by Bill Walker
Retreating, she closed her eyes and disappeared.
The Molotov cocktail crashed against the molding two feet from SS Kruger and burst into flame. The liquid fire ran up the wall and across the forest-green carpet. SS Kruger whirled and let loose with a burst from his Uzi that exploded the glassware and bottles across the back of the bar. Jack curled into a ball, his arms over his head, as the glass rained down on him.
“Verdammt!” SS Kruger said, cursing his poor aim.
The room filled with smoke as Denise reappeared beside him.
“We’ve got a little problem,” she said.
“Little?”
“Bock’s wired the Semtex. This place is going in about five minutes.”
Jack nodded and lit another Molotov cocktail. He hurled it over the bar, hand grenade-style. He heard the crash and the whoosh of flame. It was answered by another burst from SS Kruger’s machine pistol. Denise cocked the Uzi and threw it to Jack, jumped up and sprayed the interior of the bar, now obscured by a fog of noxious smoke. She ducked down as more rounds from SS Kruger’s Uzi slapped into the bar. The chatter of the Uzi was joined by the report of RAF Kruger’s Luger and sputter of Bock’s MP5. Splinters flew from the inside of the bar when bullets punched through and pocked into the opposite wall. Jack rubbed his cheek, and his hand came away covered with blood.
03:28... 03:27... 03:26...
“It is no use, Dunham! We are holding all of the cards! Why not join us? There is more than enough to go around!” Bock yelled.
Jack had had enough. “Just like your partners upstairs? I don’t think so!”
“They were weak, old, and in the way. They had no vision, Herr Dunham. You have more than proved to be a formidable adversary.”
Denise grabbed Jack and glared at him. “Shut up! As long as you don’t talk, they can’t get a fix on you through the smoke.”
Jack nodded and gripped his weapon harder.
“What about it, Herr Dunham? Will you join with us?”
02:48... 02:47... 02:46...
“Stick it, Bock!” Denise screamed, and held her weapon over the bar and fired off a burst, ducked back down, and leaned over to Jack. “You keep them busy,” she whispered. “I’ll pop up behind them.”
Jack smiled and coughed. The smoke had gotten a lot thicker. If they didn’t do something soon, they would die of smoke inhalation. Bock would win by default.
“Do it.”
“On three,” Denise said. “...One... two... THREE!”
Jack popped over the bar and spotted Bock carelessly exposed. He fired, striking the old man in the shoulder. Bock cried out and collapsed. Through the haze, he saw both Krugers turn to fire. Jack raised his weapon, aimed at SS Kruger, and pulled the trigger.
Click.
Empty.
Even through the smoke, Jack could see SS Kruger’s wicked smile. Suddenly, Denise snapped in behind him, raised her weapon, and whipped it across the back of SS Kruger’s head. In one fluid motion that reminded Jack of a balletic pirouette, Denise spun around and fired her machine pistol at RAF Kruger. It caught him square in the gut. Clutching his bleeding midsection, RAF Kruger moaned and collapsed.
01:05... 01:04... 01:03...
“JACK! It’s clear! Let’s get outta here, now!”
Jack dropped his Uzi and ran from behind the bar and joined Denise.
“Dunham!”
Jack and Denise turned and saw Bock leaning against a wall, his shoulder oozing blood.
“We can’t leave him,” Jack said.
“The hell we can’t! All this is his fault. He deserves to die!”
Jack stared at her. “I can’t believe you’d do that.”
00:59... 00:58... 00:57...
Kruger regained consciousness and saw his counterpart crumpled on the floor, no more than ten feet away. Slowly, he began to crawl towards him. If he was to perish, then he would take them all to hell with him. Dunham, his bitch, and Bock—especially Bock. Kruger realized that one side of his body felt numb. The blow to his head must have caused serious damage, a stroke perhaps. But it didn’t matter anymore. None of it would. Pain shot through his head, accompanied by a loud, ripping sound.
Another stroke!
He crawled onward, aware that the pain increased with every movement of his body. Only a little farther, now... then... peace.
00:35... 00:34... 00:33...
“I’ll take care of this, Jack. Get out, now!”
“No!”
“We don’t have time for this, Dunham.”
“I’m not leaving this man to die,” Jack said.
One entire wall of the bar now stood engulfed in flames.
CRACK!
One of the overhead beams broke in two and crashed onto the bar behind them.
Both of them turned and saw SS Kruger crawling towards his temporal counterpart.
“Oh God, NO!” Denise yelled.
She raised her weapon and fired, stitching a line across SS Kruger’s back. He screamed, the blood flowing from his mouth. RAF Kruger looked to him, his own wounds equally mortal, and reached out his hand.
00:05... 00:04... 00:03...
RAF Kruger’s hands stretched farther, a hairsbreadth from his dying counterpart’s.
Whirling, Denise looked into Jack’s eyes, love radiating from them like bright beacons. “I’m sorry, Jack,” she said, and closed her eyes. Jack felt the familiar electric feeling and braced for the transport. Jolted by the force of her mind, Jack saw the world flash white, and a microsecond later he was back on the shallow rise overlooking the Normandy Club.
Alone.
“DENISE!” Jack screamed.
He started to run toward the building, his heart jackhammering in his chest. The night flashed incredibly bright as the Semtex detonated. The roof lifted off and the walls blew out in a gargantuan, roiling fireball. Black smoke plumed skyward, blotting out the moon. Jack heard the debris smacking against the asphalt of the parking lot as it rained down around him. The limousines closest to the building exploded, their gas tanks igniting with a soft carumph.
“NOOOOOOOO!” Jack screamed.
He watched with tear-stained eyes as all he knew and cared for was destroyed.
Then everything changed.
The ground shook, knocking Jack off his feet. An incredibly bright pinpoint of light appeared in the center of the clubhouse and exploded outward, dazzling in its beauty, a kind of earthbound supernova. Then it collapsed in on itself, taking the Normandy Club with it into the void. The air whooshed past him to fill the vacuum and the sky boiled with evil-looking clouds that flashed with electrical energy. Everything reeked of ozone.
Jack staggered to his feet and gaped at the crater left behind. It measured a full hundred yards across, and in the dim light, appeared bottomless. Sobbing, Jack fell to his knees and covered his face.
“Why, Denise? Why? Why didn’t you come with me?”
Exhausted and with nowhere else to go, Jack sat and stared into the crater and waited for the authorities to arrive. They came screaming onto the grounds, the fire engines, the ambulances, the local and state police cruisers, several nondescript cars marked U.S. Government Motor Pool, and inevitably, the media.
“What happened here?”
“What’s going on?”
“Do you have any comments?”
“At what time did the phenomenon occur?”
“Are you a member of the club?”
“We are going to have to ask you some questions, sir.”
“Can you tell us if anyone else survived?”
The questions and faces blended together into a collage of meaningless sights and sounds. He pushed through the crowd and left them gaping in wonder at the deep hole no one could explain.
As more cars turned into the grounds, Jack passed by them and trudged down Ridgefield Road toward town. To the east, the sky had turned gray, signaling dawn’s imminent arrival. In his heart he knew that his life had both ended and begun on this day. He woul
d have to pick up the pieces and go on. He would have to somehow make it all work. Denise would have wanted it that way.
“Excuse me, sir, can I get you a cocktail?”
Jack started from his reverie, looking up into a familiar set of electric-blue eyes.
“What? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.”
Terry Blaine smiled. “Would you like something to drink?”
Jack looked at her and found his eyes filling with tears. “Uhh... no thanks.”
Sensing his discomfort, she nodded and made her way back to the galley, turning once to fix him with a look of wistful curiosity.
Jack reached up and turned off the overhead light, plunging his seating area into darkness. Despite all the thoughts that roiled in his brain, the bone-deep weariness in his body took over. Within minutes, he fell into a deep and thankfully dreamless sleep, lulled by the incessant thrum of the plane’s powerful engines.
Jack pulled into his regular parking space, taking small pleasure from riding in his blood-red Alfa Romeo once again. To him, it felt like a lifetime had passed since he’d felt the snug fit of the bucket seats and smelled the crisp, tannic odor of its leather interior. He thanked God for small pleasures such as these, for they almost succeeded in allowing him a few moments’ respite from the pain he felt. For a brief time, while speeding down Biscayne Boulevard, he was almost able to put Denise from his mind.
But pulling into his regular spot and seeing his name emblazoned on the sign bolted to the concrete wall brought it all back. It may have felt like a lifetime, but in fact, it had only been two days...
The elevator opened onto the fifth floor and Jack stepped out, marching down the corridor to his corner office.
“Hi, Mr. Dunham, we’ve sure missed having you around...”
“Hey, Jack! How are ya? Where ya been?”
“Good morning, Mr. Dunham. Mr. Bennings is quite anxious to see you...”
Jack nodded, keeping an insipid grin on his face. He’d forgotten how to smile and didn’t care if he ever remembered. But what had gotten into everybody? You’d think he’d been gone for six months the way everyone acted. Shaking his head, he put it all down to the incredible experience he’d lived. If they only knew, what he’d done for them, how different all their lives would be. Thank God they would never have to find out.
He stopped in front of the door to his office, noting it stood ajar. What was this? He never left it open and hated it when someone else did. He turned to his secretary, Jenny, his mood suddenly dark and ugly. She wore an expression of helpless distress. “I’m sorry, Mr. Dunham. He insisted on waiting.”
“Who?” he said, growing annoyed.
“He wouldn’t say.”
Jack frowned, pushed open the door, and barged in, ready for blood. “I’m sorry, but you will have to make an—”
Jack stopped in mid-sentence, his mouth hanging open in shock.
“Hey, shithead! How the hell are you?”
There, sitting on Jack’s leather couch, with his feet up on the glass coffee table, sat Wiley Carpenter, as big as life.
“WILEY!”
Jack tossed his briefcase aside, ran to his friend, and lifted him off the ground in an affectionate bear hug.
“Whoa! Hold it! Hold on a minute! This the way you usually act when you stand up your friends?”
“You’re alive! GODDAMNIT! You’re alive!”
Wiley held his friend at arm’s length, looking at him with genuine concern.
“What’s the matter with you? Of course I’m alive. But I should kill you, you knucklehead!”
Jack’s expression turned quizzical. “What are you talking about?”
“You must be getting Old Timer’s Disease, Jack. I called you two nights ago and told you to meet me at Mike’s. You didn’t show up. I called your house, I called Leslie, I even called your mother on the outside chance you were back in Connecticut somehow. Yesterday I called here, and no one knew where you were. And now you show up acting like nothing’s wrong.”
Jack sat down on the couch, let out a sigh, and rubbed his temples. He felt a dull throbbing over his right eye that promised to become a whopper of a migraine.
“Wiley, I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? Is that all you’ve got to say after driving us all crazy with worry?”
Wiley appeared genuinely annoyed at that moment. His hair, never well-groomed to begin with, stood askew, looking like he’d slept on the couch. For that matter, his clothes had the same rumpled appearance.
“Look, I know all about why you wanted to see me.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah. I know all about the Nine Old Men and their cockamamie plan. And take my word for it, it’ll never work.”
“Well, it’s too late, Jack, you missed the vote.”
“Vote? What vote? What are you talking about?”
“The Nine Old Men want to change the name of the club to—”
“—I know, I know. The Normandy Club, right?”
“Hell no. Can you imagine those old farts wanting to change the name of The Anderson Club to The Ridgefield-Danbury Golf & Racket Club after fifty years? Have you ever heard of anything so unwieldy, so stupid?”
Jack felt a chill run up his spine.
“You haven’t heard, have you?” Jack said.
“Heard what?”
“The club’s been destroyed—a huge fire.”
Now Wiley really looked concerned, but not, as it turned out, for what Jack thought.
“What? Are you nuts? I just spoke with the board this morning. Their stupid plan was defeated by a margin of two to one.”
Now it was Jack’s turn to look stupefied. “What? This morning?”
He shook his head, wondering if he was losing his mind or whether everything he’d lived through these past weeks had been a fevered dream in the night. But then he ran his finger over the scab on his cheek and knew that something else, something unforeseen, had occurred.
“What about Bock? How did he vote?”
“Who?”
“Bock! Armand Bock!” Jack said, feeling ever more disoriented. “Don’t tell me that name means nothing to you.”
Wiley shrugged. “No, it doesn’t.”
Jack got up and moved closer to his friend.
“Listen. I don’t know what the hell is going on, but none of this is making any sense. How can—”
“Hey, Dunham! You still in the market for a crazy redhead?”
Jack’s breath caught in his throat. That honey-coated voice. A voice he never expected to hear again. He whirled, expecting to see a mirage, a phantom disappearing before his haunted eyes. But there, in front of him, dressed in the most exquisitely chic, emerald-green suit he’d ever laid eyes on, stood Denise Malloy, her hazel eyes shining with love and ill-concealed desire. Her smile widened as her eyes connected with his.
“Oh God,” he said, flying into her arms. “I thought you were—”
“Dead? You oughta know me better than that, Jack.”
“But how—”
“I transported about a nanosecond before the two Krugers made contact.”
“But where did you go?”
“Frankfurt, nineteen twenty-eight.”
This took Jack by surprise. He shook his head, trying to clear out the conflicting thoughts.
“Nineteen twenty-eight? Why?”
Denise leaned forward and kissed him on the ear and delicately bit the lobe. It sent an electric thrill through Jack. “Let’s just say I paid a visit to Bock on his birthday,” she whispered.
Jack pulled back and looked into her hazel eyes.
“You mean, you...”
She nodded. “Armand Bock won’t be a problem anymore.”
“AHEM!”
Both of them turned to face Wiley, who stood with his arms crossed, looking both bewildered and annoyed.
“I’m sorry to interrupt your little rendezvous here, but would somebody mind telling me just what the hell is going on?”
“Oh, good. Now I’m an idiot too.”
This made Jack and Denise laugh even harder. A few moments later, they calmed down enough to explain.
“I’m sorry, Wiley, this is Denise Malloy, my...”
He stopped, not quite sure what to say. Denise stepped forward, her hand extended. “I’m Jack’s fiancée. I hope you can make the wedding next month. I know it’s short notice.”
Jack’s eyes bulged in surprise and Wiley whooped with joy.
“ALL RIGHT! This is great! Congratulations!” he said, clapping his hands together and laughing. “Any woman who could land Jack Dunham has got to be something special.”
Jack had recovered enough to smile. “That’s an understatement.”
He turned to Denise, his eyebrows arched questioningly. “I thought you didn’t want to marry me because of your other commitments.”
She shrugged and gazed at him, her eyes filled with love. “They’re not as important to me as you are. Besides, someone’s got to keep an eye on you.”
Jack hugged her and Wiley slapped him on the back.
“Now, will someone please tell me where Jack has been for the last two days?”
Jack turned to his friend, his arm around Denise.
“Wiley, I think you’d better sit down. I’ve got a long story to tell you. Take my word, it’ll curl your toes and put hair on your chest...”
Author’s Note
In researching and writing The Normandy Club, there were times when reality had to bow to the whims of plot. It is common knowledge to those living in Miami that nearly all homes there lack basements because of the extremely high water table. However, I wanted the Lambda Army to have a true “underground lair,” so to speak, and to make Denise and Jack’s escape from the clutches of the SS that much more exciting. By the same token, most commercial buildings, especially those on Biscayne Boulevard, do not have any sub-levels, much less the ten I gave the Joseph Goebbels Ministry of Advertising and Propaganda. But again, this was a building built by a totalitarian regime whose money is limitless and tenacity unbounded. In the nightmarish world I created, the water table has been conquered, as well.