Mercy Road

by Ann Howard Creel

  Minutes later I sat up in bed and hugged my knees to my chest, trying to tell myself to leave Cass’s affairs to her. She didn’t owe me an explanation, and I’d be feigning sleep or actually sleeping by the time she slipped back into the room anyway. I could let it go and allow Cass to keep her secret.

  As I sat longer, Cass’s escape acts brought to mind an idea, however, not about Cass but about Brohammer. Although I dreaded having to deal with him again, most likely he’d find me here or at our next location, and when he did, I knew exactly what I would do.

  Chapter Eighteen

  As I lay there waiting for Cass, sleep eluded me. The wind had settled down, whereas an hour earlier it had rattled the windows and wailed down the road outside.

  The lumber that held this old château together shifted and made strange cracking sounds, and Brohammer invaded my thoughts. I relived what Jimmy had told me, and I wished to talk it over with someone and get a second opinion. I had come up with a plan, but I would’ve benefited from some advice and help enacting it. Already, I’d considered telling Cass and Beryl, but then Jimmy’s words of caution came back to me. Tell no one.

  Brohammer made me examine my beliefs about the human soul. I closed my eyes and talked to whatever supreme being might drift out there in the inky depths of the mysterious unknown. Perhaps I’d never know who or what really guided us.

  The war tested our humanity, and I wondered if people could really contain the far reaches of the extremes—heroism juxtaposed with greed. For some, perhaps there was no middle ground. Brohammer, so handsome, successful, and admired, seemed to have a much darker side to him, one capable of betraying his own men, our honorable soldiers who deserved nothing but praise, prayers, and help.

  And if he did, what would that cost him? What would it cost me to find out?

  After Cass came back stealthily but safely into the room, finally I slept.

  The next day, the sky was half-clear and half-dark. The sun glared down in the west, while from the east, a vast, turbulent storm churned its way in. An older gentleman in a nearby village had taken ill and needed transportation, so Lottie went for him, insisting that Cass and I rest for a few days. We loaned our extra pairs of shoes to Eve so she could use them as hiding places during her games with Poppy, and then we helped her search for new hiding spots.

  No wonder everyone had fallen in love with the boy. Told he could start his first search that day, he took off on his crutches with the enthusiasm of a kid who’s seen presents under the tree on Christmas morning. Joy on his face and his eyes dancing, he’d come back to Cass, Eve, and me within twenty minutes, presenting the ball, which he pulled out of his pocket.

  “You do have a problem, don’t you?” Cass said to Eve.

  Eve took the ball and rolled it in her hand, then answered, “Yes, he’s getting faster and faster, and he needs entertainment all day long. I’m running out of ideas. Lottie and Kitty are, too.”

  Poppy said, “Encore, encore!” Again, again!

  Eve sighed, a happy sigh.

  Cass said, “You need some new games.”

  “You think?” Eve shrugged. “Try finding toys or even some jacks or marbles in this village.”

  “I have a deck of cards,” Cass said.

  Eve straightened up and visibly brightened. “You’re not teasing me? My goodness, a deck of cards would be great.”

  “We can teach him all sorts of table games and even solitaire,” Cass mused.

  “Poker!” Eve insisted. “Will you play with us?”

  She nodded. Here in Neufmoutiers, Cass was returning more to her former self. I glanced outside and into the courtyard. Birds sang and flitted through the limbs and little trees—such a peaceful sight, but I don’t think I’d ever felt so alone.

  That evening Cass and I took a walk through the village and sat on the stoop of a house that looked unoccupied, and although we had several hours of each other’s uninterrupted company, she never said anything about the night before. It seemed she would never confide in me, and I told myself I had to accept that.

  The thunderstorm had passed over quickly in the late afternoon, leaving air so still we could hear sounds of life from the village nearby—dishes clanking and buckets being filled with water at the pump, snippets of distant conversations that floated out of open windows, children’s laughter as they scampered across the stone streets, and the building song of crickets and grasshoppers. I welcomed those sounds of ordinary living: they kept me company, my friends for the evening.

  Two days later, on the way back from a stroll with Cass, I spotted a familiar staff car in front of our château-turned-hospital-now-clinic, and lo and behold, Brohammer had come with it. He leaned against his vehicle, smoking. He called out, “You made it back to paradise,” then spread his arms open wide as if he expected me to run into them.

  I’d hoped he would come soon, but I hadn’t imagined it this soon. And still I recoiled from the sight of him. I made myself keep walking.

  Cass murmured under her breath, “Not this again,” left my side, walked past Brohammer, and stepped under the arched entry to the château.

  The moment had come, the moment I had to make a decision. Don’t hesitate, I told myself. Do as you’ve planned.

  I made myself smile at the captain as I walked up to him. “It is paradise compared to Meaux.”

  Dressed impeccably as always, he seemed to register my tone of voice as friendlier than before, and he smiled in a genuine way. For a moment he looked almost human, not a beast at all. I found myself faltering. It felt impossible that someone who could smile so beautifully could also take such advantage of others.

  “A little rest suits you. Although you’re still my beautiful girl, you were looking rather rumpled back there,” he said. How did he do it? Brohammer had perfected the art of pairing a compliment and an insult in the same breath.

  “It’s not as busy here now.”

  “Then you have no excuse. Go out for a drive with me.”

  Perfect. The last time he’d visited, I’d seen crates in the back seat of the car. Crates perhaps filled with contraband in the form of wire cutters and barbed-wire gloves. I had to find a way to look inside them without Brohammer knowing.

  He grasped my hand. Surprisingly his hand was soft like a woman’s, and not only that, almost cold to the touch, even though the outside air was warm. “Say you’ll go,” he said.

  I tried not to appear overly eager. “Maybe . . .”

  “No maybes,” he insisted.

  I shrugged. “I have to service my ambulance tonight, but perhaps I can go for a short ride now.”

  His eyebrows flew upward. “Good for you, sweetheart,” he said and then turned to the car and opened the passenger door. Before I stepped in, I stole a glance into the back seat. Crates. Several closed crates.

  As I slid in, it hit me what a vulnerable position I had put myself in. If Brohammer could profit from his own soldiers’ desire to stay alive, maybe he could do something even worse. But I told myself not to worry. Cass would figure out that I’d left with him and would let someone know if I didn’t come back shortly.

  “Where’s your driver?” I asked.

  Brohammer cranked the engine. “In the village somewhere, probably trying to find himself a stiff drink.” He jumped into the driver’s seat and got the engine rumbling.

  I had no idea what to say to Felix Brohammer as he drove us down the village lane and out into the countryside. But he had no problem filling periods of silence with stories about himself. He told me his family had ties that went back to aristocratic forebears in Sweden who lost almost everything in some kind of dispute. He claimed that his grandparents had immigrated to the USA with almost nothing but had ended up wealthy and influential. I could’ve told him that my grandparents had immigrated, too, but I wanted to share as little as possible. Reveal only what you have to, I told myself.

  As he chatted on, I couldn’t believe what I planned to do. I told myself it was justified
and important, but my head started pounding, and I had to rub my temples. The pressure inside my skull had started to build from the first moment I saw Brohammer.

  “Are you alright?” he asked as he glanced over at me with cold eyes, so in contrast to his smile.

  “It’s just a headache.”

  “That’s what they all try to say.” He almost hummed with a sly smile. “Until I convince them otherwise.” I wouldn’t look at him, but I could feel the smug, overly confident expression on his face.

  Suddenly I laughed ridiculously and let my hands fall; nothing would ease this explosion in my brain.

  Then he surprised me by finally asking me a question. Where had I come from?

  “Kentucky,” I answered.

  “Hmmm,” he murmured. “And what does your family do back in Kentucky?”

  I watched the land glide past me as he drove onward. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d sat in the passenger seat in an autocar and not the driver’s seat. I closed my eyes, letting the end of summer lie on my skin and smelling the freshly shorn grass, both sweet sensations in such contrast to riding beside Brohammer. Along with Jimmy, I’d kept Maman and Luc close to my chest. Together, like hope and dreams. I would tell Brohammer nothing about them.

  I said through a long sigh, “They’re farmers.”

  He laughed and then launched into a litany of negative comments about farmers. Something about pigs and hoes, chicken shacks, and straw mattresses. He’d assumed we were poor crop farmers, which made his interest in me even more confounding. Felix Brohammer was a snob. I wasn’t about to give him anything he might want to hear; I would say nothing about our horses. This man had a way of getting under my skin, and I began to regret my decision. I had to change the subject.

  I couldn’t appear as if rushing this, but a few moments later I said, “Could we pull over somewhere?”

  He looked surprised. “Of course, baby.”

  After he parked on a high spot along the road that afforded a bit of a view, I realized my mistake. I’d hoped for something to take him away for a moment—relieving himself, picking flowers for me, something—but I quickly realized he had nowhere to go. I had no reason to ask him to leave me alone with the car, and I couldn’t dig around in the back seat with him sitting beside me. My plan had come up utterly short.

  Instead of stepping outside the car, he pulled me closer; he wanted to kiss me. I had to keep my eyes closed, but I turned my face up to his. And let him kiss me with lips that felt soft but also chilling, like his hands.

  Everything about it felt wrong, the press of his lips like a sudden illness. For the rest of my days, the memory of that kiss would haunt me. I remembered it as one of the worst things I’d ever done.

  And yet I let him do it again, and again, until I could stand it no longer. I shifted my weight so my face pulled back a few inches away.

  He perused me. “I knew you’d come around,” he said. “But you resisted longer than most girls do.”

  What to say to that? Thank you?

  Perhaps by making him believe I’d become interested, he’d leave me alone. All along, he’d wanted more than anything to conquer me and win me over. Now that he believed he’d succeeded, maybe he’d lose interest and move on to new prospects.

  “What made you change your mind?” He cocked his head, his once-handsome face now wan and flat to me. “My good looks, my many charms, my chivalry?” He was only partially joking.

  “You were persistent.”

  “I see,” he said and smiled. “You’re still not going to shower me with compliments—I will allow you that. I’ll let you play coy for a while longer.”

  “I have to go back now. Remember I said a short drive?”

  “You just made my point!” he exclaimed.

  “I have to service my am—”

  “Your ambulance,” he interrupted. “Yes, I remember.”

  He seemed a bit peeved, but he released me and prepared to drive away.

  Pretending was squeezing the soul out of me. And yet it didn’t keep me from telling him, upon our return to the château, that I would like to take another drive the next day for a picnic, if only he could stay over. With enthusiasm, he told me that of course he could stay overnight. He assured me that he and his driver would find a place in the village to billet, and tomorrow he would procure all we needed for a special day away.

  I wondered how he could so easily abandon his duty. Where were his men? Where was he supposed to be?

  The only thing—Cass could ruin my plans if she went out tonight as well. If she interrupted me, it could put her at risk, too. So I decided to slip away earlier than she usually did and return before she woke up.

  That night the moon hung almost full against the black sky, sending silver beams of light through the tall windows of the château like the long trains of wedding gowns. Bouncing back and forth between determination and doubt was driving me mad, but tonight I had a chance to get answers. And yet this waiting—it was worse than the actual doing of something.

  When the time felt right, I rose from the bed, dressed, and eased away just as Cass had done every night since our return. Beyond the château walls, the colossal moon shone even brighter, almost as bright as the sun at dawn. My eyes accustomed to the moonlight, I could see like an owl. That meant anyone else outside or looking outside could see like an owl, too.

  But I could not let another opportunity slip away. I had to find out about Brohammer. I had to, at the very least, try.

  My shadow made a distinct black figure against a broad glade of silver. I couldn’t hide in this light; if seen, I’d have to come up with an excuse. I’d have to say I had gone for a walk to clear my mind or some such.

  The air cool on that night, the breath in my lungs felt as brittle as ice. I didn’t allow myself to hesitate. I walked on the balls of my feet as I crossed the road. Once on the other side, I realized I hadn’t even drawn a breath. I had become the stuff of this still night air.

  As I searched along the road for Brohammer’s car, I tipped a few small stones and stirred some dust in the dry spots, but still I made no sound. The village sat in eerie silence, and I didn’t know if that was a good thing or not. Few others would venture out at this very late hour, so any noise I made would reverberate.

  Then I spotted the car, in the heart of the village, parked next to the church.

  My feet hitting the ground silently, I had the sensation of flying as each step rapidly took me closer to an answer.

  Then I was leaning into the side of the church. Panting. But I had done it. I had found what I’d come for, and so far, I saw no indication that anyone had heard or seen me.

  I peeked into the car. The crates still there. Nailed shut. Nailed shut!

  I hadn’t thought of this. I hadn’t thought to bring tools with me. Obviously I had no calling as a sleuth. The crates were made of tightly slatted wood, and I couldn’t see or feel for sure what lay inside. I would have to pry one of them open. Therefore I had no choice but to retrace my steps back to the château, fetch a hammer, some oil cloths, and a screwdriver from my ambulance, and tuck them into my pockets.

  A rush of potent adrenaline surged through me as I started to make my way back to the car. Again I saw no indication anyone was awake and about. No lights in windows. No smoke from chimneys. My luck holding, maybe I could do this.

  Back at the car, I leaned over and shifted one crate closer to me. Then I wedged the flat end of my screwdriver in the seam between the lid and the body of the crate. I used an oil cloth to muffle the sound of tapping the hammer against the handle of the screwdriver. It would take a while. The lid barely budged, so I kept on hammering, over and over. My hands began to sweat, and my heart raced as time ticked away.

  After what seemed like forever, one corner of the lid lifted off an inch or so. The nail was still in place connecting the two pieces, but I thought I could reach inside . . . I tried and could get a few fingers into the interior, but they landed on nothin
g. I would have to either loosen another corner or keep lifting this one, perhaps removing a nail.

  Even though the night remained cool, my forehead started sweating, too. It took all my concentration to tap powerfully enough to cause a little movement, but quietly enough to make no sound. After about a half hour of more muted hammering, I’d made no progress. My shoulders ached. I had to remove the nail.

  Using the hammer, I hooked the nail head with the claw and pulled to lever it out. At first it didn’t move, but when I tugged with just a bit more strength, it gave way quickly and made a high-pitched screech that rang shrilly through the air. It shuddered through my bones and teeth. Then it echoed back.

  I dropped to my knees. How had this happened? I’d had no idea it would lift out so abruptly and make such an awful noise.

  Surely someone had heard that screech and would soon peer out of a window, so I shimmied flat on my stomach to get under the car. My heart pounding so hard, my entire body shook, and my breath came out in short, silent puffs. Time stopped ticking forward, and only my breathing and heartbeats let me know the minutes continued to pass. I still held the hammer in my fist, the nail still caught in the claw. But I’d left my oil cloths and screwdriver in plain sight.

  Then the low rumble of voices broke the silence and the scrape of boots as someone—or was it two people?—walked closer. They would probably notice the oil cloths and screwdriver. They would probably see that a crate had been shifted, and the corner had been lifted off.

  I bit my lip until I tasted blood. If whoever came toward me noticed anything amiss, they would probably think to look under the car and catch me red-handed, my purpose obvious. No stories came to mind. I would have to admit to my plan.

  A man said in English, “I’m telling you I heard something.”

  “Heard what?” said a different voice. Brohammer! The other man had to be his driver. “Be quiet, damn you. All I can hear is your fucking feet clacking on this fucking street. I can’t hear anything else.”