?”

  Henry took the photo and for a moment didn’t quite believe what he was seeing. It was obvious that the man closest to the camera was General Rhimes. Standing next to him was a disfigured man, but a portion of his face remained intact. There was no denying his identity. “Rhimes and Hans Muller, sir.”

  “Yes. Muller survived the bombing. I am sending you to Australia to work with the Australian War Crimes Unit. We are working with the Australians to bring these war criminals to justice. Will that be a problem for you?”

  Henry shook his head. “No, sir,” he said with a smile. “I am willing to serve.”

  “Good. I was
hoping you would say that. All the relevant documentation on Muller, Rhimes, and others will be sent to you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You may go,” Fischer said.

  Henry turned and walked out of the office. He shut the door behind him and stood outside for a moment as the news sunk in that he was being sent to Australia to hunt down Rhimes and Muller. A smile creased his face that he would be seeing his friends again soon but that soon faded when he realized he would have to break the bad news about Muller to his friends.

  ***

  “Hans, you can’t sit here all day,” Erik Rhimes said as he walked into the small apartment. “Drinking is bad for you. You know what the doctor said.” The curtains were drawn closed, and the darkened room smelled of cheap whisky and cheaper cigarettes. “Makes my nose itch.” Rhimes grumbled. He put down the bag of groceries he had been carrying and walked to the bedroom.

  Hans Muller sat on the bed surrounded by empty whisky bottles. He guzzled the last of yet another bottle in a few swallows. A record on the gramophone played a melancholy piano concerto, complementing the mood in the apartment. Muller watched Rhimes through the open bedroom door, the whisky burning its way down his throat.

  Now in his late fifties, Muller had once been a tall, handsome man. In the past few years, his wavy blond hair had turned prematurely white. A major in the German army, he had had everything he wanted: a good command, prestige, power. The war was the best thing that could have happened to him. It had given him the respect he had always craved. He had been somebody. The world had been at his feet until that October morning in 1944 when his life had suddenly collapsed around him.

  Earlier on that fateful morning in 1944, he had received the news from his second-in-command that his daughter had reverted to her disgusting deviancy. Then later his command center had been bombed by the Resistance. After the effects of the explosion, he couldn’t remember how he had escaped. All he could recall was his friend, Erik Rhimes, hovering above him, yelling orders.

  Muller sighed as the last of the music faded away. He turned to Rhimes, who was standing looking at the empty bottle he held clutched in his hand. “What else is there t’do, my friend?” he retorted, slurring drunkenly. “I can’t go out. There is a reason I can’t go out, isn’t there?” Too much drink had made his memory a shoddy thing. He was so drunk he easily forgot what he was talking about.

  “The doctor told you not to drink. It won’t help.” Rhimes tried to get the bottle, but Muller moved it out of his reach.

  “I drink to forget,” Muller muttered.

  “It’s not over, my friend,” Rhimes said reasonably. “There is a doctor in Argentina—”

  “Why do we have to leave again?” Muller asked. He tried to take another mouthful from the bottle of whisky. He had forgotten it was empty.

  “Hans, we need to leave Sydney.”

  “Why would I want to do that? Wait...didn’t I just ask that question?”

  “I was told by our friends that they will find us here.”

  “Arrested for what? That’s a joke, Erik.”

  “They write the rules.” Rhimes sat down next to Muller and finally pried the empty whisky bottle out of his hand. “They are holding a court at Nuremberg. They’ve already tried Hermann Goering — he killed himself before the Allies could hang him.”

  “Bastards.”

  “Ja, well, they are bastards, we are bastards, and the Jews thrive,” Rhimes replied. He looked at the bottle in his hand and threw it through the open bedroom door. It hit the couch and bounced off. Rhimes had commanded the German forces in northern Greece. He had been proud of it. He had done his job like Muller and followed orders. Then the war turned against them all. Athens fell, Larissa fell, and then Thessaloniki. Both men were lucky to be alive. They had barely managed to escape, and now it was a cat-and-mouse game to try and outrun the Americans.

  “I’ve got news from our friend,” Rhimes said. “I have something to tell you. Eva is here.”

  “Who is here?” Muller replied, and looked around the room. He shrugged and fell back on the rumpled bed.

  “Your daughter.”

  After a long moment, Muller started to laugh. The sound faded when the import of Rhimes’ words sunk in. Muller stared, abruptly sobered. “I should have killed her.”

  “I know you sent Reinhardt to—”

  “No.” Muller shook his head. “Not then.”

  Muller was enraged, and the object of his hatred and revulsion lay at his feet. He held a fireplace poker in one hand and his belt in the other. The belt was covered with blood, as were his hands and his uniform. His “daughter” lay on the floor. He staggered back and fell down, dropping the poker. The sound reverberated around the room. The girl was motionless and quiet. He hoped she was dead so that the shame she had brought to the Muller name would be eradicated.

  He was not sure how long he sat on the floor, only that he started to cry. Not for the deviant before him but for his wife, who had been killed earlier that night.

  The door opened and a white-haired woman entered the room. Muller heard her shocked gasp and he continued to weep.

  “What have you done?” Beatriz Muller asked accusingly.

  Muller had expected his mother to tend to him and not to the refuse that was his daughter. Instead, she had gone to Eva, who was still crumpled on the floor, beaten and bloody.

  “What are you doing?” Muller growled at her.

  Beatriz ignored him as she brushed blood-stained strands of hair from Eva’s bruised face. “Call a doctor.”

  “No.” Muller shook his head and stood up, picking up the poker he had dropped on the floor. “Get away from her.”

  Beatriz looked back at him with undisguised disgust. “What are you going to do, Hans? Hit me?”

  “No.” Muller shook his head. “Not you.” His hands fell limply to his sides, but he retained his hold on the poker.

  “This is not a way a Muller behaves. We have ways of dealing with this problem,” Beatriz replied, and turned her back on him to continue to attend to Eva.

  “She is a deviant,” he yelled.

  “She is but this mental illness will be fixed,” Beatriz warned. “Killing her is not the answer.”

  “Mutti...” he whimpered.

  “Hush! Put down that poker and help me take her to her room.”

  Muller hesitated for a long moment, earning another withering look. He reluctantly dropped the poker again and knelt down. “I am doing this for you,” he said to Beatriz, who merely glared at him.

  He picked up the injured young girl and, despite everything he had done to her, she moaned and rested her head against his chest.

  “She is your daughter,” Beatriz said quietly. She followed him into Eva’s bedroom, where he laid the injured girl on the bed. “Let’s get her to the room and I’ll call Dieter. He will know what to do.”

  “No, Dieter will...”

  “Hans, don’t be an idiot. She will die if you don’t call Dieter. She can be saved.”

  “Then she dies.” Muller shrugged.

  He did not expect the slap, the sound of which reverberated around the room. Beatriz had hit him, and he put his hand over his cheek in shock. “Mother!”

  “You are behaving like an animal,” Beatriz told him, and once again turned her back on him. Reluctantly, he left the room to get the water and rags. When he returned, Beatriz had removed the bloodied clothing and had wiped most of the blood from Eva’s back using previously unstained parts of her clothing.

  “Did you call your brother?” Beatriz asked.

  “I thought—”

  “Don’t think, Hans. Just call your brother and bring him here. He’s at home on leave from Austria.”

  Muller left the room without another word. Despite it being late at night and obviously having been sound asleep, Dr. Dieter Muller immediately became lucid upon hearing the news that he was needed.

  Half an hour later, Muller stood back while his brother assessed th
e damage he had done. After he had finished, Dieter wiped his hands and turned to Muller with a look of utter contempt on his face.

  “What?” Muller asked, suddenly feeling as if he were the monster, not Eva.

  “You didn’t have to do this,” Dieter admonished.

  “She’s a lesbian, Dieter, it’s, it’s...”

  “I know. Mother told me. But you could have killed her.”

  Muller threw up his arms in frustration. “That’s what I was trying to do!”

  “Shooting her would have been less messy,” Dieter replied drolly. He looked down at the blood-stained towel in his hands. “But I think I can help you.”

  “You can? How?”

  “I am working with a team trying to eliminate certain behaviors. I think Eva would be a good candidate for this treatment.”

  “She will be made normal?”

  “Yes, I believe so.”

  “Can you do it tonight?”

  Dieter shook his head. “We have to heal her first. I will take her back to Aiden with me. She has to first heal from the damage you did tonight and then we will start her therapy. She will be normal. Trust me.”

  “What do I have to do?”

  “Nothing.” Dieter gently slapped his brother’s cheek and put an arm around his shoulders. “I will do the rest.”

  Silently, Muller agreed. The last thing he saw that night was his mother talking to his brother.

  Muller brought himself out of his thoughts and back to the present. He scoffed, “Ja, sure, Dieter said it would cure her.”

  “I haven’t asked you this before, but what happened to Eva?” Rhimes asked.

  “She wasn’t cured.” Muller shook his head and began searching for another bottle of whisky. “Reinhardt should have killed her. W-w-what happened to Reinhardt?” Muller frowned. He had forgotten about his second-in-command. In his drunken fog, he remembered that he had decided Reinhardt was an inept fool.

  “Why?” Rhimes asked.

  “Why what?”

  “Why did Reinhardt try to kill Eva?”

  “Oh. She wasn’t really my daughter, you know.” Muller turned to Rhimes. “Yes, that’s true. Daphne...oh, my Daphne...well, Daphne; you remember my wife?”

  “Yes, I remember Daphne,” Rhimes replied. “She was a beautiful woman.”