by Rae Richen
“But,” Glyn said, “I also met one of Big Belly’s helpers. That second guy tried to pick up three young kids that had been at the skate park.”
“They got away from him?”
“Not exactly. They got wise to what he was doing, and the bus driver got him off the bus.”
“The bus driver, would he also recognize this guy?”
“She might.”
“Okay. Now describe that one.”
“Blue driver’s uniform.”
Grandma Willie turned her teacher frown at him, but Glyn kept going. “Arm on her like the handle of an axe. Face like putty left out in the sun.”
“You know who I meant.”
“Oh, Pick-Up Guy – pretty common looking. Medium height. Brown hair that’s straight and not exactly clean. Wears old levis, converse shoes and t-shirts. The only thing she might remember is that he has one squinty eye – can’t open it all the way. Knifed, maybe.”
“So, the bus driver on the MLK bus going ...?”
“Going north at 7:30 p.m.. You got a friend in the force who might check around for the two guys?”
“Seems far-fetched for finding Trace,” Grandma said, “but for the sake of other children, might as well give these two people the police hassle.”
“There are lots of folks selling drugs. As I ran through the theater parking lot across your own street, I saw a sale going down.”
Grandma sighed. “Still? That’s been prime selling real-estate since before your Grandpa died. We used to walk past sales, go to the nearest phone (we didn’t have these cell phone gadgets in those days) and report the activity.”
“Yeah? So, did the police swoop in and everyone scattered?”
“Yes. No arrests, just run a police car past them slowly. It only moved the sale temporarily.”
“I hope you watched from somewhere not too obvious.”
Grandma Willie just smiled at him, and said, “Go check on the kitchen. I suspect there’s a dish washer still working.”
As Glyn took the stairs down eight flights, he wondered how his grandma knew he was interested in the dish washer.
Chapter Eleven
Glyn arrived in the kitchen at 8:15p.m., almost time for Violeta to go home. She had stacked clean pans about as high as they could be stacked. When Glyn arrived, she handed him a towel and said, “Tonight we learn cooking terms.”
“Great. Before we start, could I ask you a couple more questions about your sister?”
She put down the dishrag. “Yes.”
“You told me about the bus, but is it possible she got off the bus early for some reason?”
“She wasn’t on it when it arrived in Newberg, so she had to have gotten off. Maybe she thought she’d arrived when it stopped in a different town, but Papá has gone to the bus stations of the towns along the way, and they have no record of her in those towns.”
“Who does he ask? I mean he doesn’t talk to policemen or sheriffs, so ...”
“He asks other people like us, you know, people from South America, Central America.”
“So, nada?”
“Nada. Have you been looking for her?”
“Yes,” Glyn said, “but what is puzzling is that she speaks English and would know when she arrived in the right town, so...”
“Where were you looking?”
“I told you about my friend – also missing.”
“Trace.”
“I’m hoping the drug people didn’t get him and he’s just hiding, so I went to the Burnside Bridge Skate Park.”
“Rosaria doesn’t skate.”
“Well, my search tonight was a bust for Trace as well, but I did meet a couple of fellows who had seen someone like Trace weeks ago, and the fellows who sell drugs down that way. Mean and scary. One of them hopped a city bus and tried to hook up with kids too young to know what a sleaze he was. It occurred to me that somebody on Rosaria’s bus might have forced her off.”
Violeta’s eyes filled with tears. “Papá’s contacts wouldn’t have even seen her, then.”
Glyn stepped closer to her. “We gotta hope that’s not what happened, but if it did happen, who would know where they might take her?”
“One of the ladies here is also helping me. She asked about Rosaria’s friend who offered her a ride to school with her boyfriend. I am to find that address, but I haven’t had a chance yet.”
“Was that what we were going to do tomorrow morning?”
“Yes.”
“Is it far from here?”
“No, but I don’t go there alone after dark.”
“Leave the rest of the pans. I’ll wash and dry them later. Let’s walk there and be back in time for your dad.”
Twenty minutes later, they had an address for a house on Multnomah Street, just east of Holly Hill Retirement.
As they walked back to meet Mr. Aguirre, Glyn asked. “Who’s this other person who’s helping you?”
“Mrs. Willie,” Violeta said. “Eighth floor. Uses a walker. Very nice.”
Glyn laughed, “Grandma Willie. I should have known.”
“La abuelita de usted?”
“Si. Mi abuelita and slave driver.”
“How so? Slave driver.”
“She’s the one insisted I get a job here to pay off my debt to the state of Oregon.”
“I thank her for slave driving, then.”
“Me, too. Here’s your papá.”
**
After he put away the pan pile, Glyn ran up the stairs toward Grandma’s floor. On the way up, he met Leah Müller running down.
“Two times a day?” he asked.
She passed him, saying, “Three times. Six a.m., two p.m. and ten p.m..”
“Why?”
Leah turned the corner to take the next flight of steps. “Long life.”
He watched her turn down two more flights and thought, Long life to you. Don’t break anything.
Entering Grandma’s apartment, he expected to tip-toe to his ‘library’ room, but Grandma sat on her sofa, phone at her ear. She signaled him to sit.
She also pointed at a note. It said, Got a new lock for my door?”
He wrote, Not yet. Hoped to, but got hung up hunting for Trace.
She scribbled while listening. Any luck?
Not much. Tell you when off phone.
As he emptied books off the second-best chair, she talked into the phone. “A woman driver, described as having a strong arm and a melting putty face.”
Glyn raised his eyebrows at her. She shook her head, and talked to the phone person.
“Yes, very nice metaphor, and probably accurate, given the source. Unfortunately, the same source could only describe the leader of the ring and not such a great description of the bus rider who tried to pick up the kids.”
She listened, then said, “White with brown hair, old jeans, t-shirts, converse shoes.”
She cocked her head at Glyn. He wrote on her note pad “Squinty right eye, maybe knifed.
She nodded and added that description to the other person. She spoke into the phone. “Okay, that helps.”
After a silence, she said. “I appreciate you working on this. That kind needs to be plagued and harassed, but young kids need to know more about their type, as well.”
Silence.
“Well, as you know, facts are not always the whole truth. Some of truth is emotion. Fear at a park breeds less community and more reason for fear.”
Silence.
“Thank you. I hope we can find both children.”
When she had hung up, Glyn asked, “Who?”
“A past writing student now a police captain.”
“Think he’ll search the data base for Small Pants and his Pick-up Guy?”
She nodded. “Yep. A clear-sighted member of the force who writes colorful letters to the editor under a pen name.”
“May I ask ...”
“No.”
“Okay,” he said, and handed her a Post-it Note. “I have an addre
ss for you from Violeta. She describes you as very nice.”
“Pushy is more what I am. This is Liza’s address?”
“Yes.”
She studied it. “It turns out that no Liza Cramer ever arrived at George Fox campus either.”
Glyn felt his neck cool. “Geez. That’s not good. How’d you find out?”
“I know how high school placement counselors talk, so I called the college to see how Liza was succeeding.”
He stood up and paced. “Do you recommend lying as a tool?”
“Acting. I act like someone; they make the assumptions. Tomorrow, I will try to talk to her parents. The police already have her as a missing person, and are looking for the boyfriend.”
“Got a description of him? And a name?
“White. Blond curly hair. Six feet one or so. Runner, or at least she met him at a track meet.”
Glyn checked his reflection in the nearby window. “White. Blond curly hair. Six-one, but Not named Glyn Jones?”
“No, but you’d best not be seen near that house, because all you curly blonds look alike. His name is Chuck, and that’s all they know.”
“Chuck. I’ll ask around the track team.”
“Older. Probably an alum, if he finished school.”
“Maybe Arwain would remember such a guy.”
“Call your sister and check.”
Glyn nodded. “She’s around town a lot, takes busses and the MAX train to college.”
“So, give her the descriptions. And next time you see the fat guy and his buddy, take photos.”
“That’ll go over with the perps. Nice request. Please stand still against that wall.”
“You know how to photo with stealth.”
“Grandma, I’m getting the idea that you use stealth a lot.”
“Blowing my grandma image, am I?”
“Big time.”
She chuckled. “When I do it, it’s called ‘strategic action’, and it is done to benefit others.”
He looked at her, a big question in his raised eyebrows.
“So, that’s your fifty-minute lecture on ethics in sleuthing.”
“Got it.” He hauled out his phone and dialed Arwain’s number.
She answered. “Bubba?”
“Sista, I got something I need you to watch out for.”
“This about the reason Mom’s now buying a truck?”
“Yep.”
“Whatcha got?”
Grandma waved goodnight and went into her room.
Ten minutes later, Arwain had been brought up to date. “I remember Liza Cramer,” she said. “Pretty. Did the eight-hundred meters. Lots of stamina. But I don’t think I knew a Rosaria Aguirre.”
Glyn said, “Violeta, her sister, speaks great English, and Rosaria was a DACA student, headed for George Fox College, so probably a good student, too.”
Arwain didn’t remember a tall blond Chuck on the track team or from any of the meets she’d been to. “I’m into Skype mode tomorrow with Phip” she said. Their big brother, John Philip, AKA Phip, had become a Marine and had been in Iraq for ten months, so they tried to keep up with his life. He preferred joking and talking about old memories, but there were times when they got hints that stuff around him turned scary.
Since Phip had been an astounding runner, a track and soccer star, it was possible he’d know more members from other teams. Arwain’s reputation was in the javelin and the long slow races that required persistence. Phip was All-State speed.
After Arwain hung up, Glyn flopped into bed, where he dreamed about Trace and Violeta being chased by cougars. He kept trying to distract, but the cougars focused on their prey.
Chapter Twelve
The next morning, Glyn awoke to the sound of Grandma Willie in the hall talking to Geneva. It didn’t sound friendly.
He hopped into his levis and pulled his t-shirt over his head. He barely had his shoes on and seemed to be moving books into a new bookcase in Grandma’s living room when Geneva swung open the door.
“I knew you had that kid in here.”
“Hello, Mrs. Oppenheim,” he said. “How do you like Mrs. Stamps’s new bookcase?”
She barged in, leaving Grandma in the hall, watching.
She shook her long fingers in his face. “Rolly Goforth hired you, didn’t he? Wants to spy on me.”
Glyn stayed on the floor near the stack of books so she wouldn’t feel more threatened. He said, “I thought you were Mrs. Stamps’s good friend.”
“So,” she claims. But I know she was the cook. Willamena, the cook at Mittle-Bau Dora. And that Goforth man ...”
“So, how old do you think Willamena the cook was when you were four or five years old?”
She stared at him. “She’s of the super race.”
That surprised him. Had she really bought into that portrayal of the Germans?
“I don’t think even super races stop aging and then dying. So, was she maybe thirty back then in 1945?”
Mrs. Oppenheim leaned down and said, “You’re trying to fool me. They passed on their genes and their ideas. I know them. They are at it again.”
“What are they doing?” Glyn asked.
“Keeping children for the train to Peenemünde.
“Can I get to the train and release them?”
“Never. They are locked in the building and hurried out to the train. No one can get close to them.”
“What could Mr. Goforth have to do with the train?” Glyn asked.
“He pretends not to be a Nazi, but I have him identified. He might as well turn himself into the Wiesenthal Center and confess.”
“Wiesenthal Center? What’s that?”
“They are rounding up the last of the Nazi killers and sending them to trial.” She continued, but in a muttering tone. “They should send them all to Israel, but they don’t.”
“Nazis? Aren’t those guys all dead by now?”
“Not this so-called Goforth fellow and Müller, and this new Stapleton guy. He was a scientist at Peenemünde. Then he came here, worked for NASA and pretended he never believed in Hitler.”
“Stapleton?” Grandma said from the hall, “You mean the new choir director here at the center?”
“He’s from California,” Glyn said.
Mrs. Oppenheim snarled at him. “He’s German. I know it.”
Grandma seemed to be deep in thought. “But Stapleton has no accent.”
“He’s that scientist. I saw him for sure. People say I was only five, but you don’t forget evil people.”
“I’m sorry, Geneva,” Grandma said. “Can I help you search for the truth about these people?”
“You? You’re one of them.”
Glyn said, “Grandma was born in Levi, Texas. How could she have been a cook in Germany in 1944?”
Geneva waved his voice away and faced his grandma. “You told me yourself that Texas doesn’t have a copy of your birth certificate.”
“Sure, and we laughed together about how both our births were unrecorded.”
“Likely story – burned courthouse.”
Grandma seemed to sense it was time to change the subject. “Geneva, do you remember when you and I exchanged keys?”
Geneva glared at Grandma. “I never would have trusted you.”
“But I trusted you. Do you still have that extra key of mine?”
“I never took such a key. You are just trying to slur my character.”
“No. Your character is impeccable. Shall we go to breakfast together?”
Geneva turned to look down the hall. Glyn could hear the breakfast crowd gathering at the elevator.
“I will eat in my room. You, Wilhalmena, you have a choice to make.”
The elevator arrived, but none who waited for it got on.
Grandma said, “And that choice is . . .?”
“Will you continue to deny the truth of your past? Or will you help get those poor children off the train?”
“Can you tell me where the train is, so I
can help them?”
“Right next to the Reichsautobahn, between the autobahn and the river.”
“What town was that? And what river?”
Geneva began to get very loud. “This town. And the Rhein River, of course. I have told you over and over.”
“I understand,” Grandma said. “I will look into that.”
By now, Geneva shouted. “You lie. You have been bought. You skim the food supply. No one but your crew gets enough to eat. And for all you care, those children will stay in that building and be moved out by the train without you lifting a finger.”
Glyn stood up to protect Grandma in case Geneva got angrier. The elevator arrived yet again, but still the crowd in front of it grew and no one entered it.
A voice in the hall made both women turn around.
“May I help you ladies?”
Glyn turned. It was Christopher Rylant, the nephew of Mr. Corrigan.
Grandma spoke quietly, “No, thank you, Mr. Rylant. We will be all right in a minute.”
Geneva yelled. “Who are you? Another Nazi?”
“I’m Irish, Ma’am.”
“That doesn’t mean piss,” Geneva said. “Stay out!”
Grandma said, “We’re fine, Mr. Rylant, and it would be best if you take your uncle on down to breakfast.”
She spoke abruptly to Glyn. “Glyn Jones, I expect you need to get to school, so I will see you at dinner time.”
Worried that Geneva would attack Grandma Willie, Glyn said, “I’ll lock up and finish your book project later. Can you come downstairs with me?”
“Good idea. Geneva, will you come to breakfast?
“Certainly not.” Geneva ducked back into her apartment and slammed the door.
Grandma looked at Glyn with her “Say nothing” gaze and pushed her walker down the hall toward the waiting crowd.
As they arrived at the elevator, Grandma said, “My goodness. All of you missed the elevator every time it arrived?”
Then she turned to Glyn. “After school, and before you start to work in the kitchen, perhaps you could complete my bookcase project.”
“Yes, Mrs. Stamps.”
Chapter Thirteen
Before school, Glyn glanced out the window from inside his darkened first-floor history classroom and whispered to Mrs. Price, “Don’t look suddenly, but there is one of the guys.”
