by Kit Frazier
I shook my head, feeling sick too.
“It was my great-grandfather,” she whispered, crying now. “He forced Grynszpan to create those coins, and then he escorted him to a train leaving Austria, and then Grynszpan was gone. Forever.”
She shivered.
“Selena,” I said, but she was on a roll now and I would have been hard-pressed to stop her.
Selena shook her head. “Oma said she and her family escaped Austria and came to Argentina. Argentina, Oma said, was going to be the beginning of a new generation.” Selena smiled a strange smile. “That’s what we called my grandmother. Oma. She refused to be Abuelita, like the other grandmothers. She had great contempt for Argentina and its people.”
Selena sighed. “I am half Argentine you know. No matter what I do, it is never good enough to win her love.”
I winced, wondering what it would be like to grow up hating half of what you were. The Austrian grandmother who would never accept her granddaughter of mixed blood.
And I wondered if that was enough to make Selena sign those bills of lading. But it didn’t make sense. I couldn’t imagine fragile little Selena knowing what she was signing knowing that those bills of lading would be used to smuggle coins that had caused so much pain. Knowing those bills of lading would eventually be the death warrant for her husband.
“Selena,” I said, “Did you sign forms to get the animals from Argentina to the United States?”
She looked confused. “I signed many things. Why?”
“I think some of what you signed brought those coins your grandmother spoke of to the United States,” I said, looking at the coin. “Are you trying to tell me your grandmother was a Nazi?”
She flinched at the word, but shrugged. “My great-grandfather served in the Third Reich.”
“That’s terrible, but what difference does it make? I thought most of the escaped Nazis were caught and taken to Nuremberg to be brought up on charges for war crimes.”
“Not all of them. They extradited the famous. My great-grandfather was famous. My grandmother, she was not so famous.”
“Selena,” I said, feeling like someone sitting on my sternum. “I think maybe that wasn’t a fairy tale.”
Selena looked down at the coin as I looked around the shed. “They’re here, I just know it,” I said, and caught sight of the open paint can. Gripping the screwdriver, I knelt and stirred the clotted paint and found nothing but a terrible fashion faux-pas best abandoned thirty years ago.
Leaning over the towering stack of cans, I began tapping the bases, listening for irregularities.
“Selena, can you give me a hand?” I said. She wandered over, watching as I moved the cans, prying lids and stirring as I went.
I wrenched the lid off the third can, jamming the screwdriver into the green paint and hit something hard about an inch from the rim. It was filled with paint, but there, just below the surface, were the gold coins.
“Oh!” Selena said on a breath.
I fished one of the coins out and wiped it clean with one of the old rags from the box bench, and there, in the dim, yellow light, shown the golden image of a perfect, two-headed eagle.
“Holy shit,” I swore, pulling my cell phone out to dial Logan. “We’ve got to get out of here.” My pulse kicked up 100 beats and I looked at Selena. Her eyes were wide, her face pale. “I can’t promise everything’s going to be okay, but Scooter’s parents, they love you. They’ll help you, they’ll take care of you and your ‘
The phone was ringing, but the sound of clapping hands stopped me cold.
“Very touching.”
I could smell him before I saw him.
I turned, cringing to find what I already knew. Van Gogh’s large body loomed in the doorway at the back of the shed.
“Drop the phone or I will be very pleased to blow a large hole in your pretty little head.”
He smiled, and I noticed he was missing four front teeth. Assessing the situation, I dropped the phone, careful not to click the off button.
Selena scrambled toward the wall, the gun shaking in her hands. “Get back!” she said, pointing the gun at Van Gogh.
“There is no need for that, querida,” a female voice said, and Selena’s mother stepped into the light.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Selena Obregon stood just inside the back door, dressed in crisply tailored Liz Claiborne. She looked a lot like her daughter, except she was holding a great big gun in a way that looked like she knew how to use it. I’d seen that kind of gun before. It was the same kind of rhino-killer that John Fiennes carried.
The older woman lowered her cool gaze on me. “Where is it?”
She hadn’t seen the coins, and I slipped the one I’d just wiped clean into my back pocket.
“Where is what?” I said, trying to look innocent.
Without warning, Van Gogh punched me hard on the cheekbone. Stars exploded behind my eyes and I tumbled backward, landing on my cell phone, which skidded across the dusty floor. Apparently innocent isn’t my strong suit.
A gun shot rang in the rusty air and someone grunted.
“Ach!” Van Gogh roared. “She shot me!” He kicked me in the ribs and I rolled with the blow, and before I knew it, he had Selena by the throat. “She shot me!”
“Stop!” I screamed. “She’s going to have a—”
“No,” Selena choked beneath his grip. Shaking her head as much as she could under his fat fingers. I met her eyes and went quiet.
“Enough, Cronin!” Obregon said. “Let her go.”
Her eyes were sharp and there was no affection in her voice. The smell of cordite hung heavily in the musty air.
“But Zorra,” he growled. “She fucking shot me!”
My head throbbed and my face felt wet. Blood, I thought. Too much blood, and then I realized I’d knocked over the paint can. I got to my knees and looked up at Selena’s mother.
“Zorra,” I said and despite the pain in my head and ribs, I laughed out loud. “Vixen. You’re what Diego DeLeon was twisting my arm about and what Scooter was trying to tell me.”
And what Sam the bird had been trying to say when he’d warbled, Zorra.
She smiled a beatific smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “It makes no difference now.”
I shook my head and couldn’t stop the hysterical bubble of laughter. “It wasn’t Selena,” I whispered. “It was you. You signed those bills of lading to import the animals from Argentina, and you smuggled the coins with the animals. The animals were in bad shape, so they would smell horrible the low level guys in customs would be less likely to thoroughly search a cage full of urine and feces. And you probably engineered the deal with El Patron to get the animals here with a minimum of fuss. And you’re ready to let your daughter take the fall for it.”
“She shot me!” Van Gogh said like we hadn’t heard him the first time. He was touching his fingers to the bloody bullet hole in his shoulder. “She fucking shot me.”
“Silencio!” Obregon snapped, staring down at the overturned paint can. “Just shut up!”
She had seen what I had seen.
There, in the clotted green paint was the distinct shape of dozens of large coins.
“My legacy,” Obregon’s voice shook, her eyes wide as she sank to her knees, dirtying her designer skirt. Her blue eyes gleamed over the grimy gold the way they’d never gleamed for Selena.
“Get them up and get this loaded,” she said, motioning Van Gogh toward the van with her gun.
“You heard her,” Van Gogh said. I nearly screamed when he grabbed me by the hair and yanked me to my feet.
Selena was still cowering in the corner. “Blanche DuBoise after all,” I muttered.
“Shut up,” he yelled and I set my jaw. I was dizzy. Blood and paint trickled down the side of my face, but I grabbed two of the heavy cans and went for the door, Selena’s mother pointing her big gun at me as I moved.
Selena picked up two paint cans and followed. I blinked in surprise
.
“Selena,” her mother said. “Stop it. You are behaving like a peasant.”
Selena gave her mother a withering look worthy of aristocracy and followed me out to the van, which was parked in flat area along the back of the shed.
In the van, we stacked the paint cans in the cargo area behind the spare tire. Selena’s mother stood in the doorway of the shed, watching like a prison guard.
“I don’t get it,” Selena said. “Why would smuggle the coins? Why not just bring them in?”
“And risk having them confiscated?” I said.
Selena nodded. “Or taxed.”
As we made our way back to the shed to load more cans, Obregon and Cronin were busily wiping the green paint from the coins I’d dumped when I hit my head.
“Give that to me,” Obregon said, and Cronin looked like she’d slapped him. “They belonged to my grandfather.”
I swallowed hard as the realization hit me full on. “I’ve been touching Nazi gold. People died for that gold.”
“Yes, well, certain collateral damage is to be expected.”
An oily knot slid through my stomach. “And you killed Scooter for money.”
“It’s not money!” Obregon snapped, and beside me, Selena began to sob softly.
“Enough Selena, this belongs to me. To our family,” Obregon said. “Vamanos. Time is wasting. Get the rest of those cans into the van.”
I looked around for a way out of this mess but didn’t see an end in sight. With some effort, Selena lifted two more cans and followed me. Grunting, we moved toward the van, the wire handles of the paint cans digging into the soft flesh or our fingers.
As we shoved the cans into the cargo hold with the others, I noticed keys in the ignition. Well, well. Maybe Ms. Obregon wasn’t as smart as she thought. Or maybe she thought we were really stupid.
“The only reason they are telling you this is because they are going to kill you,” Selena whispered as we went back for the last of the cans.
“They’re going to try,” I said. “The keys are in the ignition. We may be able to get out of here, but we need to split up make it harder for them to catch us. Can you run?”
She nodded.
“You know the way up to the house?”
She scowled at me. “Of course. Coach and Golly live there.” Her face softened. “Scooter and I used to skinny dip in the pool, just under the falls.”
I couldn’t help the wry smile. We had more in common than we’d thought. “I’m going to cause a distraction. When I do, you head for the house. Get up there and dial 911. They’re doing periodic patrols out here so it won’t be long. Tell them to call the FBI office and ask for Tom Logan. Tell him it’s an emergency. I’ll run for the van. You’re mother will probably follow you, so you’ll have to move quickly.”
“You overestimate mi mama,” Selena said. “She has waited for this day her whole life. She will stay with the coins.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “But she’s your mother.”
“Move!” Van Gogh yelled. “Get those cans into the van.”
One final shove and Selena and I trudged back to the shed, breathing deeply. At least now we had a plan. It wasn’t a very good one, but it was all we had.
“Inside,” Obregon said, jerking her gun toward the door. My eyes darted around the dark, hilly landscape. If we ran right now, one of us would get shot. Probably me.
My mouth was dry and my head was pounding as we ducked through the back door and into the shed.
Selena’s mother held the last paint can, and her eyes gleamed in the dim, dust-moted light. “Selena,” she said. “Get into the van.”
Inside the darkness of the shed, Selena bowed her head. “No.”
We all went quiet.
“What?” Her mother’s composure cracked around the edges and her voice was shrill.
Selena didn’t look up, but her voice grew stronger. “I said, I’m not going with you, Mama.”
Holy hell. This was not the plan.
“Don’t be ridicula, Selena. Get in the van.”
Selena set her jaw.
“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Van Gogh said, and he swung his fist hard, hitting Selena in the back of her head. There was an awful cracking sound and Selena fell forward over the shovel and crumpled on the floor.
“That was unnecessary,” Obregon snapped.
“She will be easier to carry,” Van Gogh said over his shoulder as he rolled the spare tire out of the van and into the middle of the shed.
My stomach twisted.
“Now,” he said to me, grinning a wide, toothless grin. “What to do with you?”
I stared at the tire and broke into a cold sweat. This man was going to chop off my ear and torch me in a rotten Firestone. From the dusty floor, Selena made a small gurgling noise in the back of her throat.
“She’s hurt,” I said, dropping to my knees. “Jesus,” I said, looking up at Obregon. “What kind of a mother are you?”
I pressed my fingers to Selena’s neck. Her breathing was feathery, her pulse fluttered.
In my peripheral vision, I could see Van Gogh advancing on me, his knife glinting in the dim light.
“This is not the time to be clever,” he growled.
I leaned toward Selena’s still features and whispered, “I’m sorry.” Her head bounced as I jerked the shovel from beneath her.
Van Gogh lurched at me, the knife arcing wide, but I came up swinging. I swung the shovel hard and felt the impact all the way up both arms as the metal made contact his head. Van Gogh howled, and everything happened at once.
“You bitch!” he screamed. He’d aimed the knife at my heart, but my body rebounded after I hit him with the shovel. I went pivoting from the impact. Sharp, jagged pain ripped from my tailbone, around to the front of my thigh, slicing deep as I spun.
He staggered backward into Obregon, who dropped the paint can and toppled off her designer heels.
I was operating on pure adrenaline, and despite the fiery pain in my leg, I windmilled the shovel over my head to hit him again.
Van Gogh caught the shovel in his free hand and jerked me toward him. He wrapped his big arm around my neck.
My hip hurt like hell and pain shot from my spine to upper thigh, but I twisted under his grip, hoping to squirm out of his hold. I couldn’t break free but in the scuffle, I knocked over the last paint can and kicked it so that it rolled, hoping to cause a distraction. He squeezed my neck harder, and I thought he was going to crush my throat.
Think, Cauley. Where are his weak points? I couldn’t reach his bullet wound, so I bit his big fat forearm. You’d think some thugs would learn.
“Ach!” Van Gogh yelled, squeezing harder and I heard a strange but familiar voice.
“I’ll take that.”
A shadow passed over us and Van Gogh turned toward the front door where John Fiennes stood, holding his large pistol steady. Selena’s mother made a terrible hissing noise, but she steadied herself and smoothed her skirt.
“Get out of here, Fiennes,” Van Gogh said. “This doesn’t concern you.”
“I think it does,” John said. Without breaking his aim, he reached down and stopped the rolling paint can. Carefully, he pried the lid off and laughed, softly.
“So,” he said. “It’s true then.”
Nobody moved.
“John,” Obregon said. “We paid you to help transport the cargo safely we’ve upheld our end of the deal.”
“The deal has changed,” he said simply, tamping the lid back onto the paint can with the butt of his gun.
“What?” I said, choking under Van Gogh’s grip.
“I’ll kill her,” Van Gogh said. I tried to gasp for breath and couldn’t.
John shrugged. “Do what you must,” he said, picking up the paint can. “She knows too much, anyway.”
My eyes widened as John pointed his big gun at me.
He pulled the trigger. The noise was deafening and nearly shook the shed. I wanted to clo
se my eyes, but couldn’t, and I swear I felt the big bullet buzz by as it hit Van Gogh between the eyes.
Van Gogh’s grip around my neck loosened slightly as he slumped to the floor, but his arm was heavy and he didn’t let go. I fell with him, scrambling to get out from under his dead weight.
Selena’s mother made a break for the back door. John caught her by the back of her neck and slammed her into the wall.
“Oh, no you don’t.” He took her gun and shoved her hard into the corner. At the front door, he pulled the chain through the knothole and padlocked the door from the inside.
“A fine example of a mother,” he said. “I do not wish to hit you, Zorra, but I will.”
Pointing his gun at Obregon, he set the paint can down and checked Selena’s pulse.
“In case you are concerned, your daughter is alive,” John said, and slipped Selena’s little gun into his waistband. “Your friend Cronin, however, appears to be very dead.”
“I knew it,” I said, rubbing the choke-marks on my neck, feeling dizzy. “I knew she was lying. You’re not with them.”
John moved toward me, and I could feel his advance with my whole body. “Cauley,” he said softly. “You are entirely too trusting.”
“You’re a Nazi?” I said, my voice ringing in disbelief.
“I’m a businessman,” he said. “Do you know how much that gold is worth?”
“I know the value in human life and what you people put on it.”
He gave me that killer smile that had once melted my bones. With his hands on my shoulders, he turned me around and examined the gash in my hip. “You will live,” he said.
He pulled out his cell phone and called an ambulance, then ratcheted back the slide a bit on Obregon’s gun, checking for ammunition.
“You’ve got one bullet. Use it wisely. And don’t let anybody take this from you,” he said, pressing the gun into my hand.