Forever Man

by Brian Matthews

  Nothing had changed in the square, except now he could see a German officer striding toward the butcher shop. When the man got close enough, Bart opened the door.

  The officer, a captain judging by the insignia on his jacket, came to a halt. He was older, perhaps in his late thirties, with dark hair and a face like a ferret. His nose even twitched as he leveled his gun at Bart.

  “If you will come with me, please, Herr Owens,” the officer said in passable English.

  Bart hesitated. He could easily overpower the man and take his gun—but then what? Kill soldiers until he somehow found Al? No, they were just grunts following the orders of a paranoid madman and his cadre of the lunatics. Besides, if Kölbe wanted him so badly, who was he to disappoint?

  “Very well,” he said, gesturing with an open hand. “Lead the way.”

  “You will not cause trouble?”

  Bart’s lips spread into a humorless grin. “Not yet.”

  The Captain led him across the plaza, past the soldiers glancing curiously at them, and toward a cluster of buildings that Bart assumed housed the town’s administrative offices. But before they got much closer, the man veered left into a narrow side street. Frowning, Bart followed.

  There were no soldiers in this part of the city. Either someone felt this area was secure, or privacy was the chief consideration. Given the disturbing nature of Kölbe’s activities, Bart was betting on the latter.

  He was about to ask where they were going when the officer stopped and gestured with his gun.

  Bart lifted his eyes. He stood in front a simple stone building, long and broad with two shorter structures flanking the far end. It had a gabled roof and tall arching windows. Behind it, he could see the tip of a bell tower rising over the rooftop. He recognized the design. Had seen it countless times throughout Europe.

  He turned to the officer. “My friend’s in there?”

  The man nodded.

  “And Kölbe?” Bart asked.

  The officer blanched at the name but nodded again.

  “Anyone else?”

  This earned him a shrug, after which the man jabbed the gun into his ribs. “Inside.”

  “Ouch,” Bart said, then drove an elbow into the Captain’s chin, snapping his head back. He snatched the gun away and brought it down hard on the man’s temple, knocking him to the ground, where he lay, unmoving, on the rain-slicked cobblestones. Bart removed the man’s shoes, used the laces to bind the officer’s hands behind his back. Next, he gagged the man with his own socks. Finally, he broke down the gun and threw the parts onto nearby rooftops.

  He checked both ends of the street and didn’t see anyone, but he did spot an alleyway. Grabbing the officer by the arms, he dragged him until they were deep in the gloom of the passage. He tossed a few scraps of garbage over the man, then made his way back to the mouth of the alleyway.

  The street was still empty. He could hear voices, but they were off in the distance. And the sounds of battle were growing louder. Maybe the 761st was making progress. That brought a brief smile to his face. But now he needed to get Al, finish the mission, and get out.

  Easing his way out of the alley, he hurried over to the church and slipped through the doors into the narthex. Here he expected to meet some resistance, but the small room was empty. There was another set of closed doors directly across from him, which he assumed led into the nave. He noticed that the stoups, the tiny basins set on either side of the entrance, which would normally contain holy water, were dry. Except the one on the left—it had a smear of crimson across the rough stone rim, as if someone had tried to dip bloody fingers into it.

  Al was left-handed.

  Bart stepped across to the closed doors. He couldn’t hear any activity on the other side—no murmur of voices, no one milling about. Nothing. His gut tightened. He wanted more time to assess the situation, to know better what he was walking into, but he had been told Al was behind these doors. With Kölbe. Grasping the handle, fully expecting to walk into a platoon of German soldiers with their guns trained at him, he opened the door.

  There were no soldiers. In fact, the pews had been removed and replaced with long tables, upon which sat stacks of paper, communication equipment, and several coffee cups, but no one manned the posts. Off to one side, a large map of France pinned to a corkboard showed the placement of the German forces, along with the supposed Allied locations.

  But at the altar, where the crucifix would normally hang, there was an oversized portrait of Hitler, the frame draped with a German flag. And just below that—

  Bart gasped. Oh dear Jesus, no!

  The missing crucifix…it now stood before the altar, upside down, its upper end shoved into a broad metal stand, its base sharpened to a crude point. And Al Richmond, his friend and aide-de-camp, the man whose smile could put anyone at ease—Al had been impaled on the crucifix, his mouth stretched open by the pointed end of wood jutting up from his throat.

  Although Al’s eyes were open, bulging from their sockets and bloodshot from the unbelievable pressures generated by the shaft of wood going through his body, his friend was obviously, mercifully, dead.

  A man stepped out from one of the chancel rooms next to the altar. Dressed in a black Gestapo uniform, the man had short brown hair and a hint of beard. He was smiling, though his eyes shone with hatred.

  “Do you like my new sculpture?” Kölbe asked, his words heavy with a German accent. Gesturing to the grotesque display beside him, he said, “I’m thinking of calling it ‘Ode to Futility.’ No, wait. Maybe something shockingly simple, like ‘Dead Negro.’ Which one do you favor, Bartholomew?”

  Bart ignored the man’s taunts. The muscles of his jaw worked as he fought the urge to kill Kölbe where he stood. But he knew this wasn’t over yet: Kölbe wouldn’t risk facing him alone. There was a threat here he hadn't seen yet. And he knew who that threat would likely be.

  “He was a good man,” said Bart evenly. “Nothing you can say or do will change that.”

  Kölbe’s grin faded. “I create an amazing piece of work, and you can’t even say something nice about it?”

  “A three-year-old with pencil and paper would be more artistic. You’re just crazy.”

  “This is brilliant.” Kölbe pointed a finger at Bart’s dead friend. “Stakes and saints! Don’t you get it?”

  “The symbolism isn’t lost on me,” Bart replied and began walking up the nave toward Kölbe. He could now hear something, a faint hiss, but he couldn’t make out where it was coming from. “It’s crude. And cruel. And, truthfully, not very accurate.”

  Kölbe’s pale cheeks flamed with anger. “Wait until the world sees what I do with your body, old man.” His eyes flicked to a spot above Bart’s head. “I will be heralded as the greatest artist who ever lived.”

  Bart stopped and spun around. There was a balcony! That was where she was hiding! Quickly, he searched the shadows above him, looking for a shape, some movement, but he could see nothing.

  There was no one up there.

  Turning to face Kölbe, he said, “I think you have a problem.”

  Kölbe blinked, then frowned. “That’s not right.” He glanced fearfully at Bart. “What did you—?”

  “He didn’t do anything,” said a new voice. It sounded thin, tinny, as if the words were spoken from a distance. “I simply decided to leave.”

  Kölbe’s eyes darted to a piece of equipment on a table in front of him. It took Bart a moment to recognize it as a short-wave radio.

  “Hello, my dear Bartholomew,” the woman continued. Bart recognized the voice. He hadn't heard her in a long time. “I expect Kölbe finally understands the danger he is in.”

  Bart saw that she was right. Kölbe gaped at the radio. The man was trembling, his eyes wide with fear.

  “No, this isn’t right! You promised! You said I would get to help you kill him!”

  “You’ve lost your touch, Kölbe,” her disembodied voice said through the hissing static of the radio. “I fi
nd myself having to fix more and more of your mistakes. I don’t have time for that.”

  “But—but you—” Kölbe backed away from Bart. “I still have work to do!”

  “I have to go now,” she said. “He’s all yours, Bartholomew. Do with him as you wish.”

  “No—wait!” Kölbe yelled, but he was too late. The static hiss was gone. And so was she.

  Bart advanced on Kölbe.

  “You can’t do this!” Kölbe pleaded. “I know who you are! I know what you are! You’re not allowed to kill!”

  “I prefer not to,” Bart said as he came up next to Kölbe. The other man had backed himself up against the altar. He had no room to maneuver. “But in some cases, it’s unavoidable.”

  As Bart reached up and grasped his head, Kölbe flinched. “Won’t you at least grant me absolution?”

  “I think not,” Bart said, then snapped Kölbe’s neck quickly, cleanly. The man’s lifeless body fell to the floor. “You will have to answer for what you have done. May God have mercy on your soul.”

  He paused. “And mine.”

  It was a bitter victory, one that left the taste of ashes in his mouth. He had been outmaneuvered, had acted as an assassin on her behalf. In the end, all she’d lost was her acolyte.

  He had lost so much more.

  His eyes strayed to the map of France. Maybe there was a way to end this on a positive note. He knew Divisional HQ would love to have the information on that map.

  And then there was the communication equipment. A false order sent out to the Germans that the Allies were also attacking from the other end of the city, and the Axis forces would be split. The 761st would stand a chance.

  Bart turned to the body of his friend. He wanted to say goodbye to Al Richmond, but the words escaped him. So he bowed his head, said a quick prayer—and noticed something lying under the altar.

  Reaching down, he grabbed it.

  It was Dexter Grant’s kit bag.

  Bartholomew Owens slung it over his shoulder, and set about changing the tide of a war.

  Chapter 32

  Roughly thirty minutes into the woods, Webber called for a brief rest.

  Evening was gathering. In the growing twilight the forest began to lose its definition. The towering pines marshaling in the distance became indistinct, their trunks dissolving into a dark, impenetrable wall surrounding them. Ordinary scrub bushes turned ugly and misshapen and threatening. There was no wind racing through the branches above them, no sounds of animals roaming the woods under the safety of the encroaching night. It was as if the forest had ceased to exist beyond what they could see.

  Jack shifted Kevin in his arms. Despite the chase and the trek through the woods, his son had fallen fast asleep. “What do we do about Denny?”

  “You heard the gunshots,” Webber replied. “Idiot probably got himself killed. I just hope he took out the other guy first.”

  “So it’s you, me, and Kevin.”

  “Isn’t that the way it should be?”

  Jack nodded. “Who is this person we’re meeting? The one you were talking to on the phone?”

  Webber grinned. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Still keeping secrets?”

  “Everybody’s got ‘em,” Webber said. “Now, you ready to press on?”

  Jack nodded. “I feel like I could keep going all night.”

  Webber gave him a knowing look. “Not bad for an out-of-shape banker, huh?”

  “What can I say? I feel great. Better than I’ve felt in my life.”

  “What about that cold you had?”

  “Gone,” Jack said. “Like it was never there. Why?”

  “You’re on your way to a better life, Jack,” Webber said, clapping a hand on his back. “Let’s head out. We still have a long walk ahead of us.” Then he began trudging through the snow.

  Jack’s mouth twisted into an irritated frown as he fell in behind Webber.

  As they plunged deeper into the forest, the trees grew taller, their boughs broader, and the choking groundcover grew scarcer. Travel became easier, and they were able to put some precious distance between them and anyone who might be following.

  By the time Jack stumbled into the small clearing, he was drenched in sweat.

  It was almost fully dark. A bright wedge of moon barely crested the treetops, bathing the glade in a thin, sterile light. Jack could make out a steeply rising hill at the other end, the front concealed by shadows. He couldn’t see any footsteps on the snow-covered ground.

  “Good,” Webber said. “Doesn’t look like anyone’s found this place. Come on, Jack.”

  They were halfway across the clearing when Webber stopped and turned to him. “See that wide crack in the hill? It goes back about ten feet into a small cave. I have some lanterns stored in there. You and Kevin go on. I’m going to stay out here and see if I can’t keep anyone from following us.”

  Jack eyed the opening. “Is it safe in there? I don’t want Kevin getting hurt.”

  “You may not like the view,” Webber said, “but there’s nothing in there that can hurt you.”

  “Where’s your friend?”

  Webber’s eyes lost their focus. Then, abruptly, his focus returned and he glared at Kevin.

  “I don’t think…I can’t—” Webber made helpless, agitated gestures with his hands. “Oh, just get in the damn cave,” he finished, shoving Jack in the direction of the opening. “Shout if there’s a problem.”

  Jack stumbled forward a few steps, then spun around, ready to confront Webber. But Kevin stirred and pulled the jacket more snugly around his small body. Swallowing his anger, Jack decided it was best to get his son out of the cold night air. He turned and started for the cave.

  The entrance was an uneven break in the surface of the hill, more like a gaping wound than a natural occurrence, as if something big had torn a hole into the ground. Maybe a huge tree had toppled; the weight of the trunk would have ripped the large knot of roots out of the ground, along with an unbelievable amount of earth. Decades of weather could have washed away the dirt and rotted the tree down to dust, leaving behind nothing but the cave.

  Jack shrugged. Whatever its origin, it offered shelter from the elements. Pulling Kevin tighter against his chest, he bent slightly and side-stepped his way into the opening.

  Darkness engulfed them as they disappeared into the cave.

  * * *

  Nighttime had settled in. The sky above them was a deep black span dusted with stars. The moon, only three days past full, provided enough light to penetrate the darkness of the northern Michigan trees, limning them in a ghostly glow. As they followed Webber’s trail, Izzy noticed that the forest was quiet—the only sounds she heard were their own crisp footfalls in the snow.

  Bart Owens had taken the lead, as he’d evidently had some experience with tracking in his long past. Both Maglites were on, their bright beams cutting through the night, allowing them to see the trail.

  Owens raised his hand and Izzy stopped. Katie and Gene, who had been following behind her, also halted. The old man stood still, his head cocked, as if he were listening for something. He remained that way for several seconds. Then he turned to regard her and the others.

  “This is too easy,” he said. “Darryl didn’t even try to hide his tracks.”

  Izzy ran her light over the footprints. “Maybe he was hoping the snow would do the job for him.”

  “Possibly,” Owens said. “But that leaves too much to chance.”

  “What choice did he have?” said Gene. “Unless he can fly, tracks were inevitable.”

  “I know. But my concern is that he didn’t even try. Like he wasn’t concerned with being followed.”

  “Speaking of pursuit” Izzy said with a glance behind her. “We need to push on. No telling when de la Rosa will start chasing us.” She turned back to Owens. “So if he’s not worried about being followed, either he plans to be away from this area quickly, or he has a way to stop anyone who might get p
ast Denny.”

  “Or both,” added Katie quietly.

  Owens nodded. “Or both.”

  Izzy thought about that for a moment. “We don’t have a choice either. We need to find Webber and hope we can handle whatever he throws at us. Since the path is obvious, I’ll take the lead.” She looked to Owens. “Stay near Katie and keep her safe.”

  “What’s your plan for when we catch up with him?” asked Gene.

  “My first priority is Kevin,” Izzy said. “After that, I’d like to take Webber and Jack alive—one of them knows where Natalie is. But if it does come down to us or them, we take them out.”

  “Take them out with what?” Gene said. He held out his hand, one finger pointed forward, his thumb aimed at the stars. “My finger’s out of bullets.”

  “Very funny,” said Izzy. “There should only be the two of them. Webber’s the dangerous one. Jack’s just an asshole with delusions of grandeur. I don’t think he even knows how to fire a gun. Owens and I will handle the situation.” She looked at Gene. “Remember, you’re a civilian. You shouldn’t even be here. But after what you’ve both been through”—her eyes darted over to Katie—“I feel we need to finish this together. Don’t make it harder for me by asking for a gun. That would make you dangerous and a target. You’ve already been shot once.” Then she smiled and nodded to Owens. “Who do you think you are? Him?”

  “Fine,” said Gene. “Maybe I’ll give them my best Chicago glare. It’s been known to frighten very old ladies and make small dogs wet themselves.” Then he screwed his face into a knot and brought up his hands to claw at the air.

  Izzy stifled a laugh. “Okay, we need to get moving.” She looked at Owens. “Is there anything else we need to know?”

  “Just one thing,” he said. “Don’t believe everything you see. Darryl is a magician of sorts. He can create…let’s call them hallucinations. They look very realistic and very frightening. I don’t know if he’ll try it, though. It would leave him physically weakened.”

  Gene lowered his hands, his expression having lost all its humor. “Well, that was certainly a mood-killer. I bet you’re a riot at parties, too.”