The Normandy Club

by Bill Walker

  “Goddamn you, Kruger,” Jack said, wiping away the tears so Denise wouldn’t see.

  “Your time is up, Mr. Dunham,” Kruger said, sounding bored. “Come, we shall return to Miami. Herr Bock would like to meet you before we turn you over to State Security.”

  As unobtrusively as possible, Jack stuck the knife in his belt, covered it with his shirt, and stood up. After watching Leslie die, he didn’t care what happened. Right at this moment he felt as if nothing mattered anymore, that everything had been a colossal waste. He turned to Denise and saw the same look reflected in her own determined eyes. Suddenly, Chessman groaned loudly. Kruger’s eyes snapped over to the old man, giving Jack the opening he needed.

  In a flash, Jack lunged at Kruger, knocking the gun out of his hands and sending them both sprawling onto the hard, linoleum floor. Scrambling to pin him down, Jack slammed his fist into Kruger’s face, and felt the solid smack of flesh against flesh. Kruger snarled and arched his back, attempting to throw Jack off. Jack wrapped his fingers around Kruger’s throat and squeezed. The man’s eyes bulged out and he flailed at Jack, his fists landing powerful, crushing blows to his midsection. Jack grunted with each blow and squeezed harder. Kruger turned, his tongue bulging out, his breath a strangled gasp, as the cartilage of the windpipe began to crush.

  “Break his goddamned neck!” Denise screamed.

  Before Jack could even think, Kruger smiled and dissolved away, the telltale blue aura fading after him. Suddenly, he felt Kruger’s weight slamming into him, pushing him to the floor. Now it was Kruger’s vise-like grip around his own throat. Jack’s vision blurred with tears. Kruger smiled, his eyes nearly glowing in the faint light spilling in from the streetlights outside.

  “NO!” Denise screamed, and leaped onto Kruger’s back. Suddenly she flew across the room, her body crashing into the wall, denting the plaster. She slid to the floor, coming to rest in a crumpled heap, groaning softly.

  Kruger grimaced and redoubled the pressure around Jack’s neck. “Telekinesis when developed properly has other uses as well, ja?”

  All Jack could see were those glowing eyes, the world having shrunk to a pinpoint. With his last conscious thought, Jack remembered the small dagger. He let both arms fall to his side, pretending to succumb. Falling for it, Kruger lessened the pressure slightly, allowing Jack to catch a fraction of a precious breath. Grabbing the small dagger, Jack pulled it out and thrust it upward into Kruger’s midsection. Kruger shrieked and let go of Jack’s neck. Before he could pull away, Jack ripped the knife upwards, slicing the man’s gut completely open. Dark blood gushed out of the wound and splashed over Jack. Kruger screamed, clutched his stomach, and toppled over.

  Jack, slipping in the blood, scrambled over to Denise. She lay where she’d fallen, unconscious. He picked up her head and kissed her on the lips. In the distance he could hear sirens approaching. Someone had heard the shot. Denise groaned and opened her eyes. They widened as she recognized Jack.

  “Kruger! What happened?” she said, her body convulsing. “Ohh, my head.”

  “Take it easy. Kruger’s dead. Leslie slipped me a knife before she died.”

  Denise gripped his shirt, pulling him closer. “Are you sure he’s dead?”

  This annoyed him. The sirens grew louder.

  “Of course, goddamn it! I gutted him like a fish. Look for yourself,” he said, pointing behind him.

  Jack helped Denise to her feet and turned. Instead of Kruger’s inert body, all that remained was a large pool of rapidly congealing blood.

  “SHIT!” Denise yelled.

  “How the fuck?”

  “Damnit, Jack!” she said, pounding his chest with her arms. “He got away, he transported.”

  “How? I disemboweled the man. Look at all the blood. How could he have lasted long enough to go anywhere? And what the hell good would it do? The damage was massive!”

  The sirens got louder.

  “I’ll explain later. We’ve got to get out of here.”

  Racing to the window, they saw several Toronto Police cruisers, as well as campus security, screech to a halt in front of the building. Heavily armed men poured out of the cars and streaked toward the front doors.

  “They’ll be here any second,” Denise said. “Take my hand.”

  “The uniforms, the papers!”

  Denise shook her head. “Kruger destroyed them.”

  Knowing that their enemy had won the round, Jack grabbed her hand and braced himself for the transport. The room whited out and they were back in their hotel room.

  Jack dropped onto the bed.

  “We haven’t got time, Jack, we’ve got to move. Go get Wiley.”

  Feeling his muscles already cramping up from the fight with Kruger, Jack pulled himself off the bed and trudged toward the door.

  “Jack! Your clothes.”

  He turned to the mirror and recoiled from the sight. He looked like someone who worked in a slaughterhouse. Throwing off the clothes, Jack wet down a washcloth and wiped off the excess blood. He then dried himself and threw on his one change of clothes.

  Going to the door, he opened it and glanced both ways down the corridor. Empty. He crossed the hall and knocked on Wiley’s door.

  Nothing.

  “Come on, Wiley.”

  Still nothing.

  Jack pounded on the door. “Goddammit it, Carpenter, get the lead out. We’ve got to go!”

  At the far end of the hall, a maid turned the corner, pushing a cart laden with towels and linen.

  “Excuse me. You have a pass key?”

  “No hablo inglés, Señor,” she said.

  Wonderful, he thought. He’d forgotten that most of the Cubans had settled in Canada after being driven from Mexico by the recent war. Instead of going to Miami after Castro took over, as they had in the other timeline, they’d gone west to Acapulco. In this timeline, Castro had mysteriously died a year after taking over the country and Cuba became an official protectorate of Avalon. Of course, Cubans were not allowed to reside within Avalon’s borders.

  “Pass key?” Jack said, making a turning motion with his hand.

  The woman frowned then smiled in understanding.

  “Sí, Señor, she said, reaching into her pocket. She pulled out a small card with a pattern of holes punched through it, inserted it in the lock, and turned the handle. The door opened.

  “Gracias.”

  “Muy bien, Señor.”

  She returned the key to her pocket and resumed her way down the hall. Jack waited until she turned the opposite corner then crept into the room. The shades were drawn, but Jack could see a form under the covers.

  “Jesus Christ, Wiley. How can you sleep through all of this shit?”

  Flipping on the light, Jack walked to the bed and stopped. A pillow lay over Wiley’s head. But something was wrong. The pillow had a black burn mark in the middle of it, and he realized the room was covered with feathers.

  “Oh, God, no,” Jack said.

  Reaching forward, he ripped the pillow away and felt his stomach heave. Wiley lay there, eyes open in death, his expression one of profound surprise and regret. The sheets were covered with blood that had flowed out of a hole drilled though his forehead. Neat and round on the front, Jack knew it was far worse where he couldn’t see it. Blind anger and hatred washed away the pain and sadness. There was no reason for this. None at all. Kruger had somehow come here and done this just for spite. He staggered to the window and stared out at the skyline. He tried to stop all the memories from coming, but they flashed across his mind like a torrent. Squeezing his eyes shut, Jack whimpered, struck out with his fist, and smashed it through the glass. A jagged shard cut into the back of his hand, slashing deeply. Blood flowed steadily and the hand throbbed dully. Jack ignored it.

  “Jack!”

  Stunned by the pain in his heart and his hand, he continued to stare out the window, even when he heard Denise gasp at Wiley’s corpse on the bed.

  “Oh no,” she said so
ftly.

  Jack turned then, and she flew into his arms.

  “I’m so sorry, Jack. I should have known. I—I should have seen this coming,” she said, crying into his shoulder. Jack remained stoic, unaffected by her tears. He held her away from him.

  “How could he do this, Malloy? How? He should be dead. I practically ripped out his guts.”

  Denise stared into Jack’s eyes then noticed the blood.

  “You’re hurt! Give me your hand.”

  “I have to know,” he said, tears coming into his eyes.

  “You will.”

  Jack held out his hand and Denise took it in her own. Standing up straight, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. A moment later, Jack felt a curious warmth flow through his hand and halfway up his arm. He watched, awestruck, as the skin of his hand melted seamlessly back together. A moment later all traces of the deep gash had disappeared, including the blood. Jack stared, unable to speak.

  “That was how Kruger survived,” Denise said. “He had enough energy to repair himself. It’s a side benefit of learning to use the ability.”

  Jack let out a sigh. “So this guy’s immortal too?”

  “No, Jack, not any more than you or me. Shoot him in the head or break his neck, anything to cause instant death, and he’s finished.”

  At the mention of head shots, Jack flinched, remembering Wiley.

  “We can’t just leave him here,” he said.

  “We have to. There’s nothing more we can do.”

  “AYYYYY!”

  Both of them jumped at the scream. Turning, they saw the maid Jack spoke to earlier, standing in the doorway, her eyes wide with fear. The woman turned to run, stumbled backward, tipping over her cart and sending towels flying. Her scream echoed down the corridor.

  Denise grabbed Jack’s hand. “Come on, we’re going.”

  “Where?”

  “Back there.”

  Jack shook his head then realized what she meant.

  “Wait a minute. We’ve got no papers, no uniforms, no nothing.”

  “Yeah, but we’ve got us. Until we’re dead, we’ve got a chance.”

  Taking his hand again, Denise clamped her eyes shut and began to mouth her mantra rapidly. Seconds later, her blazing aura enveloped him, the lights dimmed, and the world, again, turned white.

  Chapter Seventeen

  London, England

  13 May 1944

  “WE HAVE DONE IT!”

  Armand Bock’s triumphant shout still rang in Kruger’s ears as he appeared in the cobbled alley. Here, no lights dimmed because everything lay shrouded in darkness. A blackout. For a moment, Kruger felt a stab of pure fear. Had he failed, had he ended up in some purgatory for time travelers? His eyes adjusted to the gloom and Kruger found his bearings. Looking toward the mouth of the alley, he found himself surprised at the crowds of people walking on the street. The sidewalks teemed with all manner of soldiers: British, American, Polish, Norwegian, all laughing and joking, flirting with the hookers standing in doorways, and generally out to raise hell. Kruger glanced at his watch: 0300 hours. It was early yet. All these men were here for Overlord, though some participated unwittingly in Fortitude, SHAEF’s wide-ranging deception to make Hitler and his General Staff believe the main thrusts would come at Pas de Calais and Norway. Kruger turned his attention back to his immediate surroundings and wondered where in the city, he’d appeared. And when. For all his training, for all his skill, transporting oneself across time and space still held surprises. Squinting, he saw the outlines of fire escapes, dustbins, and the typical detritus of city life: empty cans, broken bottles, and newspapers.

  Bending down, he grabbed the shredded newsprint and looked at the masthead. It read: The London Times, Saturday, May 13, 1944. He’d made it! But where? He scanned the alley further and spotted several posters plastered to the brick wall of the building abutting the alley. One of them appeared to be an advertisement for a music hall performance. The names of the performers meant nothing, but the name of the theatre made him smile again: The West End Theatre.

  When he reached the mouth of the alley, he quickly melted into the hordes of drunken revelers. The streets themselves were choked with cabs and military vehicles. Horns honked and drivers screamed. He glanced inside a cab, looking for one without a fare. Up ahead, he saw an American officer alighting from one in front of another theatre. He caught up with it just as a middle-aged civilian was about to step into it. He saw Kruger’s RAF uniform and smiled.

  “You take it, Lieutenant. I’ll get the next one.”

  “Thank you,” Kruger said, his British accent flawless. “You’re too kind.”

  The older man smiled, saluted, and melded into the crowd. Kruger crawled inside and slammed the door.

  “St. Paul’s School, Hammersmith. Please.”

  “A little late for school, Lieutenant.”

  Surprised by the soft, musical voice, Kruger looked toward the driver and saw, reflected in the rearview, the most stunning pair of green eyes. They gazed at him, amused, slightly mocking. The driver turned in her seat and Kruger caught himself before he could react. That this woman drove a cab was no great surprise. It had been a common enough sight in 1944 when most men served in the military. What did surprise and vaguely disturb him was the woman’s uncanny resemblance to Helga, his first love, right down to the milk-white skin and flaming-red hair.

  “It’s all closed up. Are you sure you want to go there?” she asked.

  “It’s my old alma mater. I wanted to see it once more before shipping out.”

  The woman smiled, turned on her meter, and threw the car into gear. “St. Paul’s it is.”

  The woman kept up a steady patter as they wound their way through the narrow streets, avoiding jaywalkers and other vehicles. At any other time, the sound of her voice would have consumed his attention, but now, while trying to memorize the streets, he found it an annoying distraction. After about fifteen minutes of fighting the late-night traffic, the cab pulled up to a large, wrought-iron gate set into a fence that rose over seven feet high and surrounded the three-acre campus. Built in the late 1600s, the school had attained that venerable, ivy-covered look that only time could bestow. Kruger surveyed the buildings. Which one could it be? The briefing would be in the school’s model room, a sort of amphitheater where students heard lectures.

  “You miss the place, love?” the driver asked. She stood next to him, her perfume tickling his nostrils with its soft, flowery fragrance.

  “Hated every minute of it,” he said, smiling his most rakish smile. He used the moment to look her over. She lacked the voluptuous proportions of Helga, but she looked eminently desirable with her tall frame and lithe curves. Besides, Helga was a long time away, not even born yet. Kruger winked at her, letting her in on his joke.

  “Please allow me to introduce myself, Flight Lieutenant Arthur Liddington, late of St. Paul’s School.”

  She stuck out her hand and took his. “Jane Summers, just plain late.” She smiled at her own joke, revealing perfectly formed, dazzlingly white teeth. Kruger felt his groin twitch.

  “Can you recommend a good hotel?” he asked.

  Jane frowned. “The hotels are likely full by now, but we could try the Savoy.”

  Kruger nodded and they returned to the cab. When they pulled away, he turned and stared at the school receding in the distance. Soon, he thought.

  Sometime later, they pulled up to the entrance of the Savoy Hotel. Even if there’d been no blackout, the Savoy would not have impressed him. The awning had a few rents, and the brass poles needed polishing. He could see the paint peeling around the edges of the large, heavy door. Even the famous lions flanking the entryway looked careworn.

  The doorman, a rotund man in his late fifties, opened the cab door. “Good evening, Lieutenant, and welcome to the Savoy.”

  Kruger nodded to the man and turned to grab his haversack.

  “Shall I wait for you, Lieutenant?” Jane asked, displaying that s
mile again. “Just in case?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Slinging the sack over his shoulder, Kruger strode into the hotel. At this hour, the lobby lay deserted, save for the desk clerk, a gray little man in a mourning coat and striped trousers. He looked up and smiled as Kruger approached.

  “Yes, Lieutenant, may I help you?”

  “A room, please.”

  The little man’s face lost its smile, becoming regretful. “I’m so sorry, sir, but we are full this evening. However, we expect several guests to depart by morning. If you would care to make yourself comfortable in the lobby?”

  Kruger stared at the lumpy, threadbare couch and thought better of it. “Thank you, no. I believe I have a better offer.” He smiled, turned on his heels, and walked back out. He could tell Jane was happy to see him, though she tried to appear nonchalant.

  “Can you recommend another hostelry?” Kruger said, climbing back into the cab.

  Jane started the cab and pulled out into traffic. Her eyes flicked up to the mirror. To Kruger, they appeared to study him. “I have a flat about a mile from here,” she said, her voice betraying a hint of nervousness. “My roommate’s in the country, we’d have it all to ourselves.”

  “Sounds inviting.”

  Jane shifted gears and honked the horn at someone who jumped out in front of her. “Least I can do for one of our boys.”

  Kruger smiled. “What makes you think you can trust me?”

  The eyes smiled back at him through the mirror.

  “Who said I did?”

  Jane’s flat, a third-floor walk-up, was situated in an unpretentious brownstone, above a greengrocer. They took the narrow stairs, stumbling a couple of times in the near total darkness.

  “Sorry about the light, but the landlord’s a right cheap bastard. Thinks the blackout is his excuse to put the screws on us tenants.”

  Reaching the third landing, Jane took out her key, slipped it in the lock, and turned it. The old mechanism turned with a loud, satisfying clunk, and she pushed open the door, hinges squeaking.