by Tricia Goyer
But as she looked into his red, tired eyes, she didn’t see a killer’s hidden guilt. She saw pain, radiating from his core. Pain from a guy who felt responsible for losing someone he loved—not by his own hand, but by a dozen things that brought Kat to the place of losing her life.
“I would sing if I could, Mick. But I’m not feeling very well—”
“Stomach hurt?”
She nodded.
“Body feeling weak?”
She nodded again.
“Sounds like you’re coming down with something.” He glanced at his watch. “Too bad, too. I was second-guessing my decision about your solo. I was going to ask you to do it tonight. You know, for the final number.”
“Really?” Betty sat up. Her heart skipped a beat. Do I really want to give this up? My last song under a German moon?
“Sounds important,” a familiar voice said.
Betty lifted her focus off Mickey’s gaze and noticed Frank standing behind him.
“I think all the guys would like that.” Frank stepped forward. “You should really consider it.”
“No.” Betty shook her head. “As much as I’d love to, I just don’t think I’ll be able to sing tonight.”
Mickey nodded, and then he rose and patted her head. “I’ll let the other girls know it’ll be a duo.”
Mickey walked off, and Frank neared, sitting down beside her. “What are you doing? I thought you were going to be ill tomorrow—for rehearsal.”
“It won’t work,” she whispered. “Tonight’s the last show. They did an autopsy in England and Kat didn’t drown. She was dead before she went into the water. They’re fearful that one of us will be next. They’ll be shipping us back to England tomorrow. Tonight is the last show.”
“Last show? You’re leaving?” Frank’s eyes widened.
“Yes.” She reached out and stroked his cheek. “That’s why it has to be tonight.”
“Maybe I should just do it alone? Maybe it’s not safe…,” Frank said.
Betty jutted her chin. “I’m sneaking out of here with or without you. I sure hope it’s with you because I’d hate to be roaming the countryside alone.”
“You’re stubborn.” He placed his hand over hers, and then he turned his head and kissed her palm.
“Yes, I know.”
“But you were also right about Kat. That must make you feel justified.”
“No.” Betty looked away. “It feels horrible.” Then she lifted her eyes and met his gaze again. “It’ll only feel right when we find out who did this—and we make sure that it doesn’t happen again.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Frank could see his breath as he stood outside the back door of the Festspielhaus, waiting for Betty.
Am I doing the right thing? Am I putting her in danger? This might not have anything to do with Oskar at all. Then what?
He saw the door open, and he held his breath, waiting to see who emerged.
If we don’t find anything tonight, then nothing’s going to change the fact that Betty’s leaving tomorrow. Then I’ll just have to wait and see what the army does about investigating this.
His heart leapt in his chest when he saw her exit the building, and he scanned the area again to make sure no one was around. The jeeps—and the MPs watching over the vehicles—were parked in front. To avoid them, they could walk through the woods and find the trail, following it down the hill and past the pond, to Oscar’s house.
Betty’s eyes widened when she saw him, and she hurried toward him. She was dressed in her USO jacket and slacks, but Frank thought she looked just as beautiful as when she was dressed in her nice gowns and high-heeled shoes.
Dear God, please watch over her—
His prayer was interrupted when she opened her arms and threw herself into his hug.
“You’re here.” She sighed as if relieved.
“Yes, let’s go before we’re seen.”
It wasn’t until they made their way to the trail that he turned on his flashlight, looking to her. “Do you think anyone saw you?”
“No, I don’t think so. Oskar was busy putting up sets. Howard and the other MPs moved to the side stage to watch the show. But I bet it’s not going to be too long before they realize I’m gone.”
Frank took her hand as they hurried forward. His feet pounded on the dirt trail, and he was sure they sounded like elephants running through the woods. Yet he wasn’t worried about being quiet. He was more worried about getting to the house and checking it out before the concert ended. Then, depending on what they found there, they’d head back and hopefully search the Festspielhaus.
“Where’s your camera?” Betty said, breathing hard as she jogged beside him.
Frank slowed his pace, but just slightly.
“Art has it. He’s covering for me. I thought it would be obvious if there weren’t any bulbs flashing in the auditorium.”
“He didn’t ask questions?”
“Nope. I told him you were leaving tomorrow and it was our last chance to be together. Art’s a romantic—if that’s what you call it. He nearly kicked me out of the booth.”
They found the house without any trouble. It was a small cottage not a half-mile past Wahnfried.
Frank tried the handle on the door, but it was locked. He pushed harder with his shoulder.
Betty’s hand was on his arm. “What if Oskar finds me gone? Do you think he’ll figure it out? Come looking for me?”
“You know Oskar. He doesn’t leave the opera house until the last person is gone,” Frank said. “It’s the middle of a show. There’s no way he’s gonna leave.”
He finally forced the door open, and they slipped inside to a kitchen area. It was warm and amazingly clean. Frank shut the door. Obviously, Oskar cared for his own home as fastidiously as he cared for the opera house. They moved past the kitchen to the living room.
“Does it smell like chemicals to you?”
Frank sniffed the air. “I smell something, and gasoline too. Or at least I think that’s what I smell.”
“Maybe Oskar has something to do with the fuel thefts?”
“Could be, but what would he need that for? He builds stuff…” Frank looked at the table and bench in the room. They looked like props from some type of medieval set.
Betty touched his arm. “Speaking of that, do you think he stayed around the Festspielhaus during the war? I wonder why he didn’t go away and fight? Sometimes he carries himself as if he’s ancient, but he’s not an old man. I’d guess he’s only in his early forties.”
Frank scanned the room, and his gaze stopped on the photographs hanging on the wall. The first one was of a man, woman, and two small boys. He approached them to get a better look.
Betty neared as well, running her finger along the wood of the frame. “Is that Oskar and his wife?”
“No, it doesn’t look exactly like him. And the photograph is older. See its graininess? And look at their clothes.” He pointed to the old-fashioned suit and Victorian dress. “I’d guess it’s his parents. Maybe he’s one of the boys in the photo.”
“Yes, I think you’re right.” Betty pointed to the older boy. “I’d be able to tell that reserved smile anywhere.
They looked around some more, and Frank noticed there were many items related to opera—records, programs, and photos of Wagner. He moved down a narrow hall and found two doors. The first opened to a small, but neat, room. A wool coat hung from a peg on the wall. There were more photographs on the walls, mostly of beautiful women in stage costume—actresses Oskar had met from his work at the opera house, no doubt. I wonder if it’s hard for him? These people received fame, and he received no glory for his work. Yet without him the productions wouldn’t have gone on.
Frank looked under the bed and in the closet. He checked for loose floorboards, but he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. He rubbed his temples with his fingertips.
Maybe I’m completely off. Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions.
; He walked back into the hall and saw Betty in the living room, looking inside a cupboard. She moved quietly and carefully.
Frank hurried to the second room and opened the door. He was about to take a step in when he paused. Most of the room was dusty, all except a pile of items near the door that looked as if they’d been put there recently. Despite the fact that the words were in German, Frank recognized the crates of explosives immediately.
How did he steal so much? It’s not like someone could just walk around town with a crate like that. Frank guessed he had stolen it little by little, over time.
“Betty, I think you need to come and see this.”
She hurried to the door, glanced inside. “What is that?”
“Explosives. And look.” He picked up a floor plan for the Festspielhaus. “It looks like a layout. I can’t read all the words, but from these marks it looks as if Oskar has plans for bringing the building down.”
Betty’s eyes widened. “It is him. He’s the one.” She placed a hand over her heart. “But why?” Betty leaned against the wall, staring wide-eyed.
Frank scanned the room again. It appeared to be a child’s room. There was a boy’s toy gun. There were children’s storybooks on a table and a child’s drawing on the wall. There was also a larger photograph mounted and hanging in a frame. The photo was of a mentally handicapped boy—a mongoloid—who looked to be about ten years old.
He moved to the dresser and discovered a death certificate lying on the top. “Oskar Stein. Born January 15, 1920. Died July 20, 1938, Hadamar, Germany. Cause of death says pneumonia,” he read out loud.
“That doesn’t make sense.” Betty stepped closer. “Oskar is alive.”
“Unless…” Frank hurried to the living room and took the photo off the wall, removing it from its frame. Betty joined him, watching.
Frank pulled the photo out and read the back. 1921. “Dierk 4, Oskar 1.”
“Oskar—I mean Dierk—took on his dead brother’s name? I don’t understand. Can that be true?” Betty asked.
“I’ve heard of Hadamar,” Frank said. “The Nazis would euthanize anyone they called ‘unfit.’ Children and adults who were mentally retarded were included. Mercy killings started even before the United States was in the war. They started with mental patients who were considered incurable—useless eaters. Some people complained, but mostly just those who lost loved ones. Nothing could be done, of course. Tens of thousands of people were dead before people even understood what was happening. Many people who lost family members were told they died of natural causes.”
“How do you know this?”
“I met a man in England. He found a way to smuggle out his young daughter. She was mentally handicapped, and when he received orders that she was to go to a special hospital, he refused.”
“And so Oskar took his brother’s name? But why?”
“Maybe so he wouldn’t be forgotten, or maybe so he could live two lives. One who would care for the Festspielhaus, and one who could destroy it.”
“Destroy it?”
“I think I know what’s going on. Maybe our friend Oskar had his own plot to blow up Hitler—the man responsible for his brother’s death.”
“You mean during the Bayreuth Festival?”
“Then or perhaps another time Hitler was around.”
“But he’s German. Didn’t all the Germans love Hitler?”
“Maybe not, especially if Hitler was responsible for the death of someone he loved very much. Some of the military tried to assassinate the man; why not someone who’d lost a loved one at his order?”
“Or maybe the loss of more than one person.” Betty sat on the couch. “Oskar told me once that his mother was deaf and that his parents moved away before the war. Maybe they left so the same thing wouldn’t happen to her.”
“That’s possible. They most likely left to save his mother’s life. Maybe after what happened to his brother…” Frank let his words fade. He could tell from Betty’s face she understood.
“So he planned to blow up the opera house?” Betty bit her bottom lip. “It makes sense that he would want to end Hitler’s life, but why destroy the opera house? He adores Wagner, and Wagner is the one who designed and built the Festspielhaus.”
Frank pressed his hand to his forehead, trying to think. “You’re right, and I don’t have any idea what this has to do with Kat. It doesn’t make any sense. If it weren’t for the costume, I’d think we were heading in the wrong direction.”
Betty gripped Frank’s arm. “What if—what if he’s still planning to destroy it? I mean Hitler is dead, but the opera house is still there. If Kat got lost in the opera house, maybe she came across something—something she wasn’t supposed to.” Betty stood and looked at the photo again then returned it to the frame.
“Can you think of a motive—of why he’d want to destroy it now?”
He watched as Betty strode around the room, and suddenly she looked at him, eyes wide, as if the pieces had begun fitting together in her mind.
“Look at these things that are important to him—the music, the sets, the productions, the glory. Things are so different now. Even though Oskar was going along with the changes—like repainting old sets or the new type of music—I know he didn’t like it. In fact, maybe he was serious when he told me Wagner would never be played there again. Maybe he’d rather see it go up in flames than have to”—she swallowed hard—“to have the place sink so low because of American singers and dancers.”
Fear stabbed Frank’s heart like a frozen lance, slicing into his chest. “We need to get back there, Betty. We have to warn them. If tonight’s the last night, it’s also Oskar’s last chance.”
Frank ran back into the kitchen, with Betty trailing right behind him. It was only then he realized that they hadn’t been alone in the house. Even though he’d closed the door when they’d arrived, it was partially open now.
Were we followed? By who?
Frank opened the door wide, and before he made it two steps onto the front walk, he got the answer. In the distance, a shadowy figure was racing back to the opera house.
It was Oskar—or whatever his name was.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Betty had never run so fast in her life. She’d sprinted up the hill, and even though she trailed behind Frank, she worked hard at keeping up.
“Betty, I don’t know where Oskar went,” he called back over his shoulder. “I’m going inside. Everyone needs to clear out!”
Betty exited the woods near the back entrance to the Festspielhaus. If it weren’t for the small glimmer of light that flickered in the bottom corner of the building, she would have never known there was a door there. Heaven knew, she’d walked by it dozens of times going to and from practice and shows. Mostly hidden by bushes, the small door was painted the same color as the foundation stones.
“Frank, look,” she called. Then she moved toward the partially open door.
She pointed, and Frank paused. He seemed torn between running in to tell everyone and following Betty.
“We have to warn everyone! We have to get them out.” He headed to the back door. “Wait for me, Betty. Wait!” Then he disappeared inside.
Betty’s heart raced. There won’t be time. There will be too many people to try to get out. We have to stop him.
Betty slipped inside the small door. The music from the concert vibrated the walls around her. She recognized the music from Wally’s big band number. The moonlight from outside filtered into the room, and she could barely make out a small table and chair. She peered into the room, almost expecting Oskar to be there. Her heart pounded so hard she was sure it was going to escape from her chest. She scanned the wall and, thanks to the moonlight filtering in the door, she saw a light switch near the door.
Betty sucked in a deep breath and then stepped forward. The door shut behind her and darkness enveloped her. Stretching forward, she reached for the switch. Her hand slammed into the concrete wall and something scraped h
er leg.
Rest in the Lord, and wait patiently for him: fret not thyself because of him who prospereth in his way, because of the man who bringeth wicked devices to pass…. The scripture verse replayed through her mind, but she received no comfort. The words meant something completely different when she was alone in a dark room chasing a madman—or at least she hoped she was alone.
“Oh, God, please, please. I need help.” Before her prayer was even finished, her fingers brushed the switch. At the same time, she heard the door creaking behind her. She flipped the switch and bright light flooded the room. Then she turned, not knowing what to expect. It was Frank, standing in the doorway.
“Thank God.” She ran to him.
“I can’t believe you ran in here alone.”
“I can’t believe you didn’t follow me.”
“I saw Irene. I told her to clear the place out, and I told her to get the MPs searching the place.”
As if on cue, the music stopped. A muffled voice—Mickey’s—could be heard over the microphone, and while Betty couldn’t make out his words, from the eruption of panicked voices and stomping feet, she was sure Irene had passed the word and the opera house was clearing out.
“Betty…”
She looked at Frank’s face and saw him scanning the room. She’d been so focused on the sounds above her that she hadn’t taken time to see what was there. It looked as if someone had gone crazy with an ax. There was a theater chair that had been chopped into a thousand pieces. Photos of Hitler hung on the wall, all of them with slashes and knife marks. Scattered on the ground were song sheets, photographs, and programs from numerous Nazi events. Frank’s guess had been right. Oskar, or Dierk, had hated Hitler. She only hoped their second guess wasn’t true—that Oskar was bent on destroying the Festspielhaus, even though Hitler was gone.
“Betty, you need to leave. The MPs are no doubt taking the others back to Wahnfried. Head to the house with them. It’s not safe here. The MPs are supposed to be coming.”
“No. They don’t know Oskar. I don’t know him that well either, but maybe if I find him, I can talk to him. Or you can talk to him—about the loss of your sister. Maybe he’ll see that he’s not the only one who’s gone through that pain. More than that”—she moved down the hall, not waiting to hear Frank’s arguments. “Two sets of eyes are better than one.”