The Girl With 39 Graves

by Michael Beres

  Old men in nursing homes. Time to contact Pescatore. Vernal would have cell coverage. Guzzo got into the 350, belted up, and drove south instead of north. He wondered what it was like here in 1939. He knew the road he was on was blasted and cleared by CCC boys. Probably hotter than hell hauling rock in the sun. He imagined sitting in the shade of a boulder watching the slobs at work not knowing someday he’d come for them.

  The Mountain View Care Facility’s back lot was brightly lit.

  “Visitors are gone,” said Lazlo. “Only workers’ cars.”

  “We should not park here,” said Janos. “Although we have a head start coming back here, if the others turn back, they already know the van.”

  “Should I drop you?” asked Niki.

  “We should stay together and each know where the van is,” said Lazlo.

  Niki pulled out of the lot and started down a side street back the way they’d come. “I know a place.” She drove toward the bright lights of restaurants, then turned left. “A hospital sign, I saw it on the way in.”

  Previously Guzzo would be given the mark and there’d be time for planning. Those in charge becoming desperate. He’d need to be quick and brutal to set his family free and, if possible, cash in.

  While he sat in a Vernal barbecue restaurant booth among patrons swilling beer and pounding down meat, Pescatore called, using the newest encrypted phone.

  “Why are you calling?”

  “Your text about the nursing home. This is the loose end. You’re in the right place at the right time. Unfortunately, so are the Greek from Detroit and the Ukrainian from Chicago.”

  “How can I be certain they haven’t already—”

  “They were there earlier questioning resident Decken MaCade. Names of enrollees and staff from the 1939 Manila CCC roster didn’t have his name because he wasn’t there long enough. He was overlooked. You need to find out what MaCade knows.”

  “Then it’s not simply a matter of silencing?”

  “Only if you find the location of a so-called cache. Phone calls impersonating concerned relatives uncovered the nursing home rumor mill. An aide spoke with Decken MaCade’s roommate who overheard MaCade speaking with a local woman. A hidden cache story. Something hidden by CCC boys in 1939.”

  “Why didn’t I go for MaCade sooner instead of targeting relatives and researchers?”

  “He just surfaced!” Guzzo heard frustration in Pescatore’s voice.

  “You’ve trusted me until now. Please be brief and honest. I’m the one in public.”

  Pescatore continued more calmly. “It’s the location of information about what happened in 1939. Inquisitive Swiss banking officials are following a family money trail. A descendent, discovering the origin, wants to end it, but needs the information in the cache destroyed.”

  “So he—or she—is after funds stashed in Swiss banks?”

  “Yes, funds having funded a vendetta. What matters is to put it to rest.”

  “If what CCC boys hid in 1939—”

  “There’s nothing for us there! We’re being well paid to destroy what they left behind!”

  Guzzo continued. “Do you know the term, MacGuffin?”

  Pescatore did not answer.

  “What if it’s impossible to find and destroy this so-called cache?” asked Guzzo.

  “You’ll have to end it by getting rid of them all.”

  “All?”

  “Here are the names. First the locals—Decken MaCade, the old man at the Mountain View Care Center, Sherman Leahy, his roommate, Clancy Vargo, who runs the Lucerne Valley Marina. She was overheard speaking with MaCade. Niki Gianakos from Detroit, Lazlo Horvath from Chicago, and the two recently from Ukraine, Janos Nagy and Mariya Nemeth.”

  Guzzo did not tell Pescatore that, of the four, he assumed at least one or two had died in the motor home “accident.” He also didn’t mention the two in the Dodge Charger or the two in the Lincoln Navigator. At this point he’d hold back some cards.

  As Guzzo jotted down the information, the waitress came with her pad. She saw he was on the phone but did not leave until he covered his notepad and stared at her.

  “Tell me one more thing. Should I get receipts from the victims?”

  “Very funny. Best case scenario, get to the old men as soon as possible, get the location of the cache out of them, find and empty it, finish off the others, and bring the cache contents here.”

  “If I can’t find the others?”

  Pescatore shouted. “They’re after the same thing you’re after! You’ll run into them!” Then, in a calmer voice. “As I said, Guzzo, it will be over soon.”

  Very soon, because the Mountain View Care Center was only a few blocks away.

  Niki parked near the hospital emergency room portico. An ambulance beneath the portico, male EMT closing the back doors while female EMT got into the driver’s seat. Janos and Mariya knelt in back looking at where they were. The ambulance drove out, the automatic sliding door of the entrance opening then closing as the ambulance passed.

  “A good spot,” said Mariya. “I hope we need it only for parking.”

  “There’s always someone at the emergency room,” said Niki. “We’re down the street from the Mountain View Care Facility. Meet here if we get separated.”

  They followed signs through the hospital until they were at the front entrance. A young guard who’d been following stopped them.

  “May I ask who you visited?”

  “We were here to visit my father,” said Niki.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Nick Gianakos.”

  “Hang on a moment.”

  While the guard leaned over the desk giving the name to a receptionist, they left, went off the sidewalk outside the door, ran across a lawn, leaped over bushes, crossed the street, and paused, catching their breaths. Niki suggested they hold hands like couples on an evening stroll. Niki and Lazlo walked ahead, Janos and Mariya a few paces back.

  “I have a feeling about this,” said Mariya. “I remember speaking to Sonia before she and the Kiev Militia guard were murdered. This red hair I hid down in my shoe and things Doctor Marta told Sonia. A killer hired to erase what happened at the CCC camp. I have a key to a bank box in one shoe and the red hair in the other. What does it all mean?”

  “The answer will be at the fire tower,” said Janos.

  “I hope, after tonight, we can go there.”

  “What will we do when we get to the nursing home?” asked Lazlo.

  “Say we’re taking Decken for a walk. Come on, we should walk faster.”

  Lazlo held her hand more tightly. “Perhaps it’s time to call the police. They could put MaCade into protective custody.”

  “Would the police believe our story?”

  “We’d end up in jail,” said Janos.

  “I’ll call Jacobson,” said Lazlo. “If we give him a description of the pickup and tell him about the Russians in the motor home—”

  All four stopped abruptly. In the care facility parking lot, beneath bright lights where they’d decided not to park, was a battered black Ford 350 pickup with oversized tires, dual rear wheels, and a bull bar in front that was obviously bent backwards.

  Chapter 29

  Barracks Three, late night huddle around the potbelly.

  Contact the night guard? No, according to Decken night guard and officers were told to disappear.

  Sneak over to the motor pool and grab a truck? Crazy, since the night of the “accident” LEMs were told to remove truck keys.

  Run away like chickenshits? Nobody wanted to risk being kicked out. How’d that look when applying for jobs or enlisting in the Army?

  Hide out in the empty Barracks Five building? No, they’d helped board up that building and pulling nails makes racket.

  Hide in the woods overnight and
sneak back in the morning? Hell no, the hoods would probably get pissed enough to shoot someone next day at the job site.

  The more they considered options, the angrier they became. Why should they hide? So what if paid-off officers and LEMs were frightened. They’d joined the three Cs boys, now they were men!

  In the heat of discussion the 38 agreed to hold their ground. How about fixing the doors at both ends of the barracks? Tie rope to the handles, the other end up to the nearest rafter. Was there enough rope and would it hold? Cut the lights. Nick said he’d fix it so the lights wouldn’t go on. Stuff clothing beneath their blankets. In the dark it’d look like they were there but really weren’t. Climb into the rafters and wait it out. No one would see them with lights out. But hoods would have flashlights. Damn it, maybe they’d have to drop down on them. Sure, there were only two in the tan Buick. But what about the other Buick?

  They moved about the dark barracks, searching for broom handles, ball bats, stove irons—anything to defend themselves. They’d stay put. If a guy had to piss, he’d use the bucket near the door. There were a few things to use for weapons. What little rope they found wasn’t enough to tie off the doors.

  And so they climbed, helping one another up. Using the only barracks flashlight, Nick put on gloves and disconnected the hot wire at the first bulb in the rafter string and fixed it so he’d push down the wire to make the connection.

  The driver lit up another cigarette, used the match to check his watch before blowing it out. He grabbed the Remington double barrel leaning against the dash. “It’s three already. My pockets weigh 50 pounds with all the shells.”

  The passenger had his .38 in his lap and stuffed his jacket pockets with slugs. “For good measure I’m taking the Tommy gun.”

  “Seeing your Tommy and my shotgun should scare some crap out of’em.”

  “We scare the crap out of’em and if Al wants to plug someone, let him do it.”

  “What if Al rats us?”

  “We go to Mexico or Canada.”

  “Canada’s closer. When war starts and the Army’s recruiting, we come back over.”

  The passenger reached into the back for the Thompson submachine gun. “I hope it don’t come to that.”

  “Wait a minute. I see lights.”

  A camp truck drove along the barracks row, pulled between Barracks Three and the latrine, and the lights went out.

  “Now what?” said the driver.

  “Someone too lazy to walk to the can,” said the passenger. “We wait until he leaves.”

  After the engine rumbling outside Barracks Three quit, the only sounds were whispers and the squeak of rafter timber. Bela and Nick shared a rafter, facing one another at the light socket. Flipping the light switch would do nothing unless Nick made the connection by pushing the hot wire down with his gloved hand.

  The narrow back door, not the front, gave off a squeak. Bela could barely see a single man. The light switch was at the front door. The man whispered.

  “It’s Decken. Anybody awake?”

  “What should I do?” whispered Nick.

  “Turn them on,” whispered Bela.

  Decken shaded his eyes and looked up at the men in the rafters. “Holy hell.”

  “We’re waiting,” whispered Bela.

  “You sure they’re coming?”

  The men nodded.

  “Cut the light. I left a truck. It’s loaded with picks and shovels. Trouble is, there’s not much gas.”

  Nick lifted the wire, it sparked, and the lights went out.

  “Good luck,” whispered Decken. The door squeaked and he was gone.

  “The truck’s at the back door,” whispered George. “Same door I snuck out.”

  The Buick’s driver blew out another match and looked out the windshield. “It’s 3:30—Hey look, it’s Al with his Tommy and the others. Must’ve walked through the woods. If there’s shooting, we’re driving out of here.”

  There was no shooting. The lead man pulled the door open partway and squeezed through, followed by the other two. No lights went on. The only sounds were some thumps like a bunch of guys jumping around. Then it was silent.

  “I guess they already scared crap out of’em,” said the driver.

  “Let’s go,” said the passenger. “Scare more crap out of’em and drive the hell out of this place for good.”

  Both got out with their guns and walked to the barracks. The driver said, “It’s us, Al,” as he pulled the door open.

  When Nick sparked on the lights, two more came in, holding guns but dazed. The first three were on the floor, two holding their heads and moaning, one not moving.

  Bela held the Tommy gun he’d grabbed pointed at the new arrivals. “I know how to use!” he shouted. “I watched Nazi boys!”

  George Minkus held a .38. “My uncle’s a Chicago cop!”

  Jethro held a pump shotgun. “We use these in the hills!”

  Barracks Three men were spread out, holding other pistols gathered along with picks and shovels. The new arrivals stared wide-eyed, short guy with a Tommy, tall guy with a double barrel—the two who’d scared the crap out of Decken the day before. When quiet Paul Fontaine walked straight up to him with a cocked ’38, shotgun was first to acknowledge the odds, lowering his double barrel. Tommy gun held out until Bela aimed down and shouted.

  “Nazi boys shoot knees for fun!”

  Bela, Nick, and George gathered guns and had the goons kneel with hands behind their heads. Four knelt. The two St. Louis boys sat beside the fifth. Both were in tears, a pick with blood on its tip on the floor.

  “I didn’t mean to kill him.”

  “How could you know in the dark? How could he know?”

  Nick swung down from the rafters after permanently connecting the lights. He grabbed a stray shovel and glared at the hoods while speaking to the St. Louis barge boys. “We knew what might happen. We all did it.”

  “What’ll we do now?” asked Jimmy, holding his shovel like a baseball bat.

  “We ask what they’d do if they were in our position,” said George.

  Jimmy stepped closer. “Sal couldn’t handle being out-punched. You took Henry for a ride. Where is he?”

  “Must’ve had an accident,” said one of the men, smiling.

  The smile set things off, Barracks Three adrenaline exploding with overlapping shouts—drown them in the river, put them in their cars and shove them off a cliff, kill them on the spot, load them in the truck under a tarp and bury them next day on the road to Vernal.

  Smiling goon said, “You lugs’ll get yourselves to early graves.”

  Barracks Three men stared hard, at the same time re-gripping whatever they held—gun, shovel, or pickaxe.

  Should they bust bones? Hold them ‘til morning? Turn them over to the camp superintendent? No, they couldn’t trust the superintendent. One suggestion was to empty their pockets, send a couple guys with any keys they find and look for the other car. Maybe take them to their cars before reveille, put them inside unarmed, and make sure they drive away.

  “This is too good for them,” said Bela.

  “I don’t suppose any of them will admit to killing Henry,” said Jimmy.

  Two of the goons immediately nodded toward the dead guy. “He did it,” said one. The others nodded.

  “Don’t trust them,” said Nick.

  “I agree,” said George.

  “Be a shame if they ran away like wild horses and joined the Army,” said Paul Fontaine.

  “Be a shame if they came back to avenge their dead guy,” said Jethro. “We’d be forced to kill’em. I ain’t giving up this gun.”

  “How can we guarantee they don’t come back?” asked Bela.

  The goon the others called Al during the excitement was red-faced. “Make up your minds for Christ’s sake!”

&nb
sp; “All right,” said Bela. “One of you go to truck and get shears we use for thick branches. We’ll give each a reminder not to return by cutting off trigger fingers.”

  The goons seemed to shrink as if the barracks floorboards were giving way. Even Al, who’d sneered prior to this, looked worried.

  “How will we know if they shoot with their right or left hand?” asked Nick. “Oh yeah, we cut off all the trigger fingers. Yeah.”

  “It’s our only choice,” said Bela. “All in agreement, raise your hand.”

  Because of planning done in the dark around the potbelly before the men arrived, and now knowing Henry had been murdered, the 38 Barracks Three men raised their hands, even the St. Louis barge boy still sitting on the floor beside the dead man.

  The kneeling goons with their hands behind their heads looked back and forth to one another.

  A man went out for the shears. They were long-handled with thick crosscut blades. He put the shears on the floor in front of the kneeling men. Several began arguing about who’d do the cutting. The argument grew, men not arguing who’d have to do it, but who’d get to do it. Bela turned away from the goons and glanced toward Nick. All was going as planned.

  Henry going AWOL after his successful grudge match with Sal was nuts. Then there was the staff’s sad sack reaction to Sal’s “accident.” No matter how anyone acted when they went down into the gully to lift the GMC and drop it on Sal, no matter if some had reservations, they’d all agreed. Each of them keeping hair belonging to Rose Buckles—hair Sal brought into the barracks—was their blood oath. They’d become men doing what needed to be done.

  Still, Bela knew it was he who’d talked the others into it. Nothing could convince him otherwise. He was as guilty for this as he was for escaping his homeland and leaving others behind. Not long after arriving in the US, he found out, by way of a letter from his mother, that the Nazis had taken his girlfriend, Nina Zolotarev.

  Bela turned back to the goons kneeling on the floor, feeling anger boiling inside. He stared at each in turn. “Then it is agreed, we draw straws for each finger.”