Deal with the Devil

by J. Gunnar Grey

  Tanyon’s eyes narrowed and cut sideways to Jennifer. “So he’s got a prearranged list of victims.”

  “And even if I don’t escape, the next time there’s an air raid, or a reported attack, or he doesn’t meet Sergeant Tanyon’s standards in a training exercise and gets yelled at—” He turned the photos around. It was a wonderful shot of Jennifer, and both Harriet and Grace were pretty, too. “Who knows what will set him off next.”

  Bruckmann rubbed his eyes again. “So we’re supposed to flush this bugger out? Don’t suppose he says how?”

  “No, he doesn’t—”

  “—but it’s obvious, isn’t it?” Jennifer finished for him.

  She showed not a trace of fear, only the remains of her smoldering anger and a fighting challenge. His body responded; good thing he was sitting down. Not even Donne’s Elegy 19 affected him so strongly. License my roving hands, and let them go before, behind, between, above, below—

  —but he shouldn’t have thought of that. “If we call everyone in the area and warn them to be on the alert, and I do mean everyone—”

  Bruckmann sat up straight. He started to speak, shaking his head, as if their joint idea had just occurred to him and he didn’t like a word of it.

  Her chin lifted and she spoke through his stuttering start. “—and if I’m in Woodrow alone—”

  “—and if I’m watching through the window,” Faust said, “we can flush the killer out and catch him.”

  Tanyon finally uncrossed his arms, tossing the cell a cynical glance. He cleared his throat.

  “Oh, yeah,” Faust said, “there’s that part, too. How about if I give my parole and promise not to attempt escape before, say, dawn tomorrow?”

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  late evening

  Margeaux Hall

  Tanyon escorted him to the lavatory. Most of the squad were off-duty, and the frantic strains of Louis Armstrong’s Tiger Rag drifted up the open stairwells to meet them in the blacked-out corridor. Faust fumbled through the inky shadows, those boots clumping behind him.

  “I still think this is a lousy idea.” Even without a visible body, the deadpan voice illustrated Tanyon’s poker face.

  “I wish I had a better one to suggest.” His heart pounded in his chest as if it intended to escape and leave the rest of him behind with the English who’d driven him crazy. That part of him, at least, didn’t like the plan either.

  The sergeant grunted. “Carmichael will stay on the radio, Sloane on the front gate. As soon as the suspects are out hunting for you, I’ll put Glover to guarding the residential wing, the Alcocks and Wainwrights and Honoria, and prevent the killer from doubling back.”

  They’d already discussed this a thousand times, of course. But the sergeant sorted through it again, as if looking for the flaw. Which implied something seemed wrong to him but he wasn’t certain what. Faust shook off the thought even though his pulse accelerated. They wouldn’t let anything go south.

  “Then Lieutenant Bruckmann and I will drive out in the lorry and watch from a distance. As soon as you or Miss Stoner yell, we’ll come running.”

  They paused outside the lavatory. Faust pawed about in the dark, located the knob, pushed the door open, paused. Their location and situation echoed the previous night’s events, only without the rain thundering overhead.

  Tanyon seemed to notice it, too. His clumsy boots shifted in the dark. “And bugger you if you’re double-crossing me.”

  It was too much to resist.

  Faust let go the knob, twisted, and slammed a left across his body into the pale blob of the sergeant’s face. It connected, but not solidly. Tanyon grunted, hit the wall, ricocheted, came back. Faust didn’t need to see him to know the sergeant was steaming and swinging. He ducked into the lavatory, closed the door, braced it and laughed as the fist crunched into it rather than him. On the door’s far side, the swearing began. Hey, his escape had to look realistic if they were to fool the killer.

  But he left the door unbolted; no sense forcing them to repair it again. As he crossed the room, he wriggled from the sling and tucked it into his pocket. Even if he earned Dr. Harris’ never-ending ire, he needed both hands for the job before him. He just wouldn’t spend too much time contemplating possible results. Besides, she was worth it, worth fighting for.

  This time, when he jumped from the window, he aimed away from the rose bushes. He didn’t need to learn that lesson twice, not even for realism’s sake.

  Chapter Eighty

  late evening

  Woodrow

  Two lines of light peered from the farmhouse’s upper windows, one on each side of an outer corner. Faust picked the window on the left. It commanded a sweeping view of the farmyard, its kitchen garden and orchard. The hillside beyond climbed to Margeaux Hall, where discreet flashes of light from the vestibule already showed as the hunt for him, and the killer, got under way.

  He climbed the appropriate apple tree and straddled a curving sturdy bough. It sagged beneath his weight, scraping and settling atop the honey-tinted bricks framing the casement window, which opened into a trim, tidy corner bedroom. A single bed stretched along the interior wall with a small nightstand at its head, and a beautiful carved wardrobe and rolltop desk clustered near the two windows. An ornate oil lantern cast a dim glow across the walls from its hook above the opened desk. Tasteful, classical, and evocative of its owner — but the room was empty.

  Green apples from the branch above wavered uncomfortably near his head, and soft oblong leaves tickled his ears. It smelled intoxicating, like fresh cider, like his first morning as a captive and the apple-wood fire Stoner had lit for him, just before Jennifer erupted through the front door and crashed through the last of his resistance.

  The more time he spent in her presence, the less certain he became. Okay, she was aggravating, ferocious, tender, brave, tough, and logical, and if he paused long enough to think in depth, he could probably add to the list ad nauseam. But while he knew for a fact she plain and pleasant, no more, sometimes when he saw her, she transformed magically into the most beautiful girl in the world even though she wasn’t. He couldn’t blame it entirely on lust, although he had to admit a goodly dollop thereof colored his thoughts. Nor was it just some sophomoric extension of long-ago poetry classes. Something clouded his judgment of her in a way he’d never experienced with any other woman before. And not only did he not know what to do about it, he wasn’t certain he wanted this particular problem solved, a mystery as piquant as the woman who inspired it.

  She entered the bedroom, soundless as ever, and in the gentle glow of the lamplight her spell was cast. In its grip he floundered, helpless, and he reveled in it as she glided across the room to the window and peered through the parted blackout curtains, starting when their gazes meshed. Then she smiled, unlocked the window, and turned the casement handle to open it a few inches.

  “Major Faust.”

  He’d never tire of hearing her say his name. “Miss Stoner.”

  She smiled. “I’m sorry, but—” She stopped, her perceptive gaze searching his face. “Is there something else I may call you? That sounds so distant and formal.”

  Surely enough oxygen existed in the farmyard that she couldn’t suck all of it from his lungs. But he found he needed several deep breaths before he could answer her. “The Oxford tradition is the unadorned last name.”

  Her smile deepened. “But your surname carries overtones that we’re ignoring right now.”

  He couldn’t look away and her breathless spell tugged him further under water. No one ever called him anything else, or even seemed to understand those overtones of devilish deals. But Cupid’s adept cut through his pitiful attempts at magic and enchanted him with ease.

  “Your Christian name, Hans. It translates to John, doesn’t it?”

  Perhaps she’d been caught in her own spell. But Ritzi had never looked at him with such trusting warmth, no matter what he did with her body, and the thought sucked the last of t
he oxygen from his lungs. Was this how a mother looked at her son, a wife her husband, a sister her brother? If only he knew. “Hans-Joachim. It translates to John-Jacob.”

  “John-Jacob.” She said it slowly, as if savoring something special and delectable. “I like it.” Her chin tilted. No use bracing; he’d been vanquished days ago. “I’m Jennifer.”

  The first time he’d heard her name, he’d considered it tame, unpoetical, like something from a backwater English village lane. Now he knew backwater English village lanes could be among the most titillating and unnerving spots on the planet. Besides, even if he did like sonnets best, who said poetry always had to rhyme?

  Earlier in the guardroom, they’d turned one relational corner, talking through the implications of the murder investigation and learning to solve problems together. He had a feeling they’d just turned another, possibly an even more important one.

  “Jennifer.” He wanted to straddle that branch all night and worship her through the cracked-open casement window. But implications remained within their murder investigation, and with the thought her spell shattered. Cripes, he sat there mooning while a murderer stalked the night. “Jennifer, where’s the shotgun?”

  She gasped, eyes widening in her plain face. “Oh, good grief. It’s downstairs. I’ll be right back.” Without a sound, she ran from the room.

  Okay, so maybe he was in love for the first time in his life. Perhaps that was all the excuse he needed for being hare-brained. But it didn’t explain why such a practical, capable, collected woman forgot something so drastically important.

  A crash sounded within the farmhouse. Faust quit breathing.

  “Jennifer?” He didn’t dare raise his voice. Maybe she’d just dropped something.

  His accelerating pulse didn’t believe a word of it.

  Chapter Eighty-One

  late evening

  Woodrow

  Pain radiated from the back of her head, pounded in her skull, and echoed within her bones. Jennifer tried to push herself upright. But the farmhouse floor moved beneath her, her arms refused to hold her weight, and she sagged back down. Something had moved behind her, barely a whisper of sound that hadn’t belonged, before her hand closed on the shotgun’s barrel. Then her head had exploded, someone sniggered, and her eyes next focused on the glimmer of moonlight splayed across the hardwood floor, just beyond her nose, although she couldn’t remember falling.

  Good. Their plan was working. It was just working in the wrong room, and Major Faust — no, John-Jacob, wasn’t there to rescue her. Besides, she hadn’t told him what she’d needed to tell him, and this could go horribly wrong if he didn’t figure it out.

  Strong rough hands gripped her from behind and hauled her up. She swayed, tried to reach for the shotgun on the dining table, but her hands didn’t want to obey her mind’s orders and her fingers refused to close. She squirmed and tried again, but her body was jerked back into something hard. Long arms snaked about her waist and breasts, pinioning her arms and upper body, and held her closer than any man had before.

  “Thought you were too good for me, didn’t you.” A sharp accent whispered in her ear, rougher and deeper than she remembered it. Fingers squeezed her left breast, pinched it, rubbed and scratched with sharp nails. It seemed as if he played with a rubber doll, not her body. “Harriet didn’t. She liked it. You will, too, you’ll see.” The arm about her waist dragged her even closer. Something hard and round pressed between her buttocks. “Know I will.”

  Fury exploded within her. Jennifer smashed backward with her right elbow, kicked back with both heels, fought to free her arms, opened her mouth to scream. But the hand released her breast and shoved a wad of cheap cloth into her mouth. She gagged, bit down, connected with something soft and fleshy. The hand jerked back but the gag remained.

  “Blasted witch.” Something hard slammed into her temple and again pain flared. “Harriet was nice. Sally was, too. But you’re going to be like Grace, aren’t you.” Another blow, and the sitting room reeled. She sagged in his grip. “Well, that’s all right. She squirmed, but she just made it better for me.” The living cylinder rubbed her bum and throbbed. “Lots better.”

  She slammed back with her head — she’d find some way to take this murderer down, she’d butcher him and hang his carcass out for the crows — but somehow he ducked, blew in her ear, giggled. Again he pinched her breast, throbbed against her, and a note of panic whispered within her fury. He dragged her toward the stairs.

  “Keep fighting, slut. I like that, too.”

  The arm about her waist heaved her up two steps. She kicked again. But not too hard this time. Upstairs was the right room. Upstairs was John-Jacob. Smart and brave, he’d figure out the problem even if she hadn’t explained it. He’d hold the murderer and she’d kill him.

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  late evening

  Woodrow

  Strange scuffling noises drifted upstairs. Faust’s blood froze. He had to help her. He wriggled his left hand through the partly-opened casement window, twisted awkwardly sideways, grabbed the handle, and heaved. But it refused to turn. Shoving harder didn’t budge it. Then he saw the glass had wedged against the branch he straddled and it wasn’t going to open further. Stoner had mentioned it when he told the story of Jennifer cleaning her bedroom windows from the outside. He had to climb down and get to the other window, the one that would open.

  Footsteps and scuffling bumped up the stairs. A rough whisper, intoxicated with power, drifted ahead. “Do it again, slut. Just like Harriet, that was.”

  He tried to wriggle his arm from the casement. It wouldn’t budge, either. He was caught and pulling harder didn’t help. He turned, twisted, yanked. Cloth ripped. His tunic’s turn-back cuff had wrapped over the corner of the glass. He flicked it free, his arm slithered painfully out, and he slid back along the branch to the trunk.

  Two dark forms, spooned together as one, stumbled into the room. The glow of the lamp flickered over Jennifer’s furious, ferocious face, glinted off her bared teeth and gagged-open mouth, but left a shadow over the face of the tall, wiry man squeezing her. The arms pinioning her writhing body were encased in khaki wool sleeves, free of stripe or device. The hands were big and rough, and one of them wriggled atop her left breast—

  —which Faust already considered his own private property, although he had no right. A pounding began in his ears, dull and steady, like an echo of Jennifer’s rage—

  —beside the bed, the man whirled Jennifer about. The shadow lifted. Norris sniggered, his erection tenting the front of his pants. He tangled his left hand in Jennifer’s blouse, hauling her forward as if to kiss her—

  —and the pounding turned sharper, quicker, colder. Faust gathered his legs beneath him, rose on the branch, half-crouching, half-balancing, left arm wrapped about the branch above. Green apples bounced against his head. He had to climb down fast and jumping might be quickest, he wasn’t all that high—

  —Norris smashed his right fist into Jennifer’s face. Her limp body fell to the bed. Norris grabbed the strap of his Lee Enfield rifle, slung across his shoulders, then tugged it into his hands and raised it over her face.

  They were out of time. And Faust was out of temper. He released the branch overhead, ran three slithering crouching steps along the apple bough, jumped, curled over, wrapped his arms about his head, and crashed through the casement window.

  Frame and glass shattered, spraying the room in one impossible crawling second. Norris whirled, the Lee Enfield cradled in his hands, the giggling sneer sliding off his face and leaving raw terror. Jennifer pushed herself up, teeth still bared, one hand rising toward her mouth. Faust’s boot toe clunked against the window ledge. He fell forward, off balance, face-first into the flying glass shards. He tried to untangle himself. But he stumbled, Norris swung the rifle at his head, and Faust knew he was going down.

  “Run!” he yelled.

  The wooden stock smashed across the right side of his face. A white
flare erupted behind his eyes, obliterating the room about him. The angle of his fall changed. Faust grabbed for support. His hands slid across carved wood. The right one slammed metal, wrapped about a handle, tightened, stopped his fall and ripped the stitches from the back of his arm. Agony seared his right side.

  Footsteps scrambled. Someone grunted. It could be her. She needed him. Faust forced his eyes open and fought through the pain. Norris swung the rifle again, the wooden stock growing larger as it came closer. Behind him, Jennifer slid from the bed to her feet. But instead of running, she grabbed a laundry basket beside the door, swung it about, slapped it over Norris’ head, and yanked. His body bent backwards. The rifle skimmed inches before Faust’s face and slammed into the corner of the wardrobe.

  Man, what a woman. Faust scrabbled, boots skidding among the crunching shards. But Norris ducked, hissing between his teeth. The basket slid off his head. He hefted the rifle. Jennifer froze, holding the wicker before her like a shield. Her gaze crossed Faust’s, meshed, held.

  “Get help.” He ignored the slicing pain in his arm and pushed himself off the wardrobe, stumbling toward Norris. At least they had him between them. “For Pete’s sake, run!”

  She dropped the basket, whirled, and vanished through the doorway without a sound.

  Norris let her go. He turned and tried to raise the rifle, finger feeling for the trigger. But Faust ducked aside and charged. His body seemed to move at half-speed. Without warning, Norris doubled the rifle about and swung it, a hard fast blow that whipped across Faust’s jaw and sent him spinning. His knees hit the floor, smaller pains slicing into his shins. His shoulder thumped into the bedsprings and his body sagged beside the mattress, refusing to heed his demands for action. He needed cover. Cripes, he needed a weapon. But nothing was close and he didn’t need to look to know Norris would strike again. Faust wrapped his arms about his head and curled into a ball.