Arms of Deliverance

by Tricia N. Goyer

  “Lee O’Donnelly? Used to be, but lately she’s been trying her hand at hard news, which in my opinion still needs work. I mean 99 percent of the questions she asked the senator had to do with catching up on old times.”

  “Sounds like she’s clued in on Rule Number 25.”

  “Rule 25?”

  “It’s not what you know, it’s who you know.”

  Mary grinned and crossed her arms over her white blouse. “Yeah, yeah. You’re right. But it’s still my guess she won’t last another month.”

  Mary scanned Paul’s letter of recommendation one more time, then folded it and slid it into a plain white envelope. “Okay, I’ll include this with my application. But if this sweetheart thing doesn’t pan out, I swear you’re gonna owe me more than a slice of pie. More like a whole meal.”

  Paul rose, unfolding his tall frame from the chair. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and she leaned into his embrace.

  “Your faith in me means so much.”

  The news phone let out a shrill ring. Paul squeezed her shoulder, then grabbed his pencil and pad. “Good luck. I just hope running your application down to the main office doesn’t take too much time away from tomorrow’s deadline.”

  “You kidding? I have a scoop in the same neighborhood.” She winked, then slid on the blue blazer that Paul always complained reminded him of the ones worn by the students at St. Francis Boarding School for Girls.

  He pulled out a cigar from his shirt pocket and tucked it between his lips. “Get outta here, kid. There’s an assignment over the big blue pond that has your name all over it. And whether you like it or not, you’re already a sweetheart in my book.”

  Eddie Anderson slung his musette bag over his shoulder and hurried toward the large brick barrack, noting stares from other officers lounging around the manicured lawns and checking out new arrivals.

  As a member of the 91st, his new home was AAF Station 121, Bassingbourn, England—thirteen miles from Cambridge and a short distance from Royston. The truck ride to the base had driven them through a typical rural farming area, and Eddie had been surprised to find the accommodations more civilized than he’d expected.

  Since the 91st had been one of the first bombing groups in England, they’d been lucky enough to be stationed at a permanent RAF base. Other B-17 crews whom Eddie met his first night in London had warned him about cold Quonset huts and other temporary buildings hastily plopped down on the English countryside.

  Bassingbourn looked more like a country club than a temporary airfield. It had substantial brick construction, which included an Enlisted Men’s club, an Officers’ Club, steam heat in the buildings, and even indoor toilets.

  “Looks like we’ll be fighting the war as gentlemen,” Eddie’s buddy, José Garcia, had stated with a smile and a low whistle when they climbed out of the truck upon arrival.

  With the rest of his crew still in line waiting for supplies, Eddie volunteered to go on ahead to find their assigned quarters.

  Four men lounged in the sunshine—some of the first sun he’d seen since their ship docked. One guy whittled with his pocketknife, his eyes on Eddie instead of the stick. Another looked from the clear blue sky to Eddie and back to the sky again, as if expecting approaching aircraft any second.

  Eddie made eye contact with each one, nodding at their glances, still trying to take in where he really was. He’d never imagined finding himself in Europe. Once, right after high school, he’d driven from Montana to Spokane, Washington, to give a friend a ride to college. He thought that was far.

  He’d faced basic and navigational training in the States, and before that he’d been a normal high school kid floating on wooden rafts with his brother on Whitefish Lake. As they basked in the sun, they’d watched the bald eagles spread their wings, catching a ride on the updrafts, swooping and rising through the clouds. Now he was doing the same.

  He entered the barracks and spotted the officers’ assigned room. Eddie paused. Stuff was everywhere, piled on the long rows of iron cots. Clothes, shaving kits, letters opened and stacked. The smiling face of a girl—captured in a glamour shot reminiscent of Betty Grable—stared up at him from where it rested on a pillow. Every bunk appeared taken. Had he misunderstood the clerk’s directions?

  He took two tentative steps backward.

  “Sorry about this, buster.” The voice spoke from the doorway behind him. “The cleanup crew hasn’t been by yet.”

  A lieutenant, whom Eddie recognized as the whittling man, strode up. He was nearly Eddie’s height, but stockier, with reddish hair that looked as if it hadn’t been combed in a week.

  “Took off yesterday … was their tenth mission.”

  The man sank onto an unmade cot, and Eddie suddenly understood. He had a dozen questions about the guys who’d left their letters half written and their laundry unwashed, fully expecting to return. But as he opened his mouth to speak, he realized maybe it was better he didn’t know.

  “They were just one of a dozen planes lost,” the officer said. “It was a hard hit.” He sighed. “The privates haven’t had time to empty this place and clean the bunks.” He pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket, then reached over and stuck his hand under the pillow of the cot closest to the door, pulling out a silver lighter. “I’m Clifford, by the way.”

  Clifford lifted the silver rectangle toward a warm shaft of light. “Used to be mine till I lost it in a poker game. James Buch always did have luck with cards. Too bad he wasn’t as fortunate flying.”

  He lit up his Chesterfield and inhaled nearly a quarter of it on the first drag.

  “That his bunk?” Eddie cocked his chin toward the cot.

  “Was.” Clifford spoke without removing the cigarette from his lips. He glanced at the lighter one last time, then tossed it back onto the pillow. “Doesn’t seem right taking it back. You can have it or any other stuff you find useful. Only personal items will be sent home.”

  Eddie dropped his bag to the floor, uncertain of what to do, what to say.

  “The rest of your crew here?”

  “They’re still collecting supplies. I was lucky to be first in line.”

  “You a navigator?”

  Eddie furrowed his brow. “How d’ja know?”

  “The ink on your fingers gives you away—doing all those calculations, you know.”

  Eddie glanced again at the silver lighter but refused to pick it up. “Were they shot down by ground artillery?”

  “Nah. Another plane got hit and started falling before Lucy Lou could get outta the way. She split open like a ripe watermelon. I didn’t see one lousy chute. Dang Krauts.”

  “I’m sorry you lost your friends.” Eddie’s sentiments sounded lame, even to himself.

  The man rose and kicked the toe of his boot against the floor. “I’m from Kentucky, horse country. Dung is a part of life.” He took a musette bag from under the second cot and began to fill it.

  Eddie did the same with the items on the cot closest to the door. He swallowed the large lump in his throat and tossed the lighter in with the rest.

  “Just in from the States?”

  “Yup.” Eddie unfastened a photo of a young, dark-haired girl that had been pinned to the wall. He hardly gave it a moment’s glance before tucking it between the pages of a book of English poetry. Then he stuck both into the bag, wondering whose hands would unpack it—a father, a mother, the girl?

  “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me,” Eddie whispered to himself as he gathered the rest of the guy’s things.

  He wasn’t sure if Clifford heard him and really didn’t care. Eddie needed the comfort those words provided. And despite the prayer, he wondered just what he’d walked into. After all, the average crew only made it fifteen missions … yet it took thirty before they could go home.

  This place cast a shadow of death that couldn’t be denied, even on the days when the sun dare
d shine.

  Lee glanced at the address, matched it up with the weathered apartment building, and motioned to her driver. “Right there, Jimmy. Pull over next to that police vehicle. Meet me here in fifteen minutes.”

  From the front seat, her driver nodded his graying head and swerved through traffic as if on a mission from MacArthur himself.

  When the car stopped, Lee quickly jumped out. A green glob of something spattered onto the right toe of her brown leather pumps.

  “If that’s not the end-all,” she muttered. “Curses!” Without further hesitation she hurried toward the front entrance.

  “Hold that door, please,” she called to a police officer who’d just exited.

  “No way, lady. No admittance.” He held out an arm.

  “Lee O’Donnelly, New York News. I’ve already talked to Baker. He gave me the okay.”

  “Chief Baker?” The cop tilted his cap back on his head.

  Lee thrust both hands on her slender hips. “No, Chef Baker … of course the chief.”

  “Okay, lady. But I swear, if you’re pulling my leg …” He took a step back.

  The glass-inset entry door swung shut, and Lee was alone with the panel of mailboxes, the odor of dust and age, and a worn set of carpeted steps leading to the crime scene. Narrow steps creaked with each hurried footfall over one, then two flights of switchbacked stairs. Curious neighbors peered past chain-restrained doors as she alighted on the third floor landing, and a distant radio supplied a crooner’s song to the surreal scene.

  A pudgy hand held the second door on the left open partway, and she approached. A stocky police officer was exiting, along with a man dressed in a suit—undercover for sure. Lee recognized him from another story she’d recently covered. He didn’t even bother a second glance as she slid past them into the doorway.

  Investigators swarmed one of the back rooms, and a tall man in a suit stood in the immaculate white kitchen, scribbling in a leather-bound notebook. With his shoulders slouched and his face narrowed in a deep frown, he looked twenty years older than he had just this morning.

  “Well, hello, Roger. What a pleasant surprise.”

  Her brother’s blue eyes flashed her direction, and he sighed. “Sorry, can’t say the same, Sis. Aren’t you supposed to be at a fancy party?”

  Lee shrugged, realizing she still wore a strand of sapphires around her neck. Surely they clashed with the chocolate-colored suit. “Mother was trying to steer the conversation toward dessert when I got called away. She didn’t say a word, but you should have seen the look on Daddy’s face. I swear, if looks could kill …”

  “Uh, do you remember who you’re talking to? I invented that look.”

  Lee chortled as she scanned the amazingly tidy apartment. She stepped into the dining room and spotted a notepad and fountain pen resting on the polished table. There was no mail. Not even the Sunday paper. Nothing out of place. She lifted the pen.

  “I wouldn’t—”

  Her brother’s words were cut short as she realized it wasn’t a pen, but a knife fashioned to look like one. And the wet substance on the tip was definitely not ink.

  “Ugh.” She glanced down to spy more of the red substance pooled on the floor just inches from her green-globbed shoe. A thin red trail led to a back room.

  Lee’s stomach lurched, and she dropped the knife. “Thanks for warning me.”

  “As if you would have listened …”

  She eyed her brother, who was still taking notes, and sucked in a deep breath.

  Roger glanced up at her. “You okay, sis? I was only foolin’. But don’t touch anything else. We can come in, but we’re not supposed to mess up the crime scene.”

  Lee regained her poise, tilted her head, and smiled. If anyone besides Roger were standing there, she would have hurried to the sidewalk, waited for her driver, and then told her boss that she hadn’t been admitted. At least those years of etiquette class had been useful for something.

  “You’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking. And thank you for being concerned.”

  Leaving her brother behind, she hurried through the rooms, inspecting scenic photographs, neatly arranged socks in the top drawer of the bedroom dresser, and tidy stacks of Life magazines sorted by date of publication.

  Lee interviewed a few of the officers, and within fifteen minutes she had enough to write the story. She bypassed the back room with the body. It was the owner of the apartment. But from what she’d heard from the boss, he was being treated more like a suspect than a victim, a spy of some type.

  I’ve seen enough without having to bother with the dead guy.

  As her brother watched her every move, Lee jotted down one final note about the white cat with large green eyes on the sofa. The feline watched her movements with curiosity, then yawned and curled into a ball.

  “You done already?” Roger asked.

  “You know me, always eager to get on to the next thing.”

  He scratched his reddish brown hair under his gray hat. “Yeah, and you know me. I’ll still be here for hours.” He flipped through his notebook, showing her the pages he had already scribbled on. “I can’t write if I don’t have a feel for the whole thing. I mean, this was somebody’s life. A person’s dead, and I can’t dismiss the thought that I’m responsible for giving him a fair shake.”

  “Take your time then. I’ll tell Jane to save you a plate.”

  Lee gave Roger a small wave as she left the apartment, then hurried down the stairs.

  As she climbed into her waiting car, she felt sorry for Roger. He usually spent more time on stories than they were worth. It’s only one dead guy who most likely will be forgotten by his neighbors in a week’s time. And he was on the wrong side of the fence, after all.

  Lee smiled, realizing perhaps this gift for throwing a story together had to do with her training in the society pages. She’d learned to catch the slightest intricacy, such as which of the four kings—Gable, Heflin, Cooper, and Steward—was on the brink of yet another romance. Or why the leading man’s hand was placed on Rita Hayworth’s elbow rather than the small of her back as she was led down the red carpet. And what the slightest spark of interest glinting in the eyes of Rockefeller meant. These small particulars were hints of gossip-inspiring events that would soon splash through the papers—under her byline.

  Her colleagues joked, “Here comes Lee; when’s the story gonna start?”

  She glanced out the car window, eyeing the tall skyscrapers that filled her vision as they headed into the center of town. She noted the fading light reflecting off the numerous glass windows, casting a lighted hue over the city, and her mind returned to the apartment.

  The man was said to be a spy, and the police believed he’d been working alone. Lee knew that wasn’t the case. Some of the magazine clippings she’d noticed in the apartment were from Vogue—she recognized the photos. And then there were the pocked imprints in the carpet. High heels to be sure. Lee knew there was at least one more person involved, despite how well she hid herself. And Lee was certain it was something Chief Baker would be interested in hearing.

  “On second thought, can you drive me by the police station first? I need a few minutes with the chief.”

  While Jimmy slowly maneuvered the car through the busy New York traffic, Lee rested her head against the back of the upholstered seat as the words of tomorrow’s headline arranged themselves in her mind. “BOY NEXT DOOR” DISCOVERED TO BE GERMAN SPY

  Not quite.

  FRIENDLY NEIGHBOR LEADING DOUBLE LIFE

  Hmm.

  SINISTER SIDE DISCOVERED TO FRIENDLY BOY NEXT DOOR

  Almost.

  SECRET LIFE OF BOY NEXT DOOR … AND COULD HIS PARTNER BE SPYING ON YOU?

  Yes, that had a nice ring to it.

  No doubt every paper would state the facts of the dead man’s undercover work: How he got into the country. Who he was working for. What could have leaked out.

  Only her story would be different. It would bring a h
uman side to the enemy. A man who enjoyed nature photography, cared for animals, and no doubt was part of a larger network. A man who fooled even those closest to him, proving loose lips do sink ships and it never pays to deceive.

  Yes, this would be the story to prove, finally prove, what Lee had been telling her editor all along. She was ready for big news—the front lines.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The scent of cleaning supplies and cigar smoke replaced the fresh spring breeze as Hendrick stepped from a Brussels street into the building of the Office for Race and Settlement. With quick steps he moved to the third door to the right and unlocked it. Four doors down, another SS officer walked through the doorway into the space Hendrick had previously occupied. It was there Hendrick’s duties had encompassed racial cleansing—washing away the impure blood that tainted the health of their national body. And while Hendrick had performed his job efficiently, he was thankful for his promotion, moving him from an angel of darkness to a provider of hope and light.

  Entering the room, he flipped on the light switch and placed his briefcase on his desk. Then, as he did every day, he strode to the wall of children’s photographs, noting the new ones added. These captured images encouraged him and prodded him on in his work.

  The sound of a woman’s high-heeled shoes clicking down the hall filtered through the open doorway. He knew it was Lydia, his new secretary. She always dressed for him, pampered him. He made the effort to turn his eyes to the doorway as she entered, allowing her to see that he appreciated her efforts.

  “In every system of purification there are four types of people,” he said as she entered. “The cleansers and those cleansed. The bystanders and those honored to rescue others.”

  Lydia approached, her eyes daring to meet his, and handed him a file. “And aren’t we thankful, Officer Schwartz. They’re beautiful. Perfect.”

  “Yes, they are.” He winked, noting the blush rising up Lydia’s cheeks. “Blonde, blue-eyed, fair-skinned, and perfectly featured.”

  “Especially those two.” Lydia turned to the wall and pointed to the image of Hendrick’s two daughters—the photo Onna had surprised him with the week prior. Yet even Sabine’s smile could not make up for the forlorn look on Stella’s face.