by Mick Bose
“I’m sorry you had to endure all that at work,” he said, his face serious.
“No one seems to know what’s going on. The intruder got through to the main site without any signs of a break-in. That’s why they interrogated us. Thank God, I had nothing to hide.”
“I was going to call you,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I’m going to have to leave tonight.”
She was quiet for a while, trying not to let the disappointment show. “Guess this is goodbye then.”
“No Jocelyn, it’s not.” He knelt on the floor close to her, holding Jocelyn’s hand. “This isn’t goodbye. I want you to come and see me in New York.”
Jocelyn tried to smile, but he felt the sadness radiate from her. “I would like to see you again,” she said.
“Me, too. Would you like some coffee, while I have a quick shower? Just use the phone.”
Becker had a cold shower and came out, rubbing himself dry. He looked across the room and his heart turned to ice.
Jocelyn was standing by the bed. She held the key ring in one hand and the plastic bag with his dirty boots and vest in the other. Shock and fear were spreading across her face, her mouth open.
“It was you.” Her voice was trembling. “You stole my key and got in the office. It was you—”
She broke off and ran for the door. He caught her easily and pinned her down on the floor. He dropped his knee onto her back and reached for his kukri in the table drawer. She fought underneath him, but his weight kept her trapped.
He ripped the kukri out of its scabbard and grabbed her hair, pulling her neck back. She opened her mouth to scream, but before any sound came, Becker plunged the kukri down. It pierced the flesh of her neck, travelling down her clavicle and puncturing the top of her lungs. Her eyes bulged with pain, then her head drooped.
*****
Becker worked fast. He wrapped the body in bed sheets. The bleeding had lessened, but dark crimson liquid still soaked through. He shifted a rug over the stained carpet. In two bags he packed his change of clothes, the documents, and the detonators he had stolen from the site. In a third bag he jammed the wet clothes from last night. He checked his kukri and, as always, the secret code book.
It was 5.30 pm.
He shoved the corpse under the bed. It was crude, but there was no other solution. He hadn’t wanted this. Now a murder trail would lead back to Jeff Hurst in New York—the name booked into the hotel. That alias was blown. He still had Paul Becker, but he needed another identity. Something new.
Finishing his packing, he checked himself in the mirror. The small suitcase with his clothes was in one hand, the travel bag holding his stolen items on his back, like a rucksack. In his other hand he had the bag with clothes to be discarded.
As he closed the door, a worrying thought came in his mind.
The waiter. Under police interrogation, the man would crack. He should have killed him. Becker shook his head. He didn’t like leaving loose ends. But what could the man say? Merely that Becker—or Jeff Hurst—wanted to know the back entrance, so he could be discreet. The waiter knew nothing else. The address in the hotel registration was a fake.
He didn’t have time to kill the waiter. Becker needed to just go. Carrying his bags, he went down to the reception, settled his account and said he would walk to the station.
On the way, he stopped at two different trash cans, dropping the rainproof coat in one, and the wet shoes, rope and black shoe shine in another.
He waited impatiently at Union Station, pacing up and down. He needed to get to New York. The Imperial Army Headquarters urgently had to know what he’d found.
CHAPTER 9
Maggie Myers gripped a thick weed and pulled with all her might. The plant had wrapped itself around the root of the apple tree. Maggie sighed—she hated weeds. When she turned the soil the first time, it often did this. The apple trees grew, but so, for some reason, did the weeds. With the back of her hands Maggie tried to wipe sweat from her brow. She looked ahead of her and the sight pleased and troubled her in equal measure. Row after row of apple trees, but with the weeds spreading around the roots. She should have let Papa do the work. Deep down, she felt bad to see him bend his back to prepare the ground. He’d done it for so many years, but now it didn’t seem fair to trouble him.
She remembered when Papa was strong, with his weather-beaten face. With Mama and her aunt Sophia they sat outside in summer evenings, swinging on the big rocker on the porch. Papa told her stories about the Indians. About one Indian prince in particular called Tecumseh, a great Shawnee leader who wouldn’t yield to the white man. But his death in 1812 began the decline of Indian fortunes in the mid-west.
“Were we better than the Indians, Papa?” Maggie asked one night. Crickets chirped in the darkness, and the firelight danced shadows on their faces.
Papa shook his head. “In many ways, the Indians looked after the land better than us. They were skilled at cultivation. They grew many colours of corn, and eight or ten rows. In between, they grew squash, pumpkin and melons. It`s called cross fertilisation.”
“So what happened to them, Papa?”
Papa smiled at her in the darkness. She could only see the white of his teeth. “People come and people go, sweetheart. It’s the way of the world. One day, we will also be gone. But this,” Papa spread his arm. “This land will always be here. The Indians, then us, we are just waves in the ocean of time. We come and go. When we’re gone one day, the plants, animals, the stars and sky will still be here. The Indians knew that. Guess we do, too. The land was a God for them, and they believed in it.”
Maggie was seventeen years old then, and she never forgot what her father said that night. She didn’t fully understand what he meant, but felt a kinship to the land and knew Papa was trying to put that into words.
Looking back now, it made her sad. Papa worked incredibly hard to keep the farm going. With him now ill, even with Maggie and a farmhand, it was getting harder. She didn’t want to think about it, but knew the solution—for her to get married. She wasn’t beautiful, Maggie knew that. But neither was she ugly. Her lips were full and wide, which gave her mouth a bigger shape than she liked. She had a small nose, “pretty like a button”, as Papa used to say when she was young. Her eyes were a deep, dark blue with pale irises.
She shook her hair as the sun found its way through the apple trees. The hem of her skirt was tied above her knees exposing white legs, but she didn’t care. You couldn’t do a man`s job dressed as a woman.
There was no choice about getting married. Maggie knew of the women calling themselves suffragettes, advocating education, getting the vote and working the same jobs as a man. It sounded absurd, but Wyoming had already given women the vote. They still weren’t allowed bank accounts. If some day they did… then maybe Maggie could employ farm hands? Make the farm profitable. And then, would she still have to get married?
Marriage seemed a distant thought, but she would like to be with a man. The thought made her blush. It happened once, after a Harvest Dance with Alfred Newman, one of the two Newman brothers from the nearby farm. She had known Alfred and his brother Eric since they were children. Attracted to Alfred, Maggie stole a few kisses when their parents came over for Sunday dinner, but at the Harvest Dance two years ago, it finally happened. Alfred had a friend in Cleveland who could get these things called skins. They stopped a woman from having a baby. The excitement had been unbearable, but the act itself was over quickly. A stab of sharp pain, a rush of pleasure, then Alfred rolled off her, barely after he had begun.
That was last year, before Alfred left for France. While he was here, their summer romance blossomed. She remembered how different Alfred looked in his new uniform. How handsome. When the inevitable goodbye came, she cried all night.
She felt sad now thinking of Alfred again. She missed him. Where was he? Was he still alive? He promised to write, but it was more than a year since even his parents heard from him.
*****
Maggie rode Lucky back to the house. Papa was supposed to be working in the barn, trying to deliver a foal. Their two Percheron horses were vital to running the farm. Percherons were heavy horses, useful for pulling carts and tilling the field. The foal would be a welcome addition.
She stopped outside the stables and tried to peer in. To her surprise, she only saw the farmhand.
“Johnny, how did it go?” she called.
The farmhand came out, wiping his hands on his trousers. He was young and worked for several farms. “It went well. The Goddess delivered a healthy foal.”
The Goddess was the eldest Percheron, a ten-year-old called Goddess of Frango.
“Good,” Maggie beamed. “But where’s Papa?”
Johnny sneezed and coughed a few times before replying. “He said he wasn’t feeling well. He went inside to rest.”
Maggie frowned. “You seem under the weather as well, Johnny. Go on, take the day off. You’ll get paid, don’t worry.”
Johnny wiped his nose. “Shucks, thank you Miss Myers. Tell your father I’ll be here at sun up.”
At the house, the mesh door was open and the kitchen empty.
“Mama,” Maggie called. No one answered. She tried the dining room and the patio. Nobody.
Maggie went upstairs to her parent`s bedroom. The door was ajar. Heart beating loudly, she pushed it open.
Her mother was kneeling beside the bed. Her father lay on his back, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling.
Miranda told Maggie hoarsely, “He has a fever, Maggie. Go call Dr Thomson.”
CHAPTER 10
Maggie stared at her father`s pale face.
“What did you say, mama?”
“I said, go call the doctor.”
“No,” Maggie whispered, almost to herself. “Before that.”
Miranda Myers put her hand on her husband`s forehead. “He has a fever.”
Maggie frowned. Soldiers returning from France were bringing a deadly strain of influenza into the country with them. Maggie had read newspapers at the library, finding out about the war, and saw the articles on the epidemic.
Her mind raced. How could Papa…? Then she thought about Johnny. Fear erupted inside her like a volcano.
“Mama, doesn’t Johnny have a cousin in the Army, at Fort Sherman?”
Miranda heard the urgency in her daughter`s voice. “Yes, he does. He went to see him last week, he told me. So?”
Maggie reached tugged at her mother`s arm, almost tipping her over backwards.
“Maggie, what on earth are you doing?”
“Mama, you need to leave Papa alone. Come downstairs with me right now!”
Miranda stood up, looking bewildered. “Why? He’s ill, Maggie. He needs help.”
“Yes, he does, but so do we. Just listen to me, please. Come down and I’ll explain.”
Miranda let herself be pulled out of the room. Maggie shut the door firmly.
In the kitchen, she rummaged around until she found a long piece of linen and a pair of scissors. She put these on the table.
“Mama, go wash your hands with soap. You have the germ on you.”
Miranda was aghast. “What germ? What`s possessed you today, Maggie?”
“Listen to me, Mama. Thousands of soldiers and nurses returning from the war have been dying from influenza.”
“From what?”
“Influenza, Mama. It spreads when we sneeze or speak. Or if we touch people who have become infected.”
“And you think Johnny might have got it from someone at Fort Sherman?”
“Yes,” Maggie said. “It could be his cousin or someone else. But I know for a fact many soldiers in Fort Sherman are sick and in quarantine. I read it in the Cleveland Post, when I went with Papa into town.”
Miranda`s hand went to her throat. “Oh my God, Maggie. You don’t think your Papa—”
“All I know is we have to be careful. Go and wash your hands—and blow your nose while you’re at it.”
While Miranda went to wash her hands, Maggie used the white linen to create two makeshift masks, putting one on. She ran to the mirror in the dining room and checked. It wasn’t ideal, but the newspaper article advised at least something should be worn when caring for someone with influenza.
She heard her mother come out of the bathroom and went to meet her. Miranda stopped short, her eyes were wide.
Maggie lowered the mask. “The germs spread through our nose and mouth. So we have to cover like this. Here, let me show you how to tie it.” She used the mirror to show her mother. Then both women put aprons on.
“Now,” Maggie said, her voice muffled. “We can go back in and see Papa.”
Overnight, Karl Myer`s fever grew. Dr Thomson came to see him the next evening, wearing his own mask, apron and gloves. When he came out, he shook his head at the two women waiting.
“His fever is bad. I’ve left him some aspirin and sedatives. Make sure he has plenty of fluids.” He looked at Maggie with admiration. “And well done to recognise it for what it was. If only others were as sensible as you, we wouldn’t have this epidemic in the first place.”
The next day, Karl Myers opened his eyes for the first time. Maggie was with him. Dr Thomson told her not to touch him unless needed, but she couldn’t help but hold his hand as his eyelids fluttered open. He looked around, his eyelids still heavy with fever, and then raised himself on his elbows and tried to sit up.
“Maggie? Is that you?”
Maggie nodded. “Yes Papa.” Haltingly, she told him what had been happening. Her father`s eyes began to close and his face dropped forward on his chest.
Over the rest of the week, Karl`s fever rose and fell. After three days the hallucinations began. He spoke to no one, staring straight ahead, ignoring his wife and daughter. He refused food, but accepted a few spoons of soup. He had no strength to sit up in bed and needed help getting to the bathroom. It took all of their strength. Karl realised this and preferred to crawl to the bathroom, but Maggie wouldn’t allow him. On the fourth night, as the fever rose high despite the aspirin, Maggie was supporting her father back onto his bed when she felt him pull on her hand.
In the flickering light of the kerosene lamp Karl looked haggard. His eyes were sunken, his cheeks collapsed. He tried to bring his face closer to Maggie`s, but she pressed on his chest gently, forcing him back on the bed. He wouldn’t let go of her hand.
“Maggie,” his voice rasped. It sounded like a wounded animal trying to escape its cage. “Maggie…”
“Yes Papa, I’m here.”
“I’m sorry Maggie. I’m sorry you have to…”, his voice became lost in a convulsion of coughing.
“Shh Papa, try to sleep.”
She brushed her hand over his forehead. She stroked his cheek lightly to say goodbye. It came away wet with tears.
After a week, Dr Thomson arrived again. “He’s holding his own. Tough cookie, your father. I was worried, because he had the stroke last year as well, but I think he’ll pull through.”
The next day the sweating began. Karl`s bed sheets had been changed regularly, but it seemed as if a hundred taps had been turned on inside his skin. Rivers of sweat flowed out of his body. The sheets were soaked and needed to be changed twice a day. Maggie and Miranda took turns at night to stay awake, like sentries guarding a treasure, and washing the linen added to their already exhausting routine.
But the sweating calmed the fever. Like a cloud lifting, Karl Myers became more alert and able to sit up in bed. He walked around his bedroom slowly, stooped at the waist. Even that exhausted him, and more than once the two women found him stretched out on the floor, weary with the effort.
On the tenth day Karl Myers asked for food. He was sitting up in bed, his cheeks freshly shaved and his eyes clear and shining.
“I feel like a rabbit stew,” he told them, smiling. The two women beamed back at him.
CHAPTER 11
Tunney put the key into the front door of his tenement b
lock and trudged up the stairs to his first-floor apartment. The front bay windows looked out at Central park opposite. It was the main reason he rented the place. In the summer, he could see the oak and mahogany trees in full bloom, hear the laughter of the children running around the park. The one-bedroom apartment was sparsely decorated. The living room had a sofa, a table and two chairs. A gramophone machine in the corner didn’t work anymore.
Corell and the boys from the department had come for some drinks at the apartment after he rented it. As he sank down on the sofa in the dark living room, the memory came back to him. That was when Aoife was still here. Aoife Murphy. The woman who was going to be his wife one day. Until it all went wrong. There hadn’t been a specific incident. No explosive arguments. No slamming of doors or calling each other names. The breakdown had been a desultory, gradual slipping, a slow slide into an abyss where they simply stopped speaking to each other.
He didn’t blame Aoife. She was a happy, country girl from New Jersey, a second-generation Irish immigrant like himself. They met at her uncle`s house through mutual friends. The attraction had been instant. The dark, serious Tunney, impassioned about his police work, and the happy blonde, sun-freckled, blue-eyed Aoife. The bright lights of Broadway shimmered in her eyes the first time she visited, and stayed burning when she moved in.
When did the fire burn out?
Tunney put his feet up on the table and sighed. He guessed when the reality of living in Manhattan began to bite. The high rent, the low salary of a New York State policeman, the distant, almost impossible prospect of being able to move to the suburbs and buying a big house. Tunney had no family money—unlike Aoife`s landowning family. Yes, the family too had been an issue. Not his father-in-law, but the mother, who said Aoife was marrying beneath her station. She even suggested they move to the farm. But Tunney wouldn’t move out of New York. He was born here, in the Bronx. He grew up in its streets. No one could take the city out of him. Or take him out of the city.