“I…” Levi was also lost for words for a moment, finding the whole concept completely beyond anything he’d ever before encountered but nevertheless recognising the genius that was his son. “I suppose I am proud of you, Samuel…” He managed eventually with a smile. “A strange thing to say to a man twice my age, but true nonetheless…”
“‘Twice’ your age…?” Lowenstein smiled in return. “Now you’re being more than kind!” He gave a chuckle, impressed with the boy’s maturity. “Grandpa Moshe always said you were a serious little boy…” He checked his watch, looking to change the subject before the emotion of the moment turned into tears, and made a great show of pulling a face. “We should get some sleep.”
“Yes, Samuel, I think that might be a good idea right now.”
“Goodnight, Levi…” Lowenstein managed with an even tone, lying down completely and rolling over to one side facing away from the boy.
“Goodnight… son…” Levi responded with awkward tenderness, the words strange and yet somehow exhilarating. Across the floor, unseen tears began streaming down Samuel Lowenstein’s face.
Tocumwal, New South Wales
It had been a long and somewhat uncomfortable morning, not helped in the slightest by the heat of the day that continued to rise to a near-record October high of mid thirties Centigrade by three that afternoon. There was no breeze at all to speak of, nor was there any moisture whatsoever in the dry, debilitating air as most sensible human beings remained indoors or under some suitable shade. With not a cloud in the sky, the streets of Tocumwal were all but deserted, shimmering in the heat haze as the incessant buzz of cicadas rose from the surrounding bush and nearby Murray River.
Runway 05/31 at RAAF Tocumwal was the longest of the base’s four landing strips; three thousand metres of tarmac above hardened concrete that began close to the main buildings (as did the others), intersected the other two, far smaller asphalt runways at an oblique angle, and continued on out across the open fields toward the north-east. At the distant, opposite end lay the huge hangars and workshops of the 1ARDU, a unit involved in aeronautical developments that were often of a top secret nature and were therefore kept well away from the prying eyes of civilians and even other personnel on base, American, British and Australian.
Alec Trumbull brought the F-35E down to a perfect vertical landing on a concrete helipad quite close to the north-eastern end of 05/31 and was already lifting the cockpit canopy and spooling down the turbine as ground crew in slouch hats, sweat-stained singlets and khaki shorts wheeled a narrow set of steps out to meet him. Even before he’d lifted off his helmet, he’d already been assaulted by the intense heat of the sun above, blazing down from an utterly cloudless sky.
“How fortunate I’ve just come back from a similar climate,” he muttered drily as he threw a leg over the side of the fuselage and climbed down the steep steps backwards, clutching tightly at the hand rails for support. “Otherwise, I imagine this might’ve even felt uncomfortable…”
“Welcome back, sir… we didn’t expect you quite so early…” a flight sergeant observed, snapping to attention and giving a perfect salute as Trumbull reached ground level.
“Thank you, Atkinson; the Extender should be along in about half an hour or so: I forged on ahead toward the end of this last leg.” He accepted the offer of his own somewhat battered ‘boonie-style’ floppy hat from another of the ground crew in exchange for handing over his flight helmet, using it to wipe his brow before snugging it down over his eyes. “It seems we’ve brought the desert heat with us.”
“You might’ve at that, sir,” Atkinson agreed with a smile. He’d worked with the group captain for almost eighteen months now and the two were as close a pair of old friends as an officer and an NCO were ever likely to become. “What’s all this about having some Yank private arrested, sir?”
“You’ve heard about that, then?” Trumbull remarked in mild surprise as they walked off toward a nearby Nissen hut that was well known for its excellent air conditioning.
“The whole base has, sir… This bloke goes AWL in the middle of the night, desertin’ his post in the radio shack, and a sentry on the gate gets belted into the bargain…” he gave a wry smile of his own “…nothin’ at all to interest anyone in that story, sir…”
“So he must’ve been on duty in communications when the first message was sent through,” Trumbull mused darkly, stepping through into the blissful coolness of one of the ARDU’s administrative office buildings as Atkinson held the door for him. “Which would of course explain why no one knew what we were talking about when we radioed for an update four hours later… damn poor luck, I must say…”
“You can say that again, sir,” Atkinson agreed, automatically moving to the large refrigerator standing in one corner by the door and drawing out a bottle of Coca-Cola. “They’ve had MPs out and about today searching the town and the surrounding bush...” he continued as he popped the top with a bottle opener left on top of the fridge and handed the drink to Trumbull. “Only a silly bugger would try going anywhere in this heat, sir… they’ll find him soon enough….”
“I hope you’re right, sergeant,” Trumbull observed with concern, raising the bottle in thanks before taking a refreshing drink. “I shall need you to have two vehicles ready by the time the Extender arrives – off-road types if you’re able, and air conditioning wouldn’t go astray either, I must say.” There was another pause, another drink, then: “We shall also need some weapons drawn from the armoury: four handguns and a similar number of longarms should suffice, with at least two clips each… if you could include a marksman’s rifle and a combat shotgun in that mix, all the better.”
“Can I ask what this bloke’s supposed to have done, sir?” Atkinson ventured, taking a soda bottle for himself and also offering one to the leading aircraftman that had accompanied them, still carrying Trumbull’s helmet.
“Not entirely sure, sergeant,” Trumbull admitted after a moment’s thought, “but Max Thorne seems to think he’s some kind of… ‘serial killer’ was the term, I believe…”
“I see, sir,” Atkinson nodded, accepting the reply completely. Having worked with Trumbull for so long, he’d also by definition had some dealings with Thorne also; enough to take anything the man said at face value.
“Indeed, sergeant… not a nice fellow to have about at all, by all accounts…”
The Kelvinator fridge in Maude Morris’ kitchen struggled with the heat, but even a jug that was barely chilled was more refreshing than tap water that felt like it had been heated halfway to boiling on its journey through the kitchen pipes. Maude and Eddie sat together in the kitchen, both dripping with perspiration and sapped of strength in the heat. All doors and windows that could be opened had been in some desperate, vain hope of catching a non-existent breeze – all save for those in the kitchen itself where the sun beat down on the western side of the house without mercy – and again the raucous buzzing of cicadas filled their ears to the point that raised voices were required in conversation.
“Goddamned, noisy bastards,” Eddie growled, glaring at nothing in particular beyond the closed back door. Don’t they ever shut up?” He’d changed into a light shirt and dungaree shorts that had belonged to Arthur Morris. They weren’t a perfect fit, being a little loose here and there, but they would suffice for the time being and at least allowed Eddie to get out of his sweaty fatigues.
“Ya get used to it after a while, love,” Maude assured with a knowing smile, filling the glass on the table in front of him from a jug of cool water. “That’s the sound of summer around here.”
“So much Goddamned noise…!” Leonski growled, mopping at his face with a sweat-stained cloth and sipping some of that cool water. The cacophony of New York’s hustle and bustle he could handle, but that never-ending, insectile assault on his hearing was an alien noise as annoyingly painful as the audible equivalent of a toothache.
“I ain’t sayin’ we don’t get it hot back in New York sometim
es,” Leonski continued with a shrug, lifting the glass to his lips on once more. “June through August, I seen weeks where it felt like it was a hundred every Goddamned day…” he shook his head in grudging appreciation “…but ya know, somehow it still don’t feel as Goddamn hot as it does right now… and it ain’t even summer here yet!”
“We got a fan in the bedroom,” Maude suggested lasciviously, gently running the side of her own chilled glass across the back of his neck and bringing his skin out in goosebumps.
“Baby, I’m walkin’ wounded here,” Leonski replied in a mockingly plaintive tone, “and it’s way too hot right now for that…”
“That’s why we got a fan, darlin’…” Maude repeated, rubbing her cleavage against the back of his head now, the sensation definitely affecting Eddie as he felt the firm swell of her ample breasts through her brassiere and the thin material of the floral dress she wore.
“I know what you want, honey,” he conceded with a smile, reaching one arm back and caressing her hair as she kissed him on the top of the head from behind, “and I promise… once it cools down some, it’ll be my pleasure to fuck you so yard you’ll wanna scream the house down…” She gasped softly then, turned on by his carnal suggestion, and pressed harder against him “… but baby… I’m sorry, but there ain’t no way I got the energy to bend you over right now and do you right… not in dis heat…”
“Spoilsport…!” Maude admonished, mostly playing at being angry as she slumped back down into the chair beside his. “I always thought New York was a cold place…” she added, changing the subject completely as her mind locked on to something Eddie had said.
“Oh, yeah, it’s cold all right – cold as hell in winter. Snow in the streets, and ice and shit all ‘round. Remember it got down to ten below one December when I was a kid… papers said it was some kinda record or somethin’… bet it don’t snow worth a damn ‘round here.”
“Never seen snow here, Eddie,” Maude agreed, lifting one bare foot and casually caressing him between the legs with her toes. “Get some down around Bright or Wangaratta in winter… or north up at Kosciusko, but it’s too bloody flat here for that. What was it like back home when you were a kid? You got a big family?”
“I don’t wanna talk about my family,” Eddie snapped sharply, a chill suddenly descending on the conversation in spite of the afternoon heat. “Nothin’ t’ talk about…”
The product of family abuse and alcoholism, one of Leonski’s brothers had been committed to an institution during his childhood, and he himself had suffered under the reign of a controlling and over-protective mother. Eddie Leonski didn’t like talking about his childhood… ‘Buddy’ had helped him through all that and it was all in the past now; just jagged memories to be looked back on in anger.
“Just askin’, love,” Maude grinned, part of her mind realising she’d possibly said something that had upset him but not really recognising the significance of it. “No harm in askin’ is there…?”
Eddie stared at her for a long time, not displaying much of the internal rage that welled up within him in those seconds, and he eventually forced a thin smile to his lips as he took another drink.
“No… no harm, I guess… My ma and I didn’t get on real good, so I don’t talk about those days much is all…”
It was at that point that he heard the sound of an engine out front, barely audible over the cicadas until it was quite close.
“Well…” Maude declared, finally realising maybe she’d hit a raw spot in the man’s psyche and thinking it a good idea to try to make amends. “…Maybe all you need is somethin’ nice to take your mind off things…” In one smooth, almost practised movement, she slipped from her chair and lowered gently to her knees in front of Eddie, lifting the hem of her skirt deftly in the process to prevent it being caught or dragging her down further. “Maybe I need to have a little ‘talk’ with your little ‘friend’ here…”
“Hey…” he said slowly as she began to fumble with his belt buckle, not realising that he was now quite distracted by the perceived activity outside on the street as he stared down the long hallway and out through the front fly screens “…not so much o’ the ‘little’ business, baby… I never heard you complainin’…”
“How could I complain with my mouth full?” Maude giggled scandalously, thinking of herself as so ‘cosmopolitan’ to speak in such a forward manner as she moved on to his zipper.
But Eddie heard none of it, far too absorbed by something else now as his predator’s cunning began to sound a warning in the back of his mind. The engine he’d originally heard belonged to a vehicle that had made a U-turn in the street outside and subsequently pulled up directly in front of the house. As he’d feared from the familiar sound of the motor, it turned out to be a US-made jeep with the white, stencilled letters ‘MILITARY POLICE’ clearly visible on the rear panel as it came to a halt.
Two men in MP uniforms climbed out and stepped onto the kerb, checking their dress and consulting with each other for a moment before taking their first slow, methodical steps toward the open front door.
Holy shit... it’s the Goddamn Dicks…! He hissed softly, pushing Maude away from his own and leaping from his chair, moving quickly to take cover out of sight against the wall between the door and the refrigerator. It was dark inside that kitchen and the likelihood of anyone standing at the front door being able to see that far down the hall was slim indeed, but Eddie Leonski hadn’t lasted as long as he had by taking unnecessary risks.
“What the hell, Eddie…?” Maude began, indignant and offended over being physically pushed away at what she’d considered to have been a potentially intimate moment. “What did ya have to…”
“Shhhhhhh….!” He demanded instantly, placing a hand on her shoulder and pushing her back against the wall with him. “It’s the MPs, baby… the cops…! You gotta get rid of ‘em, baby...! Ya gotta tell ‘em ya ain’t seen me…!”
“I ain’t gonna lie to the police, Eddie… I can’t lie to the police…” Maude replied softly with a shake of her head, in horror at the very idea as the first knock came at the front door. Adultery or ‘crimes’ against social mores was one thing, but actual criminal activity was another altogether. She reached up to pull his restraining hand away. “We’ll just talk to ‘em and explain what’s happened…”
“You... can’t… ‘explain’… rape, Maudie baby,” Eddie whispered back with sudden vehemence, his hands closing about her throat and forcing her head back against the wall with such speed that she had no chance to react. “You… can’t… ‘explain’… murder…!”
Stretched tight by a real fear of capture and of his numerous crimes over the last year coming to light, Eddie’s thin veneer of patience had finally broken away completely. In his mind, the irritation and danger associated with a living Maude Morris now far outweighed any possible benefit. Maude’s eyes bulged in pain and terror as his fingers pressed down with great force, crushing her larynx and trachea. She tried to scream for help – cry out to the military policeman not thirty metres away on the kerb outside – but found she could manage nothing more than a hoarse croak that was barely audible even in the kitchen over that massed chorus of insect life outside.
Maude was a fighter for all that, and she flailed desperately at his head and neck in self-defence. One or two landed well, blurring his vision momentarily and leaving him a little unsteady, but as he turned his head away to deflect the worst of the blows, the increased opposition only served to make him squeeze even tighter, his teeth clenched in exertion now as his breath came in short, sharp bursts, sweat pouring down his face and dripping freely from his chin.
Maude’s movements began to slow, weakened by lack of oxygen as he continued his relentless grip, and a few seconds later there was the sound of a soft, cracking noise. Maude Morris’ body fell completely limp at that moment, her eyes rolling back into her head as Eddie finally eased his grip slightly and the last remnants of consumed breath left in her body escape
d through her dying lips in a low, wheezing sigh.
He held her body hanging against the kitchen wall, refusing to allow the noise of dropping her despite the muscles in his arms howling in agony. He didn’t dare take a peek down the hallway for fear of being spotted by the MPs outside, although he heard them knock loudly a second time against the frame of the fly screen front door, causing it to rattle against the lintel.
Sergeant Otis Branch of the US Army’s 709th Military Police Battalion was most definitely not having a good day. The heat of the day in some ways reminded him of his farm near Atlanta, but the absolute dryness of it all was just so different to the moist, humid Georgia summers that it seemed to sap the strength straight out of your body within moments of getting out of bed. That Branch was in his early forties, short, stocky and pushing upward of 100kg in weight with a good proportion of that turning to flab certainly didn’t help.
He and PFC Knotts – Arkansas, twenties, tall, rangy and at least half Branch’s weight – were one of a number of teams that had been sent out that day looking for the missing Eddie Leonski. Having made a lacklustre search of the river banks down near the bridge (and at least ninety minutes spent ‘questioning’ the locals at the Tocumwal Hotel in the middle of town, on Deniliquin Road.
One small and quite interesting piece of information they had turned up during that time however was the revelation that Maude Morris, wife of one of the owners of the ruined Junction Hotel, had been well known around the town to have been quite ‘sweet’ on one PFC Leonski and had regularly ‘entertained’ him both at the pub and in private prior to its rather untimely demise.
Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2) Page 104