Forever Man

by Brian Matthews

  Izzy closed her eyes, pressed her mouth into a thin line. Prior to the events of the last few days, before his son’s death had broken him, Denny Cain had been Stanley’s employee, a decent man with a quick smile, and a family friend. Now, to come to this end, lying cold and dead in the woods. How was she going to tell Maddie that she’d lost her son and her husband, all within a handful of days?

  “Yes,” she said, opening her eyes. “Denny is—well, was one of the guys from the Silverado.”

  “And your daughter and the boy? You think they might be in there?” He gestured to the woods.

  Izzy nodded. “Yes.”

  Lt. de la Rosa was silent for a moment; maybe she’d finally gotten through to the man. Then he gave her a smug smile. “Very well. When I’m done here, I’ll send a couple of my officers into the woods. I’ll call you if I find anything.”

  Izzy was stunned. “We’re talking about my daughter!”

  “You really want to find her? Then drive down the road and walk in from there.” His smug smile widened. “Simply go around me.”

  “You know the woods are too thick near the road,” she said. “I need this trail to get in. And with the sun setting, I’ll never be able to pick up their trail in the dark.”

  “That’s your problem, Chief Morris. Now get off my crime scene before I have you arrested.”

  “You want to arrest me,” she said. “Okay, let me give you a reason.” Her left hand shot out and clamped down hard on de la Rosa’s right wrist. With her other hand, she removed her handcuffs. Before de la Rosa could react, she snapped one cuff around his wrist. Then she grabbed him by the upper arm and shoved him against the back of the ambulance, securing the other cuff around a thick yellow bar just inside its open doors. Finally, she reached inside his jacket and took his handgun.

  “What the—!” shouted de la Rosa. “You can’t do this! Uncuff me, puta!”

  Stepping away from the infuriated lieutenant, she said, “You’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. You have the—”

  “Arrested? On what charge?”

  “Playing games with my daughter’s life,” Izzy replied flatly.

  Officer Campbell came running up to the ambulance.

  “Arrest her,” ordered de la Rosa as he struggled against the restraint.

  Campbell looked between his boss and Izzy. The conflict was plain on his face, but Izzy knew what he had to do. He was too young to lose his job.

  “Sorry, Chief,” he said. “I can’t let this continue. You’ll have to release him.”

  “I’m sorry too, Officer Campbell. But I can’t. I’m going after my daughter. And no one is going to stop me.” Izzy pointed de la Rosa’s gun right at Campbell’s chest. “I want you to do as I say and cuff yourself to the ambulance.”

  “Don’t let her do this!” yelled de la Rosa. “Don’t let her leave!”

  Izzy saw the uncertainty in Officer Campbell’s eyes. “You wouldn’t really shoot me, would you, Chief?”

  Lt. de la Rosa’s gun was a revolver. Izzy thumbed the hammer back, cocking the gun. The barrel never moved from the patrolman’s chest. “Try me.”

  What Officer Campbell was thinking, Izzy didn’t know. Maybe about a wife or a girlfriend. Or maybe he had kids. Or maybe he simply didn’t want to risk dying so young. Regardless of the reasons, when he removed his handcuffs and secured himself to the bar opposite de la Rosa, she breathed a sigh of relief. Shooting him had never really been an option.

  “God damn it, Steve,” said de la Rosa. “What are you doing?”

  “Living,” was his reply. Then he caught her eye—and gave her a half-smile that de la Rosa couldn’t see. “Don’t want any payback for the shit I gave her earlier.”

  Izzy lowered the gun and eased the hammer down. “Okay, take your handcuff key and toss it into the snow.”

  After Campbell had complied, she said, “Now your gun. Do the same thing. Toss it.”

  Campbell lifted his gun by two fingers and threw it into a snow drift.

  Reaching into her pocket, Izzy removed her handcuff key. Without pausing she threw it into the distance, where it too disappeared in the snow. Next she approached both men and removed their phones and Campbell’s mic from his uniform. Those also ended up in the snow.

  “I’ll see that you’re fired for this,” de la Rosa said as he struggled against the handcuff. “You’re done, Morris.”

  Izzy thought back to the words Stanley had said to her: What comes first for you? Cop? Wife? Or mother?

  “You may be right,” she said. “But as long as I get my daughter back, I’ll be happy doing anything where I don’t have to deal with assholes like you.”

  That sent Lt. de la Rosa into another fit of spluttering expletives.

  “Deke?” Izzy called out.

  Deke Frenz had been watching silently from several paces away. “Ma’am?”

  “Lt. de la Rosa is going to want you to release him. I don’t want you to refuse, but I would appreciate it if it took you a while to find the keys.”

  Deke flashed a big smile. “Can’t even remember where you threw ‘em. Might take me a while to remember.”

  Izzy nodded, then gestured for her friends to join her. When she saw that Owens had grabbed the large, black Maglite she kept in the Explorer, she nodded at his resourcefulness. She ran to Campbell’s patrol car and took his Maglite, then a handful of flares stored in the trunk. After all, what was a little theft after her string of felonies?

  After slamming the trunk shut, she saw that her friends had gathered at the mouth of the trail. She hurried over to them.

  “It’s going to get dark soon,” she said, handing each person a flare. “If something happens and we get separated, use the flare. It’ll help the rest of us find you.”

  Each person silently accepted a flare.

  “You’re all good with this?” she asked. “No one has to follow me.”

  “I think you already know the answer to that one,” said Gene.

  Owens and Katie nodded their agreement.

  She supposed she did. Giving them a grateful smile, she turned and walked up the trail.

  It was time to find Webber for the last time.

  Part Three

  All That

  You

  Hold Dear

  Sgt. Bartholomew Owens pressed his back against the rough stone wall. The building protecting them was tall and broad, with a ceramic-tiled roof and a broken stub of a chimney. A wood slat gate, painted the same terracotta orange as the roof, had broken free of its latch, exposing the narrow Rue Principale that ran the length of Morville-les-Vic. A German half-track filled with Nazi soldiers rumbled down the road.

  “They lied, you know,” said Cpl. Allan Richmond. He hugged the wall next to Owens. Beside him, PFC Bucky Hatton crouched low, a Browning 1911 semiautomatic gripped tightly in his hand.

  “Who?” asked Bart, glad to be out of the wind and rain, even if it was only for a short time.

  “The assholes who said France was beautiful.”

  Bart grinned in spite of himself. The three had crawled through mud and rain and a constant barrage of shelling to reach the outskirts of the French town. Ironically, the storm had ended up helping them by cutting visibility down to a few dozen yards. After two hours, they were inside Morville-les-Vic, cold, slick with mud, and nearly exhausted.

  “We need to move,” said Bart. “Our targets are probably near the center of town, where they’ll be the most heavily defended.”

  Bucky’s eyes widened. “Just the three of us?”

  Bart nodded. “The rest of the 761st will be in the town soon. That should keep the Germans busy. Let us slip in close without being seen.”

  “Then what?”

  “Patton sent us to take the town, so we take it.”

  There was a pause before Al asked, “You really think they’re here?”

  “She is,” Bart replied. “I’m not sure about Kölbe.”

  “Maybe this’ll be
my lucky day,” Al said. “I’d love to get my hands on that sadistic little bastard.”

  “You’ve certainly messed up his plans often enough,” said Bart. “In fact, I think he hates you more than me.”

  Bucky leaned in close. “Who you guys talkin’ about?”

  “Our mission objectives,” said Al, then hooked a thumb at Bart. “He’ll handle the woman. You and I’ll deal with Kölbe if we see him.”

  “You…know these people?” Bucky said, frowning.

  “We’ve met,” said Bart. “All right, let’s go.”

  They hurried north and east, keeping the buildings between them and the road. Luckily, the town had a passion for those orange gates—they connected most of the structures running along Rue Principale and helped hide their movements.

  The wind shifted. Rain spat at them, now mixed with sleet as evening approached and the temperature started to drop. When they passed a water barrel filled to overflowing, Bart ordered their canteens filled. It might take days to find their way back to Allied territory.

  They’d passed two shorter fieldstone structures—one looked to be a grocer, the other a butcher, both with rear doors firmly locked—when they ran into their first problem: instead of consecutive buildings, a large grassy lot sat between them and their next cover. Tables and chairs had been moved into the space. Empty wine bottles were piled up in one corner. A large steel drum with a red swastika painted on it sat in the middle of the lot, pieces of scrap wood stacked next to it. There was no fire in the drum, not in this weather.

  Two Germans officers sat at one of the tables with what looked like a map spread out between them. The taller one was tracing a line on it with his finger.

  Beyond the lot stretched an open plaza with a large fountain in the center. At least five Panzer tanks sat on the cobblestones. Several half-tracks rolled by. Soldiers practically filled the square.

  “There’s one bright side to this,” Al said in a low voice.

  Bart gave him a questioning look.

  Al grinned. “Look at all the friends we’re about to make.”

  Bart watched as Bucky rolled his eyes, but the boy also visibly relaxed. That was one of the many gifts Allan Richmond brought to Bart’s work: a sense of humor that Bart found so elusive in his own life. Too many miles and not enough smiles, the others would often joke with him. Maybe they were right.

  “We need a diversion,” Bart said, thinking aloud. “Something to pull those officers into the plaza. The longer we remain unseen, the less killing there will be.”

  “Sarge,” whispered Bucky. “We in the middle of a war. We don’t kill them, they gonna kill us.”

  “I know,” said Bart. “Still, I’d like to avoid as many casualties—”

  The back door of the butcher shop swung open. Out walked a German soldier, a stick of jerky in his hand. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen, with blonde hair and guileless features. He was smiling as he chewed on his snack.

  He must have felt secure this far into town; it took him a few seconds to register that he wasn’t alone. When he noticed three Negros crouched near the corner of the building, a look of surprise slid across his face, and he swallowed.

  “Wie geht es Ihnen?”

  “Wir wollen nicht, Sie zu verletzen,” Bart replied, raising his hands.

  Then the soldier saw their uniforms…and the pistol in Bucky’s hand. He dropped the jerky and fumbled for his gun.

  Bart shouted, “Nicht!” but he was too late. As the boy drew his weapon, Bucky Hatton closed the gap, shoved the barrel of his Browning into the kid’s gut, and fired three times. The rounds blasted through the soldier, splattering blood across the stone wall behind him. The boy’s eyes rolled back into his skull, and he crumpled to the ground.

  Al said, “We got company.”

  Glancing over his shoulder, Bart saw the two German officers running toward them, weapons drawn.

  “Into the store,” Bart said. “Both of you. This needs to be quick and quiet, or we’ll have the whole town after us.” He slipped the kitbag off his shoulder and handed it to his friend. “You mind?”

  Al took it and raced for the door. When he began dragging Bucky with him, the man tried to pull away. “What’re you doing? He doesn’t even have a gun!”

  “He doesn’t need one,” Al said and threw the private through the open doorway. Then he darted inside and slammed the door shut.

  The first officer rounded the corner. Bart punched him hard in the face. Stunned by the blow, the man jerked to a stop. Bart grabbed the gun and wrenched it up, breaking at least one of the man’s fingers and freeing the pistol. He brought it close to his body, thumbed the release at the bottom of the grip, and the magazine dropped free. A quick rack of the slide and the remaining round flew from the chamber. He tossed the empty gun aside.

  The other officer—the taller one, Bart saw—pushed past the first, his gun thrust out in front of him. Bart dropped and spun, driving the heel of his boot into the man’s gut. The man grunted and doubled over. Bart shot to his feet and grabbed him. The first officer, having recovered from Bart’s attack, joined the fight, swinging wildly with his fists.

  Bart pivoted, yanking the gun-toting Nazi around with him. He clutched at the man’s wrist, keeping the weapon pointed toward the sky. The unarmed officer pounded on Bart’s back and head, but without the gun there was little real damage he could do.

  As they grappled, Bart saw the other man’s eyes grow wide, his nostrils flare. The pain he was feeling would only get worse.

  “Lassen Sie das Gewehr fallen!” Bart yelled, ordering him to drop the gun.

  The tall officer’s lips peeled back, revealing uneven, yellowed teeth. “Zur Hölle!”

  “Boy, have you got your directions mixed up,” Bart muttered.

  Pulling down on the gunman’s hand, he stepped in with his left foot and swung his own body around until his back was firm against the man’s chest. Still holding tight to the Nazi’s wrist, Bart wrapped his left arm around until he held the man’s arm between his right hand and left forearm. Then he brought his knee up, shattering the man’s elbow. The gun fell from the officer’s nerveless fingers.

  Finally, the pain inflicted by Bart proved too much. The man issued another scream, collapsed to the ground, and lay still.

  The other officer, seeing his buddy go down, turned to flee. Bart grabbed him from behind and bashed his head into the stone wall, knocking him out cold.

  Pausing to catch his breath, Bart checked the plaza. No one seemed to have noticed their altercation. How much longer could his luck hold out?

  He hurried over to the door. Locked. “Open up, Al,” he said, pounding on the wood. “It’s me.”

  When no one responded, Bart began to worry. He shouldered the door, then kicked it. Nothing. He’d had enough of this. Closing his eyes, he focused on the door, on the wood from which it was made. A seed of heaviness took root in his gut. He allowed it to grow until he thought the door was light enough. He kicked again. This time, the wood splintered around the lock and handle and the door swung open.

  Inside, he found Bucky Hatton crumpled on the floor in front of a long serving counter. Blood oozed from a nasty head wound; more blood had pooled around him, mixing with the sawdust that covered the butcher shop’s flooring. His eyes were closed, his breathing uneven.

  There was no sign of Al Richmond.

  Bart checked Bucky’s pulse. Not good. He looked for something to staunch the blood flowing from the boy’s head. Except for some scraps of jerky in a large glass jar—the label said it was horse, which explained why it’d been left behind—the store had been stripped of anything useful.

  Bucky gasped, coughed, and fresh blood trickled from his mouth. His eyes fluttered open. When he saw his CO, his lips moved. Bart had to lean in to hear him.

  “Soldiers, they was in here,” he said, his voice wispy. “One took my gun. Another…hit me. They…they recognized the corporal. Took him.” He coughed again. More blood, b
right red. His young eyes grew shiny with tears. “My momma, she gonna be waiting for me…and when I don’t…I don’t—” His hand shot out and grabbed Bart’s. “Oh no…!”

  Bart held the boy’s hand. “I’ll find her,” he said. “I’ll find her, and I’ll tell her. She’ll know.” Smiling through his own tears, he added, “You’re a hero, son. Now close your eyes and rest. You’ve done enough.”

  The private’s eyes slid shut. His chest rose, slow and shallow. And again, a few seconds later. Then, as he let slip his last breath in this world, he smiled faintly, almost sweetly, like a newborn held in the comfort of his mother’s arms.

  Robert “Bucky” Hatton had gone home.

  Bart Owens allowed himself a few moments with the dead private. He would have to leave the boy here and hope someone from the 761st found him later. There wasn’t time for anything else. He had to end this.

  The Germans had recognized Al. Bart had to assume he’d also been identified. The word was out about them.

  But why capture Al? Why not kill him outright? Or them both, for that matter? He could survive a lot, but some heavy shelling from those Panzers would blow him apart, and there was no recovering from that. It didn’t make sense. She would want them both dead as quick as possible, wouldn’t she? Unless—

  Kölbe.

  Bart’s skin prickled. Kölbe despised Al, had ever since the incident in Prague’s Jewish quarter years earlier. That encounter had left Al with a punctured lung, three fractured ribs, and a broken nose. Kölbe had barely made it out alive, not that he didn’t deserve what he’d gotten. All those young boys, horribly disfigured by Kölbe but kept alive for days, sometimes weeks at a time so they could be the objects of his perverse desires.

  But the greatest damage Al had done was to Kölbe’s ego. Already a man of tenuous sanity, the humiliation he’d suffered at the hands of Al Richmond had cracked his mind. Since then, his focus had been on exacting his revenge on the man who had bested him.

  Not good at all.

  Bart rose to his feet. He gave Bucky Hatton a final look, then moved to the window.