by David Healey
Cole cast about for some way to keep Danny distracted. Their predicament brought to mind the story of Cole’s cousin, Deacon Cole. Like Cole, he had served in the war, but in the Pacific, fighting the Japanese.
“Did I ever tell you about Cousin Deacon?” Cole asked.
“Didn’t I meet him?”
“Sure, once or twice when you were a young ‘un. I’m surprised you remember.”
“I remember him a little.”
“Well now, Cousin Deacon was mauled by a bear when he was just a boy. He was trying to protect his sister and that bear chewed him up good. He had the scars to prove it. It’s a wonder that bear didn’t kill him. It took him months just to get around again.”
“I remember the scars,” Danny said. “They were hard to look at. I remember being scared of him.”
“Cousin Deacon used to say that during the war he went through some hard times, all that fighting in the islands, but he kept going. He said that he figured if the bear hadn’t killed him, then he sure as hell wasn’t going to let the Japanese do it.”
“That’s a good story, Pa Cole, but I twisted my ankle. I didn’t get attacked by a bear.”
“The point is that Deacon Cole was tough. That bear made him that way. Who’s to say this ordeal ain’t your version of the bear?”
Danny fell silent, thinking it over. He didn’t complain again about the pain in his ankle.
Cole thought it was too much to hope that Hauer had taken the bait and followed the false trail down the other side of the mountain. Under different circumstances, the majestic surroundings of the Vosges Mountains and the European forest in autumn would have been stunning in and of themselves. However, Cole and Danny were injured, hungry and cold, and hunted by a deadly opponent. By the time they reached the valley below, they felt exhausted.
For now, they were sheltering at the edge of the forest, keeping to the cover of the trees with the open valley visible. He hadn’t wanted to spend another night in these hills, but here they were. They had not eaten anything in more than twenty-four hours, and with their injuries and the cool autumn weather, it was starting to take its toll.
“How much longer do you think we’ll be out here?” Danny asked. “I’m starving.”
“Me too,” Cole said. “One way or another, I promise you that we won’t be out here another night.”
“What about Herr Hauer?”
“It’s me that he’s after,” Cole said. While coming down the mountain, he had begun to slowly put a plan together that might mean at least one of them would survive this mess. The time had come to share his plan with Danny. “I’ve been thinking that I’ll lead him off into the woods, and he and I will finish this, one way or another. While we’re doing that, you can head down toward the neck of the valley and find the trail out of here. If we cut you a crutch, you should be fine.”
Danny shook his head. “No way! With your arm and shoulder like that, there’s no way you can shoot back at him.”
“I can still shoot,” Cole lied.
His grandson shook his head emphatically. “We are in this together, Pa Cole. There’s no way I’m leaving you here by yourself.”
If Danny was going to be stubborn, then so was Cole. Stubbornness was a family trait. “Boy, I’ve got to be honest with you. I don’t know that I can beat Hauer at this game. At my age, I’ve lost a step or two. Hell, maybe I’ve lost three or four steps. The best that I can hope to do is buy you some time to get to safety. One of us needs to survive this.”
Danny didn’t say anything for a while, and Cole felt relieved. He was sure that Danny was going to agree to the plan. Considering the shape he was in—cold, hungry, and in pain—who wouldn’t opt for a way out?
But Danny surprised him. The light was fading fast, but Cole could see that his grandson’s eyes, which were normally a soft brown, had turned dark and hard. Those eyes reminded Cole of Norma Jean’s when she was feeling determined.
The boy had plenty of fire in him, that was for sure. If their circumstances hadn’t been so dire, Cole would have smiled.
“I’m not leaving,” Danny said. “You’re the one who said this might be my bear. I’ve got to face the bear, not run away from it. And listen to you, Pa Cole—it sounds as if you’ve given up.”
“I managed to get you dragged into this, but it’s not your fight. I should have known better than to walk right into Hauer’s trap. I wanted one last chance to show him who was boss. Like the Bible says, pride goeth before a fall.”
“There’s no point in blaming yourself,” Danny said. “Listen, I know you never talked about the war, but I read that museum exhibit same as everyone else. You killed an awful lot of people.”
“It was war, Danny. It’s nothing to be proud of. I was doing my duty.”
Danny fixed him with that hard stare, the one that showed he was determined to hear the truth. “Are you sure about that? I see how people who knew you then treat you, even Colonel Mulholland—like they’re a little afraid of you. Even now. I don’t care if you’re old. I don’t care if you’re hurt—or that I’m hurt. You need to show that German sniper that you’re the same old Caje Cole. He couldn’t beat you then, and he’s not going to beat you now. You’re a Cole, remember?”
Oddly enough, Cole felt chastised. It was as if the roles had been reversed so that Danny was the old man and Cole was the foolish boy at his feet.
Cole took a deep breath, letting the cold mountain air fill his lungs. Deep within him, he felt the primitive critter start to stir, awakening in the cave where it had hidden away. Danny’s words had been like poking the critter with a pointy stick, which was a dangerous thing to do.
Danny was right that he shouldn’t give up. It was time to turn the tables on The Butcher. It was time to hunt.
“So that’s how you feel, is it?” Cole said. “Your old Pa Cole has let you down?”
“You said it yourself. You’re giving up.”
“Not yet,” Cole said. “If you want to stay and fight, I could use the help.”
Danny nodded.
“But first, what do you say you and me get something to eat?”
“How are we going to do that?”
“I seem to recall that there’s an entire boar not a quarter-mile from here. The one I shot yesterday. In this cold, the meat will still be good.”
“What are we going to do, eat it raw? Won’t Herr Hauer see the fire?”
“Let him,” Cole said. “Let’s show that son of a bitch that we’re not afraid of him. The smell of that roasting meat will drive him crazy.”
His grandson grinned. “Sounds good to me. Do you think there’s any bacon on that boar?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Hauer scanned the forest ahead. He had the American and his grandson right where he wanted them. On the run. He knew it was only a matter of time now, with Cole wounded and his grandson being nothing more than a weak boy.
He smiled. The time had come for a reckoning. The American sniper would be losing this last fight.
His plan for revenge on Cole had been loosely conceived, and if Hauer had to admit it, it wasn’t much of a plan at all. It was more how a sailor might experience favorable winds and smooth seas. Everything had simply fallen into place.
Back at the museum opening, he had invited Cole on the hunting trip on a whim. But the possibilities presented by getting Cole alone in the woods had soon presented themselves in his mind. Of course, he hadn’t even been sure that they would end up hunting alone. He had taken a few small steps, such as making sure that he had the walkie talkie and flashlight. Hauer was no criminal mastermind, but he was an opportunist. He always had been, all the way back to the day that he had pushed that old witch of a nun down the school stairs. In this case, all the circumstances had been in his favor and had led to this moment.
He had managed to get himself and Cole assigned to the same hunting spot. Then, he had deliberately wounded the stag that had run his way. Hauer used the walkie-talkie to commun
icate with the larger group of hunters. It had been a simple matter to relay that they were not only heading back early on their own—but that they were returning to Munich.
The other hunters wouldn’t be expecting them back at the lodge.
Hauer had all the time in the world now to stalk his prey.
Eventually, he would emerge from the woods with some story about getting lost and losing track of Cole and the boy. If and when their bodies were ever found, it would be chalked up to a hunting accident.
He had even gotten lucky and wounded Cole during their exchange of fire. That shootout had been just like the old days! For once and for all, Hauer was going to have a chance to settle the score against the American sniper.
He looked up at the slope ahead of him, knowing that Cole was up there somewhere. It was Cole that he was after. The boy posed no threat, having made it clear that he did not care for hunting. The boy did not even carry a weapon. When the time came, Hauer would dispatch him along with his grandfather. Collateral damage. Hauer grinned at the thought. There could be no witnesses.
“Run, little pigs, run,” Hauer muttered, smiling to himself. “The Butcher is coming to find you.”
The Butcher. He had earned this nickname because Hauer really had been a butcher, slaughtering goats and sheep and cattle, before the German invasion of Poland. His previous vocation had proved useful whenever the troops had a windfall of livestock to supplement their rations. The choice cuts of meat he provided to officers ensured their favor. And of course, Hauer’s casual brutality, honed in the slaughterhouse, had served him well as a soldier. His nickname had come to take on a different meaning, a different sort of butchery. Most of Hauer’s fellow soldiers looked the other way. The few who spoke up did not last long—war had a way of quickly winnowing out honorable men, leaving the real business of war to soldiers such as Hauer.
His only regret was that the war hadn’t gone on for a while longer. Hauer had never quite gotten his fill.
He knew that Cole still held those incidents from the war against him, not only killing the villagers at Ville sur Moselle, but also the incident at Wingen sur Moder here in these very mountains at the end of what the Americans called the Battle of the Bulge.
In his mind’s eye, Hauer could still see the nun that he had shot in his crosshairs. He could still hear the satisfying smack of the bullet hitting home. Some memories did not fade over time.
“If she chose to help the Americans, then she was the enemy,” he said aloud to the trees. He shrugged. He had no regrets.
In East Germany, employed by the Stasi, he had managed to continue his share of killing. Even so, that had taken place quietly. It was not at all the same as the battles that had taken place in France and then in these hills.
Now that the wall had come down and the Iron Curtain had been swept aside, those days were over for good. The Butcher was just an ordinary citizen now. Fortunately, like most members of the Stasi, he had managed to line his pockets over the years in a way that enabled him to live in some comfort, if not exactly luxury. Mostly, he found himself bored, sometimes paying for the company of women—there was no shortage of prostitutes from places like Poland and Hungary—and drinking too much vodka. This game with Cole had been a pleasant diversion from the doldrums of retirement.
Hauer kept going up the hillside, moving cautiously. Just because he had gotten lucky so far didn’t mean that his luck would continue. As long as Cole still had a rifle, he was dangerous.
A shot rang out and Hauer ducked. He held himself still for several minutes, worried that he had miscalculated his quarry. Was he in Cole’s sights even now? He hadn’t heard a bullet come anywhere near him. Maybe it had been a random shot intended to slow him down—which it had.
“Nice try,” he admitted. “Very smart. But it is not enough to stop me.”
Satisfied that Cole did not have him in his crosshairs, after all, Hauer continued up the slope. His breathing came heavily—drinking vodka and chasing whores were not exactly the best activities for staying in shape at his age. He took his time, reading the landscape as he went.
He had spent many of the intervening years hunting with other members of the Stasi and had sharpened his tracking skills as a result.
Here and there, the bed of leaves and pine needles was disturbed, indicating that his quarry had passed this way. He spotted broken twigs left in the wake of their passage.
Finally, he saw spots of blood, rich and dark. So, his bullet had found its mark.
He squatted down and touched a spot of blood, wetting his fingertip and then rubbing the blood between his fingers.
“I am coming to put you out of your misery, Hillbilly!” he shouted.
The hills echoed back his words, but there was no answer.
Hauer shrugged and kept moving. Slowly, laboriously, he followed the blood trail and the footsteps on the soft carpet of the forest. Where the ground grew rocky, he saw places where the rocks had been disturbed. A couple of hours passed. Hauer sat down and ate a candy bar, wished for a hot cup of coffee, rested for a few minutes, and then kept going.
Finally, he reached the summit.
The view was stunning. Even someone like The Butcher could admit to the natural beauty of the place. He saw deep forests, tall pines mixed with the fiery colors of autumn leaves. No buildings. No roads. No signs of civilization at all, in fact, except a single column of woodsmoke that appeared to be several miles distant. The days were so short this time of year that the sun was already slipping low in the sky. The mountain winter was just around the corner.
He studied the trail leading down the other side of the summit. What was down there? More rocks, more forest. Had Cole gone that way? Hauer was doubtful. The only real chance Cole had was to get down to the valley again and look for the trail out. That Hillbilly was clever—it would be just like him to have left a false trail, and then doubled back.
“Where have you gone, little pigs?” Hauer wondered aloud.
After another moment of thought, he turned and headed back down the slope, returning toward the valley, confident that Cole was trying to give him the slip.
But not for long.
Back at the lodge, Hans was worried. When his new friend, Cole, and Cole’s grandson had not returned with the other hunters at nightfall, he had expressed concern.
“They have gone back to Munich,” the hunt master explained, holding up a walkie talkie by way of proof. “Hauer radioed me to say that they’d had enough and that he was driving the American and his grandson back to the city.”
“They did not tell me,” Hans said. “I’m the one who drove them here.”
The hunt master shrugged. He looked toward his companions, gathered around a fire and drinking schnapps. He seemed eager to join them, rather than to debate with Hans. “What can I tell you? That is all I know.”
“We should call the authorities.”
The hunt master groaned. “Oh, we don’t need them here! They will just have us answering questions all night, when we should be sitting by the fire drinking schnapps. If your friends were driving back to Munich, they won’t get there until much later tonight. Why don’t you wait until tomorrow morning and give them a call? I am sure that they will explain everything then.”
The hunt master gave Hans a reassuring pat on the shoulder, then moved toward the ring of celebratory hunters. Someone passed him a glass of schnapps.
Angela had been nearby, listening in. “Do you think they really went back to Munich.”
“No, I do not.”
“Neither do I,” she said. “We should go have a look at their room.”
The limited accommodations at the lodge had required that the grandfather and grandson share a room in the converted stable. However, calling it a stable was something of a misnomer because the building had been completely renovated to match the lodge in comforts. The door to the Americans’ guest room was not even locked. Not that there was anything of value in it, other than clothes. Pajama
bottoms, two scattered socks, and some underwear lay on the floor near Danny’s unmade bed, evidence that he had dressed in a hurry to go hunting, and a suitcase full of disheveled clothing lay open on top of the covers. Cole’s side of the room had a military precision about it, with the bed neatly made.
“Your boyfriend is a slob,” Hans said, smiling. The situation might be serious, but he could not resist teasing his grand-niece.
“Uncle Hans, he is not my boyfriend!”
“Hmm,” he said. “Are you so sure about that?”
Angela made an exasperated sound in response.
“All their things are here,” Hans said. “It does not make sense that they left. I don’t trust that Hauer one bit. He is up to something.”
“We need to go look for them,” Angela said. “Maybe they need help. Maybe they are hurt. We need to go right now.”
Hans shook his head. “It is dark out. What would you and I do, an old man and a city girl?”
Angela pouted. “We must do something! I am worried about Danny!”
“I already expressed my concerns to the hunt master. Whatever else we do will have to wait for morning.”
“We can’t wait that long!”
Hans thought about it, knowing his grand-niece was right. The question was, what could they do?
Then he remembered the business card in his billfold. He took it out. On it was the telephone number for the retired American officer who had helped to organize the WWII museum.
“Angela, we must find a phone. We will call Colonel Mulholland. He will know what to do.”
Miles away, Cole and Danny were preparing for another night in the forest. It was clear and cold. Through a gap in the treetops, Cole could see the stars overhead, sparkling bright. He had spent a lifetime looking at those stars. They felt like old friends.
Danny surprised him by saying, “Look, there’s Orion.” He pointed up at the three stars that made up The Hunter’s belt.
“Huh, I reckon somebody was paying attention when I taught him the stars, after all.”