Shadow Soldier (The Gunsmith Book 2)

by C. K. Crigger

  I’D ALWAYS THOUGHT my dad set in his ways, but I was discovering he couldn’t compare with August von Fassnacht. Talk about pure bloody- mindedness. I suppose I was lucky to learn what I did, a date here, a place name there, and then only because I stored every little snippet in my memory to think about later.

  The information gathering was marred by August’s frequent pauses to rest, with the claim that angina pain always made him sleepy and too dull to remember anything very well. I had no reason to doubt his veracity, keeping in mind his great age. He simply didn’t come across as a man over a century old and I tended to forget. But the third time he went to sleep in the middle of a sentence, leaving me with nothing to do but explore the tiny room while waiting for him to awaken, I decided my time could more profitably be spent elsewhere. But not before carefully extracting one very interesting item from his shrine and secreting it in my purse.

  For research, what could be more convenient than the county maintained library facility right across the street from the Bethany Home? My father, however, scowled at the armload of books I toted up the stairs to our living quarters and spread all over the dining room table.

  “Where have you been?” he barked. “What have you been doing? Caleb’s still gone and you’re out gallivanting God knows where! You planning on reading romance novels instead of finding the boy?”

  Since I’d noticed immediately as I drove into our yard that Caleb’s truck remained parked in the side lot, I already knew he hadn’t returned. Well, I’d known before, really, and Dad’s carping didn’t help. Heavens. I’d left one difficult old man, only to come home to face another. This one made me angry, along with everything else, because he had to know I’d move the earth and the sky if that’s what it took to bring Caleb home.

  “World War I—A Definitive History,” I read, picking up a volume and slamming it back down. “The War To End All Wars.” Down went the next, followed by, “All Quiet On the Western Front; Uncle Sam Wants You; Armaments Of World War I. Gracious! These are enough to give any girl an orgasm.”

  “Boothenay!” Dad reddened. “I just wanted to know—”

  I cut him off. “I’ve spent most of the morning with a man who professes to be more than a hundred years old. He’s mean as a gut-shot cougar and I’ve had the most exemplary experience of learning he strangled his mother. He wants what he wants, which is not necessarily what I want, and I’m having a helluva time getting him to cooperate.”

  “That’s too bad,” Dad began.

  I interrupted. “The old devil is a person of power. Not like me, but enough that he recognizes me for what I am. Since I can’t access the Colt on my own, he’s my best chance to get through to Caleb. I don’t want him to know the Colt won’t accept me, and I’m not telling him.

  “Another thing I’m not telling him is that a residual power from the pistol being in contact with some old photographs is what is allowing us to see into the past. He channels the power, directs it to the person in the picture. I’ve got enough raw magic to open things up, a peephole, so to speak. He wants a door. Well, I want a door, too, but on my terms, not his.”

  Dad shook his head over this spate of information, and took a breath before saying mildly, “You might’ve let me know where you were going before disappearing for half a day. I’ve been worried. Scott’s been worried.”

  I shrugged.

  “You have anything to eat?” He rather wisely changed the subject. After thinking it over, I allowed that I had not.

  “I’m not very hungry, Dad, honestly. Anyway, I need to get started on these books.”

  “Not a good plan.” He strong-armed me into the kitchen, pushed me into a chair and began to bustle from fridge to sink to microwave. “You know how owlie you get when you don’t eat.”

  Since Dad is perfectly capable of nuking a bowl of soup and slapping a piece of ham between two slices of bread, I didn’t go out of my way to help with lunch. I opened the first of the library reference works instead, and began reading. World War I—A Definitive History was the first at hand. I skipped here and there, looking at pictures and watching for mention about American battles.

  “Good God,” I burst out, raising my eyes from the written word, and letting chicken noodle soup drip from my spoon onto the counter. “Are you aware there was an average of five hundred and eighty-seven civilian casualties a day in the last year of the war? Only most of them were caused by starvation and disease, not wounds.”

  Dad finished loading the dishwasher and came over and sat down. “No. Afraid I wasn’t aware of that. Before my time. That’s a lot of dead people.”

  Reading on, I came to another intimidating fact. “It says here, ‘In 1918 alone half a million American soldiers died of the so-called Spanish Flu. Five million died in the worldwide pandemic.’ That’s horrible—and sad.”

  “I hope Caleb’s flu immunization is up-to-date.” Dad avoided my eyes. I think he had known about these appalling figures.

  “Yeah, mine, too.”

  “Now, wait a minute, Boothenay. What do you mean, ‘mine, too’? You said the Colt won’t work for you, so what do you have in your head to do?”

  “August has some other things in his apartment that might work,” I said. “One item in particular. A whistle, strangely enough. I don’t think he knows what he’s got. I’ve been careful as can be not to let on there’s anything else of power in his room. I think he only really fears the Colt. He wasn’t aware the pictures could take us until⏤” I stopped.

  “Until?” Dad took on an aspect about as comforting as a rock face. He gets so angry when I leave him out of the loop, but at the same time, he always says he wants nothing to do with my power. It all becomes a little confusing.

  I pretended to have lost track of the conversation and was reading again. “Hmm? Oh, nothing much. Just a little something I was able to tap into. An extra bonus, you might say, in regards to the window to his world. Anyway, I held his hand and let him look back and now he’s real impressed with my abilities.”

  “A look? You sure it was only a look?”

  “Eyes only.” For his peace of mind, I neglected to tell him the look had been very intense. Or that I was reasonably certain only a small amount of effort would be necessary in order to take a final step forward.

  Meanwhile, I read, researched, got on the internet and researched some more, all the while taking notes and making mental lists that varied from moment to moment as a plethora of information bombarded me.

  Dad had busied himself stirring up a pot of spaghetti for supper before I brought all this to a halt. I knew enough, I decided. Any more and I’d burst.

  At six, my father and I had dinner, same as we had hundreds of times before. I talked to my brother on the phone and told him I was sorry I’d snapped at him, asked him to apologize to Sonja for me, and wished the two of them happiness throughout their lives

  Scott said, “Jeez, little sister, you sound depressed. You’re not giving up on Caleb, are you? Have you thought maybe you’re trying too hard with the gun? Why don’t you give it a rest for a bit? Maybe the voodoo’ll start working again all by itself.”

  “I’ll never give up on Caleb,” I replied, leaving the rest of his comments to wither. Scott has never understood the ways of power. He never will.

  “Atta girl,” he said.

  Dad, unashamedly eavesdropping on my side of the conversation, looked a little happier when I hung up. “I’m glad you kids made up. I hate when you’re not getting along, working side by side the way you do, and giving each other the silent treatment.”

  Actually, we were more likely to yell at one another, but I saw his point. I kissed his cheek, saying, “I know we make you uncomfortable, Dad. That used to be why we fought so much.”

  “Brats!” But he smiled.

  I smiled, too. “I’m off to take a shower. Then I suppose I should run up to the Bethany and see how August is faring. See if there’s anything more I can do. You look tired, Dad. You should go to
bed early.”

  The power of suggestion must have taken him in hand, for he yawned with a pop of his jaw. “I think I’ll just do that.”

  DAD, I wrote, using my very best penmanship. This is August’s whistle. I know you’re going to wonder what it’s for. Well, I don’t know its original purpose, but it is an object of power. In fact, it is second only to the Colt in strength. I’m leaving it with you as a fail-safe. If I’m not home within twenty-four, I drew a line through that and wrote, forty-eight hours, please start tootling. And cross your fingers. Thanks, Dad. I love you.

  Boothenay

  It was the work of a moment to trade the whistle I’d stolen from August for the Colt on my way out.

  CHAPTER 15

  Two days after he conned the docs at the field hospital into releasing him back to active duty, Caleb found himself sitting on the doorstep of that same hospital, waiting for Irene Prafke to make an appearance.

  He’d bummed a ride from camp on a supply truck. A Model T, he thought, and if his memory hadn’t been so confused, he was sure he’d have enjoyed the experience very much. He fought down the words to tell the driver about his own Ford four-by-four with the turbo diesel power plant, left behind in that other time. Not that the burly, cigar- smoking private behind the wheel of this rig would’ve put a particle of credence in such a story. It would have been like someone trying to explain to him about taking a ride in a rocket, while they were plodding through the skies in a B-52.

  Sometimes, as he did fairly often now, he caught himself wondering if he had imagined all of that. Maybe there was no four-by-four, no space shuttle, no woman named Boothenay with huge brown eyes. And maybe there was. In which case, what was he doing here, waiting to see another woman?

  A weak sun had begun melting the overnight frost when Irene shut the hospital door behind her. She was busy buttoning her caped coat around her throat, and didn’t see him until she almost fell over him.

  “Why, Ned Smith! Whatever are you doing here?” There was an unmistakable lilt in her voice, an interesting contrast to the bruise- colored shadows under her eyes. She couldn’t sleep, she’d told him before. Evidently that was still the case.

  Caleb clambered to his feet, his bad leg stiff and hurting, making him clumsy. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  “Oh!” she said, her voice soft with concern. “Are you worse? You look a little feverish.” Her hand came out in an automatic gesture and touched his forehead. At this moment, she was taller than he as she stood on the riser above him.

  “Yes.” She shook her head gravely. “Your forehead feels hot. Why didn’t you come inside, Sergeant Smith, where it’s warm. It can’t be good for you waiting about in the cold when you have a fever.” She shivered. “My word. Only September and everything is frosted already.”

  Caleb—only it must have been Ned Smith—took her hand gently from his forehead, and without letting go, grasped her cool fingers in his. “I’m not here because I’m sick, Mrs. Prafke. I came because I wanted to see you again.”

  Her wide eyes stared at him. “You did? Why?”

  “I wanted to listen to your voice and see your smile.” He grinned wickedly at her. “The usual reasons a man wants to see a woman.”

  He drew her down the steps and, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm over her token protest, began to lead her away. They would walk and talk, he decided, if only for as long as it took to escort her to the nurse’s dormitory where she lived.

  Her cheeks flushed a delightful rose color and she looked away. “Oh, I . . . I don’t know what to say, Sergeant Smith. Ned. I don’t wish to hurt you, but you can’t have remembered that I’m a married woman.”

  Actually, he couldn’t forget she was a married woman.

  “I remembered,” Ned said. “Where is your husband, Irene? Is he serving in Europe?”

  “Yes. Of course. He’s with the 82nd Division. Why?”

  Caleb shrugged, reluctant to mention his doubt she actually had a husband. Yet what better way to guard herself from the unwanted attentions of every lonely, single—and some not single—man attracted to her, than to tell them she was married? This was an age of innocence in comparison to what he was used to. Her defense might sometimes work.

  “Don’t you trust me, Ned?” she asked, somehow reading his reservation. “But why would I tell you that, if it wasn’t so? His name is Leonard. Leonard Prafke, Lieutenant. Of the 328th Infantry, 82nd Division.”

  There was something in her tone Caleb couldn’t quite put his finger on, but he knew it sounded wrong. Oh, he was quite sure there was a Leonard Prafke, and she was probably—undoubtedly—married to him. Unmistakable sincerity sounded in her voice.

  Somewhat to his surprise, she hadn’t pulled away during this exchange. “You might tell a little fib,” he said, smiling to take any imagined sting from his words. “If it would keep every man who comes through that hospital door from falling in love with you, and making a constant pest of himself.”

  Her eyes widened and she looked away, so the knew he’d startled her with his perspicuity—and maybe with that part about falling in love. She stopped on the muddy path and pulled her arm from his. “Is that what you think I’m doing? I wouldn’t lie to you, Ned. I swear.” She stopped, as if she might have given too much away.

  “Would you rather I left?”

  “No!” Her hazel eyes clung to his with a desperate need. “Oh, no, Ned. But . . . but . . .”

  Somewhere along the line, she became bogged down in denial and guilt. Caleb recognized the ambivalence for what it was, since he felt a pretty hefty dose of the same thing. Easier for him, perhaps. He wasn’t actually married. And he was a whole lifetime, or maybe two, away from the reason for his guilt.

  He paused, thrusting away the self-loathing that swept over him. How could his faith in Boothenay fail so soon? But he’d been here for nearly a month in 1918 time. Too long for any hope to remain she could retrieve him. Ever.

  “Ned? Ned!” Irene’s demand brought him out of his brief daze

  His eyes focused

  “Are you sure you’re all right? I think you should come in, Ned. Let Dr. Hurry check you over. He should take a look at that leg anyway. You know you left hospital much too soon.” Her scolding caused him to sigh, and determinedly put the memories of his other self out of his mind.

  “I’m fine,” he insisted. “Irene, how long since you’ve heard from your husband?”

  “He . . . I . . .” She faltered until, with an air of firm decision, she made a rapid confession. “July 18th. Since the day before the second battle of the Marne. There was a creeping barrage. His commanding officer wrote to me. He said in his letter that Leonard is missing. He said my husband very likely has been captured and that the Huns are holding him prisoner.

  Caleb reached once more for her cold hands. “And you haven’t heard from him?

  “No.”

  “You do realize, don’t you, Irene, if you haven’t heard from him, it’s more indicative he’s MIA than a prisoner. And if he’s MIA and hasn’t turned up by now, he’s probably dead.” He deliberately said dead because, if he was the first to bring the likelihood home to her, he wanted to get her reaction out of the way.

  “MIA?” she questioned.

  He’d forgotten. The language early in the old century didn’t include acronyms for such commonly used phrases.

  “Missing in action,” he clarified.

  “Oh.” Her head drooped on her frail stem of a neck, until she looked up and her eyes were level with his. “I think he is dead,” she said.

  CHAPTER 16

  I walked from my place, since I didn’t want to leave Dad or Scott with the need to retrieve my derelict Mustang from the Bethany Home parking lot. Just in case, I thought. Just in case I never make it home.

  On the bridge, where the swollen Spokane River thundered beneath my feet, I paused for a moment, looking down. From this viewpoint, I could see a kid or two poking around the riverbank and at the edg
e of the water. What is there about running water that so fascinates kids, especially boys, in their adventuresome stage?

  I couldn’t repress the thoughts running through my mind. If Jase and Austin had missed seeing the old man’s predicament with the Colt; if they’d missed rescuing the gun from the water; if they hadn’t brought it to me, Caleb would be where he belonged, safe and sound. I wouldn’t be thinking about this wickedly dangerous rescue attempt I was prepared to carry out.

  I trudged on up the hill, past residences where kids played noisy games out of doors on this fine evening. Would I ever see such sights again? Eventually, dragging steps or no, I arrived at the home with no place to go other than inside.

  Dinner must have been served recently, and was perhaps still in progress, for an odor of cooking—stew, or so my nose told me— permeated the halls. As usual, there wasn’t a soul in sight. I had yet to enter this place and see anyone I thought to be a caregiver.

  Fine. If August were downstairs eating his dinner, I’d wait for him in his room. He couldn’t lock me out. I’d read somewhere that people who live in places like this are not allowed locks on their doors, their privacy being minimal in the extreme. The situation made me uncomfortable. I’d rather have had the old man in my own domain, without the worry of someone walking in at an inopportune moment.

  As it turned out, August was not downstairs at dinner.

  “Come in, sis,” he said, in answer to my tentative rap. I could barely make out his voice through the door.

  I went in and looked around. “How did you know it was me?”

  To my surprise, he was lying on his bed with his legs crossed at the ankles and his arms folded on his chest. He was still enough to remind me of one of the effigies you’re apt to see in a medieval cathedral, carved atop a stone coffin. His eyes blinked once or twice.

  “Heard you, for all you’re light on your feet, Boothenay Irons, and walk as free as a child. Different from anyone else stuck in this place.” His head turned toward me as he spoke, his voice querulous and thin. “Come in and shut the door.”