Dr. Stein didn’t get a chance to scream. A bullet struck his gut, and then another pounded into his throat and he fell down onto the drawbridge. Weatherby stared at him, not believing the sudden flash of red around Dr. Stein’s throat. Then Sergeant Morgen was next to them, aiming his pistols at Weatherby and Hannah.
Everywhere, people were screaming. Hannah was crying while her husband gurgled up blood. Candle, the American, was yelling at his men. “Save the woman and the kid, you dumb bastards!” he howled, as Sergeant Morgen drew nearer, crashing his shoulder into Weatherby and knocking him into his mother.
“I ain’t got a clear shot!” the nearest American cried.
Then Sergeant Morgen swung his pistols to face Hannah and Weatherby. He fired once as Hannah grabbed him, and Weatherby felt his left side burn and then go terribly numb. He didn’t cry, just stared up at his mother as she held him, shielding him with her body, and he felt something wet under his clothes. Morgen fired again.
“Weatherby,” Hannah said, still holding him close. Weatherby looked at his mother. He saw blood seeping down into her dress. Morgen fired again. She caught the slug in her back and they both toppled onto the ground. Weatherby was pinned down by the body of his mother.
“Damn it all to Hell!” Weatherby heard Candle cry, seemingly from very far away. “Damn it all, I’ll get a clear goddamn shot!”
Weatherby looked up, and saw Morgen aiming his Lugers down at the boy, over his mother’s body. He still felt blood and numbness in his shoulder, and tears in his eyes. But he didn’t scream, and just watched in silence as Morgen prepared to put a round through his head.
But Sergeant Candle didn’t let it happen. He leapt at Morgen, pounding the bigger German to the ground, and slashing at him with his combat knife. Weatherby saw the blade of the knife go into Morgen’s chest, again and again, until the green SS uniform was red from the streams of blood.
Morgen didn’t go down. He dropped his pistols and grabbed at Candle’s throat, trying to squeeze the life from the paratrooper. Blood ran from Morgen’s eye, down his cheek and onto his collar. Candle kept stabbing him, kicking out with his boots as he rammed the combat knife home. Finally, Candle’s flailing arm reached the knife high enough, and slid it into Morgen’s throat. He pulled it out as Morgen began to die, but the Nazi’s grip didn’t slacken.
“Goddamn…Kraut…Bastard!” Candle hissed between clenched teeth as he pulled the knife back, and then, with all of his strength, plunged it into Sergeant Morgen’s forehead. Weatherby saw Sergeant Morgen topple backwards, letting Candle fall to the ground.
In the next second, Candle was gently pulling away Hannah’s body, and freeing Weatherby. The boy felt darkness flickering in at the corner of his vision, as the wound in his shoulder started to suddenly ache. “Oh hell,” Candle whispered. “Medic! This poor kid needs a medic! Get over here, on the double!”
The darkness grew greater and greater, and finally reached in and snuffed out everything Weatherby saw.
When he woke up, he was lying in a cot in a green tent. He could see the tall trees of the Black Forest outside through the tent flap, lost in a blur. Someone handed him his spectacles, and he set them on his nose. One lens was cracked, but Weatherby didn’t notice. He saw Sergeant Morton Candle standing over him, his round green helmet in his hands. Weatherby felt gauze and bandages along his shoulder and chest. He tried to move.
“Not yet, kiddo,” Candle said, and he gave the boy a canteen of cold water. “You, uh, you took quite a beating. The medic, he said you got a broken rib, a bunch of bruises, and a slug in your shoulder. Don’t you worry, though. He got the bullet out and patched you up. You’re gonna heal up fine.”
Weatherby stared at Candle. “Thank you, Mr. Candle,” he said. “You saved my life, sir.”
“Jeez, kiddo, I didn’t, I mean, it weren’t nothing much,” Candle replied. “Just serving Uncle Sam.”
There was a pause. And then Weatherby asked the terrible question, which he already knew the answer to. His voice broke. “My mother and f-father,” he said. “D-did t-they…oh….”
“Um, no. I’m sorry, kiddo. I’m sorry as all hell.” Morton looked away. “They were both, well, gone when we got to you. They gave their lives for you.” He turned around, running a hand through his dark close-cropped hair. “We chased the Krauts out, and killed the experimental wierdos they had running around in the castle. It’s all cleared out now.”
Weatherby didn’t say anything. The fact that his father and mother were gone was slowly sinking in. “Where are they?” he asked. “Where are my parents?”
“I had some of the boys dig two graves, out in your family’s plot. We put them down, and made some simple markers. Maybe you can put up some fancy stone ones, later. I’m sorry, kiddo. I’m sorry as all hell.”
“Can I see them?” Weatherby asked.
“Maybe tomorrow. The docs say you gotta sleep.” Sergeant Candle scratched the back of his neck. He was clearly uncomfortable. “The boys in the platoon are gonna be real happy to see that you pulled through. We’ve been worried about you. We’ll watch over you, you know? You’re gonna be just fine. Okay?”
“Yes, sir,” Weatherby said, and he didn’t hear the sound of his voice. “Thank you, sir.”
“I’ll let you sleep now, kiddo. I’ll be right outside. Just let me know if you need some water or something, and I’ll come running.” He turned around, and stiffly stepped out through the tent flap. “Ah Christ,” Weatherby heard him mutter. “Poor little guy. I didn’t…I don’t know what to tell him…”
Weatherby leaned back on the pillow. The tears were rolling down his face, and he could taste the salt on his lips and tongue. He didn’t know when he fell asleep.
The next day, after a small breakfast, Sergeant Morton Candle led Weatherby into the graveyard, where all of his ancestors lay. It was a cold day, and Weatherby was draped in a soldier’s green greatcoat, which hung heavily on his small frame. All the soldiers were very kind to him, and he thanked them politely for everything.
There in the graveyard, resting in two plots in the corner of the wide, tomb strewn field, were a pair of wooden crosses. Weatherby looked at their names. The inscriptions were simple: Hannah Rosenthal Stein and Dr. Wolfgang Paracelsus Stein.
The strength suddenly left Weatherby’s legs and he fell to his knees. He blinked his eyes, many times. Candle stood behind him. “So,” Candle said. “After the war, I guess this whole place will be yours, huh? It’ll be nice, I guess, living in a castle.”
“But what’s the point, sir?” Weatherby asked, as his voice cracked. The tears started to come, thick and hot. “It won’t be any good, Mr. Candle. Not without them.”
The open road is a strange place. It’s American as apple pie to sit in the back of your auto, speeding down one of those new highways along with a thousand other tourists and businessmen, and only stopping at greasy spoons and motels for a break. But if you go off the road, seeking a little bit of excitement, you might find yourself driving into something you didn’t expect. And there’s no way you can hit reverse and get out of there quick enough, all because you put your nose where it didn’t belong.
I make my living putting my nose where it doesn’t belong. I’m a private eye, and I found myself cruising through a couple of Midwest states on Route 66, that big highway that cuts across the plains like the curving scar of a butcher knife, in a new cherry red Buick Skylark. The only thing hurting was my wallet, after that expensive purchase. I turned my eye to the gas gauge and mumbled a curse.
“The old Packard wouldn’t be nearing empty this soon,” I muttered, tightening my grip on the wheel. “Had better mileage. Handled better too.”
Weatherby Stein, fourteen-year-old whiz kid with an attitude problem, stared out of the window at the passing plains. He may have been an expert on things that go bump in the night, but when it came to cars, he was totally in the dark. “I’m not sure I ascertain your meaning, Mort,” he replied. “But I do know
you have whined ceaselessly about losing the Packard and I’m growing tired of it. This vehicle transports us safely and speedily from one point to another. That’s all that matters.”
“Sure,” I said. “Just like riding in the back seat of a hearse.” I looked at the side of the road. There was nothing but open plains, light brown dust topped with sprays of sage and tall grass. It extended endlessly into the distance, an ocean of dust. “We gotta stop for gas, kiddo,” I said. “And then look for somewhere to flop for the night. We can get back to California in the morning.”
“I don’t see what necessitated this journey across the country,” Weatherby replied. “We could have easily purchased a new automobile in California. The state seems to live perpetually in motorcars.”
“So will the whole country, kiddo, soon enough,” I said. “And buying a new boiler there was strictly out of our price range. Good thing I knew a couple of boys who were selling these Roadmasters for a steal.” A sign popped up on our right, zooming by as we rolled past. I read it aloud. “Plunket’s Gas and Entertainment – featuring the Route 66 Wild Man, Alive and Tamed for your Amusement.” I shrugged. “Looks like that’s our best offer.”
“Wonderful,” Weatherby muttered, slumping back in his seat.
I angled the car off the main road, turning onto a dusty patch of asphalt that led into the distance. It curved around like a convulsing snake, but brought me to a small patch of buildings, not too far from the desert. There was a small filling station, and a couple of sheds behind it. Garish faded signs advertised the Route 66 Wild Man.
I drove next to one of the pumps and stopped the car. An attendant hurried out to meet us. He had a peaked cap and a rubber bowtie, a small gut poking out from his dusty shirt. His hair was scraggly and going gray. I wondered how much business he got, all the way out here.
“Hello, folks!” he said. “Hello, hello! Going out to see our country? Getting a look at the finer parts of real America?”
“You hit the nail on the head,” I said. “Now fill up the car.”
“You got it, buddy. I’m Pete Plunket, by the way. I own this little piece of heaven.” He scrambled to grab the pump and started filling up the car, looking at me and Weatherby. “Um, you f-fellows, you don’t want to see the ’66 Wild Man, do you?”
I shrugged. “Ain’t exactly a priority.”
“Oh, thank God. Thank god for that.” Plunket leaned back against the pump. “Well, I got other things, if you want to see them. Will only cost you fifty cents to see my collection of pickled pig fetuses. They’re real impressive. And I got an honest-to-god Martian’s skeleton too. Looks like a cow’s skeleton, but it’s a Martian. I ain’t lying.”
Weatherby wiped his spectacles on his Victorian frock coat. “Pardon me, Mr. Plunket,” he said. “But I’m afraid you’ve piqued my curiosity. Why exactly can’t we see the ’66 Wild Man?”
Plunket’s faced turned as red as my new car. “Well, the Wild Man, he, um, he ain’t exactly here no more. He broke out, you see. Last night. And then I saw the headlines in today’s paper.” He picked up a copy of some local Okie rag, resting on the folding chair next to the gas pump.
‘Family hacked to pieces in grisly slaughter’ the headlines read. I frowned at the splotchy pictures of the murdered tourists. “And you think your pet Wild Man’s responsible?” I asked. The detective in me was rising to the surface.
“Well, I don’t rightly know, mister,” Plunket explained. “I found the Wild Man when he weren’t much more than a babe. He’s a big fellow, and none too smart – or at least, he acts that way. But he’s nice. Never hurt no one, not in all the years I had him here. We even used to let him come out, and give the children piggy back rides. But maybe I was wrong, this whole time…” Plunket shivered, despite the heat.
“What do you intend to do now?” Weatherby wondered.
“I don’t rightly know,” Plunket repeated. “I’m no good at chasing people down, and I’m about as useless with my fists as a two-legged mule is at dancing the polka. I figure maybe I can hire someone to track the Wild Man down and bring him back, before he can do any more damage. I got a nice pile of dough squirreled away…”
Weatherby and I exchanged a glance. “Mr. Plunket,” I said. “My name’s Morton Candle, and this is my associate, Weatherby Stein. We’re detectives, we specialize in jobs like this, and most importantly, we’re hurting for a little cabbage. We’ll take your case and bring you back the Wild Man.”
“You would? Ah, gee, fellows, that sure is nice of you!” Plunket held out his hand. “I’ll give you a nice sum, fellows, I surely will! And this gas up’s for free, by the way.” He was suddenly full of motion. He danced back from the gas pumps to the small store across from our car. “I’d give you some photos of the Wild Man, but I don’t really have none. Better for publicity to keep it mysterious, you understand.”
I nodded. “I get the feeling it’ll be easy to pick the Wild Man out in a crowd,” I said. “But any idea where he’ll be heading?”
“Hold on a spell.” Plunket pulled a tattered Esso road map from the pocket of his coveralls and spread it out over the hood of the roadmaster. “Now, the ’66 Wild Man is just a little part of a whole mess of diners, museums, reptile shows, sideshows, zoos, emporiums, amusement parks, themed restaurants and various other attractions that decorate this little section of the old ’66. We call it the Roadside Line.”
“And you think the Wild Man won’t stray from the Roadside Line?” Weatherby asked.
“It’s the only thing he knows,” Plunket explained. He pointed to the end. “We’re here. The Easy Z’s Motor Lodge, where that poor family was killed, is right here. And next is—”
“Dinky Dave’s World of Dinosaurs,” Weatherby read, the idiotic name sounding bizarre in his posh Teutonic and British accent. “So he’ll be heading here next.” He looked up at me. “And we can be there to meet him.”
“Sounds like a plan, kiddo,” I said. I pulled open the door to the Roadmaster. “Looks like she’s full. Let’s dangle.” Weatherby waited until Plunket took out the pump, and then joined me in the passenger seat. I gave Plunket a final nod and then slammed on the gas. The Roadmaster shot out from the gas station, down the swirling and back to Route 66 – right into another mystery.
We were quiet as I drove over to Dinky Dave’s World of Dinosaurs. Weatherby had the windows rolled down, and stared out at the passing scenery. The signs started to pop up fast and thick as trees in a forest, advertising all varieties of food, entertainment and attractions. We passed a few other cars and trucks, all coursing down the road and occasionally pulling off, lured away by the siren song of the signs. I took the cigarette from my mouth and dropped it out the window, letting the wind of our passing carry it away.
“What a strange little world,” Weatherby said, examining the Esso map that Plunket had given him. “And yet it appears to have a bizarre grandeur, all of its own.”
“You kidding me? These joints would make a mousetrap look inviting. It’s like a circus sideshow, minus the dignity.”
“It’s their way of life, Mort,” Weatherby said. “And they persist in it – just as my family persisted in theirs.”
“Family, huh?” I asked. “You think the Wild Man’s mother is happy about him, performing for fat tourists and their bratty kids?”
“I’m certain it’s the only means of employment available to him,” Weatherby replied. “Kindly take the turn here, Mort. Dinky Dave’s World of Dinosaurs is right ahead.” He reached into his coat as I made the turn, probably checking the handle of his large revolver. My own automatics were in my shoulder-holsters, in case the Wild Man didn’t want to come quietly.
Weatherby looked up at the long neck of some dinosaur, curing around one of the signs and gazing at the road like a leering serpent. “I must say, I don’t believe there is anything supernatural about this Wild fellow. I may be quite useless, if there is a fracas.”
I shook my head. “Nah, kiddo. You’re sma
rter than most, and that means I want you on my side. I got a feeling we may need that head on your shoulders soon enough, so try to keep it from getting knocked off.”
I started to slow the car as we reached Dinky Dave’s World of Dinosaurs. It was a series of large dinosaur statues, spread out in the desert like they had emerged from the sand. They were big, concrete statues, pitted and weathered by desert winds. A couple of gift shops and restaurants sat behind them in the shadows of the large reptiles. I drove next to the leg of some bipedal terrible lizard with big teeth and a long tale and parked the Roadmaster.
We stepped outside and looked around. Weatherby muttered to himself as the wind blew sand in our faces. He removed his glasses and started polishing them on his vest. I looked into the distance, one hand in my coat, scanning for any sign of the Wild Man. There was nothing but open ground, a couple of other cars near the gift shops, and a whole lot of dinosaurs. I looked up at the dinosaur above us, at his enraged red eyes and open mouth. He didn’t look too happy to be there and neither was I.
“Any sign of the ’66 Wild Man, Mort?” Weatherby asked, as he put his glasses back.
I looked into the distance and saw a trio of silver pick-up trucks headed our way. Each one had half a dozen men in the back, and I saw from far away that all of them were packing. They carried shotguns and rifles, nothing that heavy, but they could still fill us full of holes at any distance. “Nope,” I said. “But I see some trouble, coming our way. Put your hands up, kid. We don’t have any quarrels with anyone around here.” I didn’t say that they might have a quarrel with us.
The pick-ups screeched to a halt, right in front of us. Their doors snapped open, one after the other, and the fellows in the back got out. They were typical bumpkins, wearing plaid shirts, straw hats and fedoras, and sucking down cigarettes as they fingered their weapons. A few of them were a little stranger, and caught my eye.
One fellow was really a pair of them — Siamese twins held together at the shoulder. Each hand held a sawed-off shotgun in our direction. A couple midgets were there too, and a fellow with skin the same consistency of a cactus — and a similar color. They fiddled with their guns and waited as their leader pulled his bulk from the middle pick-up.
The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 1: American Nightmares (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #1) Page 18