8:38.
Less than... she had to think... nine hours. Eight o’clock to seven o’clock. Nine hours.
She looked at her foot. The ankle was invisible, buried somewhere inside of what looked like a skin-covered softball. Her crutch was gone even if she could use it, and the only place left to look for the key was in the car, which was some distance away. No matter what, she had to get there. She again struggled onto her one good foot and picked up the water jug.
“I’m not coming back,” she said to no one, and began slowly putting weight on her foot, testing it. It hurt, but she was sure she could start walking again. She made it down the beach; she sure as hell could make it to Bronson’s car.
The beach house was built on stilts to better weather high tides during hurricane season. Anne stood on the porch looking at the six steps leading down to the ground. She could not remember how she got up them. She remembered the pain when she rolled down the dune and then forcing herself off the bed. In between there was nothing. I’m starting to lose parts, she worried and then tried to find a way to lean on the handrail while holding onto the jug.
By the time she came up with the idea of going down the steps on her butt, Anne was already on the third step. She leaned hard against the rail, considering how to easily sit down when, suddenly, there was a screech of ripping nails. Her mind registered the distance to the ground, the sand and weeds, a solitary rock the size of a football, and the hard edges of the rail. With nothing to be able to do but go with it she shifted slightly to miss the rock and waited for the painful landing.
A couple of sea gulls dodged the waves a dozen yards from where Bronson sat. The gulls were the furthest things from his mind. He was thinking about his parents and grandparents, and the time in 1924 when he visited his grandparents’ house. All he could think of then was how they died for no reason. That was back when he was Constantin. Constantin von Frick.
They walked together, he and Otto, the few miles from Kassel where Otto lived, to the bombed-out farmhouse. For a long time they stood on the road and stared at the ruins. Nothing had been done to it since that day in 1918. It had turned into a haven for rodents and the homeless.
“Why did it happen?” Constantin asked. The west wall was scattered about what he remembered to be the garden, now overgrown with weeds and vines. Wonderful potatoes and sweet peas and beets, as well as the cabbage he hated, used to come from that garden.
“It was war, Cousin.” Otto shrugged his shoulders. “Bad things happened in the war. They just became part of those bad things.”
Constantin looked at the holes in the roof and the blown out front door. The rock wall bordering three sides of his grandparent’s property had been reduced to rubble in two places and there were craters in the yard. He walked past the gate, still hanging on one hinge and propped back against the rock wall, and approached what was left of the front entrance. Otto quietly followed his cousin into the house.
Everything of value was gone, and what remained had been destroyed beyond value. Constantin studied a painting above a legless dining table. Two bullet holes added to its art. Several more decorated the wall around it. The painting was of the Eiffel Tower he wished as a boy he could go see, and then did as he and his parents escaped early on to America. He carefully stepped around the broken table and went into the kitchen, his six years of anger toward America growing.
The kitchen was completely destroyed. “A grenade,” Otto said. In the floor was a hole where the door to the cellar used to be, where Constantin would climb down with Grossvader to get a jar of beans Grossmutter wanted. A cave he called it. He wanted to sleep down there, in the cave under the house. They never let him.
“You really don’t want to go down there,” Otto said.
Constantin looked at his cousin apprehensively. “Why?”
“That’s where they were when they...” Otto let the words hang. Constantin stepped to the edge and looked in.
“Where are the steps?”
“Gone. Blown away.”
Constantin waited for Otto to say more. He didn’t. “How do you mean, blown away?”
“They hid in the cellar while the house was being shelled. Then the soldiers came into the house and dropped grenades into the cellar. They didn’t have a chance.”
Constantin backed away, out of the kitchen and began walking through the remainder of the house. In his grandparent’s bedroom, the room least damaged, he found a single hole in the ceiling and an unexploded shell buried in the floor. He stared at it a long time, walked around it, crouched down and touched it. He read a book about weapons used during the war; saw some pictures and drawings. He was with some older Brownshirts a few weeks back when they had come upon an area that had been shelled heavily by the Americans. It was amazing how many did not explode. No one was brave enough to try moving them so they remained. The people continued their lives around them. This one rested in the middle of a home he remembered as being warm and loving. But this shell was different than those pointed out by the Brownshirts. He placed his full palm on it as if looking for a warmth or vibration, and then looked up at Otto. Otto shrugged, made a face, looked away, shifted nervously, and then walked out.
“Allied sympathizers,” Anne had said about his grandparents. Bronson placed his head in his hands. All this time, I thought it was Americans who killed them. That was an unexploded German shell in Grossmutter’s bedroom and I refused to see it. I was a stupid, hardheaded kid who had yet to grow up. Why didn’t Otto just come out and tell me? Why did he let me not see the truth?
He started thinking about all the other things Anne said, then remembered one of the last. Your daughter was born...
How could she possibly know that? She’s damn smart and remembers everything she reads, but how could she possibly know that? Did she read every birth announcement in 1943 in Chicago? If she did, how would she know a baby born to a Francine is mine? Besides, Francine would have told me, wouldn’t she have?
Or would Francine have even known before I left?
No way! Has to be a pure guess on Anne Waring’s part. She can’t know those things. Maybe my grandparents and parent’s deaths could be newsworthy if the right person researched the story.
But I did tell her about Francine in a moment of weakness one time. She made the rest up. Of course, that’s it. She was desperate and thought I would turn my allegiance.
Bronson searched what he could see of the Atlantic Ocean and cursed the U-boat commander. “I hope an American destroyer torpedoes your ass.” And then he sat for a long time staring at nothing in particular and thought about Chicago.
Chapter 74
Sunday ~ November 14, 1943
When Anne came to, she found herself lying across the two-by-six rail, having a staring contest with a chameleon. Pain radiated from what felt like a knife sticking in her right rib cage, then merged with her left shoulder, which felt to be an integral part of the contusion on her head from when Bronson threw her across the room. If you were a dragon, I would let you eat me and get it all over with, she thought to the brownish green lizard. She blinked and moved her head. The lizard dashed out of sight. But I’m Anne Waring, I’m still alive and Elizabeth needs me... and I’m coherent.
Her first attempt to move caused lightning streaks of pain. Oh, God. I think I’ve done it bad this time. She wondered if her back was broken. She wiggled the toes on both feet, felt the pain of her ankle, and figured maybe not. Whatever it is, I should be able to push through it. Her right arm lay straight above her head. She moved it down with little difficulty and then gritted against excruciating pain as she lifted onto her elbow. She held herself there until the pain eased and then began pulling her body off the board, one slow painful inch at a time. Once her butt was clear she rolled onto her back. Every breath hurt, and there was something wet along her right side. She reached down, brought her hand back, and was surprised to see it wasn’t blood. She reached down again and felt around the ground, picked up something sh
arp and smooth and looked at it. A piece of the water jug.
“Shit!” She ran her fingers along her rib cage and found something still pressing against her. She fished into her jacket pocket and came out with a handful of cracker crumbs, and the tin cup, crushed beyond use.
She stared up at the clear blue sky. “I’ve been shot; I have a concussion; my foot is beyond use and now, I may have broken a rib.” She lay still, breathing lightly. “And I have no water. What’s next, God? I’ve still got one good arm and one good leg. I guess I should be happy about that.”
She pulled her one good foot up and shoved clear of the rail. She then began slowly working herself onto her knees and then to her feet. She stood still until her breathing slowed and the swimming in her head ceased and then cautiously began walking the thirty yards to where the car was parked.
Bronson stood and began walking along the beach. I’ll go back to Chicago under my real name. Find a job. See Francine. There should be no link between Nathaniel Bronson and Nathaniel Frick or with Constantin von Frick. I can no longer be a doctor – that person is dead.
Tonight, he thought and stopped walking. But the little money he had left after the theft was in the medical bag, which disappeared when he went out of the boat. The car had only enough gas to get to Columbia. He had no gas coupons but that was usually not a problem – if one had enough money. I’ll leave late tonight, break into that little store, get some food, maybe money, and get as far as I can. The day he left the hospital, never to return, he had driven to Atlanta, sold the car to some guy in a bar, found another with the key left in it and drove back. If he could make it to Columbia, he could do that again. He liked the plan and began visualizing the entire trip. He could see himself driving into downtown Chicago, walking into the bookstore, and saying hi to Francine. He thought he would keep the beard. He stared at the surf and tried to imagine seeing Francine again.
Anne leaned against the car breathing fast and shallow. To breathe deeply felt like someone was clamping a sharp-teeth vice around her rib cage. Along the trek to the car she found a stick that she could use as a crutch. She let loose of it to open the car door and it fell to the ground.
“Damn!” She came near collapsing the first time she picked it up. This time she was able to sit on the running board and get it. She pushed herself up onto the seat, shoved the crutch in and then, after getting excited over the presence of the key, became worried about how she was going to drive. She had never driven a car with standard shift on the column and didn’t know how it worked, even if she could reach the pedals.
First things first – adjust the seat.
A lot easier said than done with one arm – the wrong arm. The lever was on the left side and it was a bench seat. How the hell does that work? she thought, and then found herself staring out the open door at the trees, feeling as though the sun was slipping behind a cloud, and the cloud was getting darker. A fuzzy warm buzz was playing in her head.
When Anne managed to shake off the fuzz and the resulting blackness, she found herself no longer looking out the door. She was staring at the ceiling of the car.
I blacked out. How long? Using her good hand, she brought her left hand up close to her face and turned the watch around. 10:22. She tried to calculate how long until 7:00 but couldn’t think; couldn’t figure it out.
Lots of time, her fuzzy brain said. She fought herself back to a sitting position, beads of sweat popping out all over her bare skin. She then sat until she recovered.
Adjust the seat. Just get that far.
It wasn’t as hard as she thought. She got out, and moved the lever. The seat popped forward. She got back in, slid across to the other side, and cycled the passenger side adjustment. Getting the door closed ended up being more difficult. Pain flared across her chest and rib cage when she tried to twist to reach it. In the end, she used her stick, which had a knobby hook on it, to pull the door to a single click.
“Close enough.” She laid the stick aside and turned the key. She remembered watching as James started his Desoto. After turning the key, he pushed a button on the dash. She wouldn’t have known that if she hadn’t paid attention. She pressed the clutch pedal to the floor with her swollen foot, gritted her teeth against the pain, and pushed the starter button.
Bronson began walking again, and then stopped a minute later and looked down at a set of tracks in the sand. Someone, barefoot, had turned around where he was standing. It had to be recent or the high tide would have washed them away. He followed to where the same someone had lay in the sand and then saw that the prints continued to lead down the beach. There was no evidence of where the person came from. He looked out to sea and then analyzed the footprint a little closer.
Bare and small, and one foot was dragging.
Anne Waring! Had to be. He began walking faster.
Could she have made it ashore? That’s the only explanation. The footprints zigzagged up and down, sometimes disappearing where she must have wandered into the surf. He started running. He followed to where she turned up to the dune and then back onto the hard pack. Two minutes later her prints led him up to the dune again, this time toward his beach house. He ran as hard he could through the soft sand, through the trees, and up the steps. He burst into the house, puffing hard, and stared at the blood soaked bed long enough to comprehend and form a picture, and then rushed out and down the steps. He stopped and looked at the broken handrail and water jug, then picked up the tin cup. He sprinted for the car just beyond the trees but could already see that it was gone. He slid to a stop, and looked up the road.
“Good for you, Mrs. Waring,” he yelled.
Chapter 75
Saturday ~ November 14, 1987
“I immediately walked out of there, expecting she would return with you, James, or a caravan of military police. Without going into details on where and how, it’s enough to say I procured another car and then hung around for a few days watching. Nothing happened. On the third day, I snuck back to the beach house to retrieve clothes and the recordings, and then left for Chicago.” Sam drank some of his coffee. “That was the last I knew of her until March 20, 1963.”
“The day she was born,” James said.
“Yes.”
“That was a very hard time for me,” Francine said. “The years leading up to that, Becky, our daughter, had been going through a rough stage, typical teenage stuff. She was eighteen and finally starting to grow out of it. She had a boyfriend. He seemed to be settling her down, but we knew nothing about him except that his name was Bobby. No last name. Just Bobby. Becky didn’t communicate with us a lot. We were prying if we asked anything. Then, one day, she agreed to invite him for dinner.
“When they came in together, we were pleased to see this fine looking young man with our daughter, not some hoodlum. And then she introduced him. ‘Robert Hair,’ she said and Sam went off the deep end. I wanted to crawl under a chair. One moment my husband was just as excited as I was to meet the guy our daughter was incredibly serious about, and the next he was kicking them both out and telling them never to come back. I was devastated. Becky was devastated. Neither of us understood why, and Sam clammed up – wouldn’t talk another word on the subject for days.
“I was ready to leave him. Even he doesn’t know how close I was.” She looked at Sam and smiled. “But I didn’t. Maybe it was because he told me his reasons for what he did were sound and it broke his heart as much as it did mine. He hardly ate or slept for a week and he looked like he was ready to die. Maybe that was why I didn’t leave. Someone had to take care of him. I figured that once he got better he would come to his right mind. He hardly went to work – not an easy thing to do when you’re the sheriff. When he was home, he was locked in his study. When he slept, which you could tell by looking at him wasn’t very often, he did so in there. For a full week he didn’t come to my bed.
“And then one morning I woke up and there he was, sound asleep next to me. He didn’t wake for fourteen hours.”
There were seven of them sitting around the table in the private suite. Sam sat at one end, Gracy at the other. To Sam’s right was Francine. Next to her sat Henry who hadn’t eaten much, and Wilson who was on his second plate. With her chair as close as it could get to her husband, and her hand on his leg, was Abigail. She spent the previous evening and most of the night listening to the words of Sam and Francine, as well as Gracy, Henry and Wilson, and she didn’t sleep much the remainder of the night, what with unbelievable pictures bouncing around in her head. She was going to pick up James at the hospital, but Henry and Wilson convinced her that it was best that they do it. And now, here they all were. She hadn’t totally accepted his apology for never telling her and she was still angry with him. At least now she understood. She wasn’t entirely sure she believed though. One side of her remembered back to those war days in 1943 when Anne appeared at Roper Hospital in labor and concluded that it made sense. The other side poked back and said, wait a minute, Abigail Lamric. Since when outside of Hollywood does time travel make sense? Now she sat and listened to the confirmation of it all, next to her husband of forty-three years.
“Your second?” James said, in response to Sam’s comment
“The first was during those days in November of 1943. But, I still have to go back further. It all started, if there’s such a thing as a starting point, 25 years before that. I was at a very impressionable age when my parents were killed in 1918. This is the part you don’t know, the why of who I was in 1943. It didn’t just happen overnight that I became a spy for Hitler’s Germany. It really started the day I learned of my mother and father’s death.” It used to be that before Sam became Samuel Frick back in that November when he returned to Chicago, that if he brought up the memory of the telegram, his anger would rise and he would again repeat the vow he made the following New Year’s day in 1919 – that he would somehow find revenge. But that anger ended in 1943. Now it was only a sad memory, just the beginning of a huge incredible story. “What I’m about to tell you,” Sam said, looking at James and Francine, “is only known by these four here – my wife and the Board of Directors. I didn’t expect to ever share it with anyone else, and I really don’t have to now; however, I feel obligated for some reason to do so with you, James, and you too, Abigail. I was able to keep my secret from Franny for twenty years because I thought it was over when I walked away from that South Carolina beach house. Then, when Robert Hair appeared in my home, there was no way I was going to keep it from my wife. You should have done so as well, James. You should have told Abigail.”
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