The Saint of Wolves and Butchers
Page 34
“I think my father was on a suicide mission, ramming the church the way he did.”
“What he did was heroic.”
“Perhaps,” Travis said. “I cannot decide whether he truly wanted to die after what was done to him, but I believe he thought his death would bring attention to the church and get the authorities to take a look at what was happening there.” He didn’t look at her, but stared out across the low rooftops, where snow was gathering along the gutters and eaves. The air smelled clean. “Either way, he will not be coming back to the Foundation.”
Skottie touched his arm and he shook his head.
“It was time anyway,” he said. “He can retire knowing he found Rudolph Bormann and helped bring him to some kind of justice.” He ground his cigarette out against the railing. “You know, I have spent the past few days wondering why someone would choose to exile herself in this place. Kansas, at least this part of it, is so quiet.”
They stood and listened to the patter of snow all around them and the muted sounds of Emmaline bustling about inside the house.
“But that is why you like it, am I right? I think I understand it now.”
“You could stay here,” Skottie said. “Real estate’s cheap.”
Travis smiled. “Perhaps when I am my father’s age. I still have work to do. The Foundation always has work to do. But we will be shorthanded now. I spoke to my mother about you, and she trusts my judgment. Should you wish to move on from the Highway Patrol at some point, leave all this peace and quiet behind, you would be welcome to join us.”
“I don’t know anything about hunting Nazis.”
“It is not an exact science. And hunting Nazis is not all we do. I told you when we met that I am kept busy ferreting out all manner of bad people. In fact, I plan to go after a different sort of evil man as soon as I can.”
“Joseph Odek?”
Before he could reply, the screen door banged open and Maddy grabbed her by the hand, pulling her toward the house.
“C’mon,” Maddy said. “Grandma’s putting out the food.”
“Turkey time?”
“Yup.” Maddy cleared her throat and looked at Travis, then looked quickly away.
“Do you know what a flock of turkeys is called, Maddy?”
“No.”
“Neither do they.” He smiled.
Maddy grinned back at him. They went inside, where Emmaline was setting a huge bowl of potatoes in the middle of the table. The turkey was already there, plump and golden on a silver platter, waiting to be carved. Around it were dishes overflowing with pearl onions, greens, yams, soft white butter, tiny pickles and olives, a tray of cornbread, and a plate holding a rare steak for Bear. Emmaline wiped her hands on her apron and sat down at the head of the table, prompting everyone else to sit, too. Bear padded over and plunked down under the table at Travis’s feet. Travis winced when he saw the colorful beads Maddy had put in the dog’s mane.
“Skottie,” Emmaline said, “why don’t you say a few words to start us off?”
“Okay.” Skottie looked around the table and cleared her throat. “I guess . . . well, I guess I have a lot to be thankful for,” she began.
And she realized as she said it that it was true.
DECEMBER 2018
He was released from the hospital and was transferred by bus to a federal prison camp in Minnesota. He had nothing with him but a small overnight bag and the clothes on his back.
He was issued a green one-piece uniform, a towel, and a washcloth, then escorted to an eight-by-eight-foot cubicle that contained a cot, a small table, and a shelf for books. He had arrived late in the day and was warned that he had only ten minutes before lights-out. Then he was left alone.
Other inmates milled about in the narrow walkway outside his cubicle. Some of them looked at him with open curiosity, but no one spoke to him. He folded his towel and set it on the bookshelf with his washcloth, changed into the green jumpsuit, and lay down on the cot. He did not think about anything at all, and soon he drifted to sleep.
The following morning he was taken to a large room filled with long cafeteria-style tables. Five minutes later he was joined by an attorney who introduced herself as Abbey Roth. She sat down across from him, opened her briefcase, and took out an iPad, which she glared at for a long moment, her eyes darting back and forth as she read. Finally she looked up at him.
“I’m here on behalf of Morrison, Ellis, and Moore,” she said. “Your New York lawyers.”
“They sent me a Jew?”
“I can leave, but I can’t promise they’ll send anybody else for you.”
“How long do I have to stay here?”
She shook her head and looked back down at her tablet. “Probably quite a while.”
“I entered this country illegally in 1951,” he said. “I’ve done my research. The Justice Department will want to deport me, won’t they?”
“Since 1951, sir, you have apparently murdered and mutilated several people. Engaged in human trafficking and sold weapons overseas, using your church as both a base and a cover. Allegedly.”
“My son was responsible for the human trafficking. And for the guns.”
“Is that Heinrich?”
“Yes,” Rudy said.
“He’s dead.”
Rudy sighed and looked up at the big clock over the door. “Heinrich was always weaker than his brother.”
“Well, it’s not like he died of natural causes.”
“They can’t prove I did anything. The same is true for the murder charges.”
“They’re dragging the reservoir at Kirwin sanctuary,” she said. “And they’re finding bodies that have been there for . . . well, maybe for decades.”
“Can those be traced back to me?”
“They’re going to try. They’re building a case. And while they do, you’re going to have to wait in here.”
“No bail?”
“No bail.”
“They can’t hold me indefinitely,” he said. “I know my rights.”
Abbey Roth stared at him. Then she stood without a word and put the iPad back in her briefcase. She latched it and picked it up by the handle and walked away. When she reached the door, she turned back toward him, motioning for the guard to wait.
“They can do whatever they want with you, sir. They’re going to run down the clock, wait until you die in here. And, frankly, I have a lot of other cases to deal with. I don’t think I’ll be very helpful to you.”
The guard opened the door for her, and she walked out.
He was led back to his cubicle. His towel and washcloth were gone, and he assumed they had been stolen by another inmate. He looked at his empty bookshelf, at the cot with its paper-thin mattress, then turned and left the cubicle. He walked through the maze of cubicles to the window, which was covered from top to bottom, side to side, with wire mesh.
Rudolph Bormann, formerly Rudy Goodman of Kansas, was ninety-four years old that winter. He looked out the window at a chain-link fence that surrounded the building, beyond it a broad empty field. Clouds were gathering at the horizon, and Rudy could hear distant thunder.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The fictions in this book are entirely mine.
I would like to thank the following people for the facts.
Trooper Ryan Kufahl and the Kansas Highway Patrol, Aaron Breitbart and the Simon Wiesenthal Center, Dr. Lyle Noordhoek, Tony Green, and Till and Alison Clayton.
I am also grateful to my agent, Seth Fishman, and everyone at the Gernert Company; my editor Mark Tavani, Helen Richard, Ashley Hewlett, and all the wonderful people at Putnam; my copy editor, Kate Hurley; Jane Ashkar; Lindsay Kufahl; Melanie Worsley and Kevin O’Leary; Philip Grecian; Roxane White; Ande Parks; and the Bad Karma crew.
And, of course, Christy and Graham.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR<
br />
Alex Grecian is the national bestselling author of the contemporary thriller The Saint of Wolves and Butchers, the novels of Scotland Yard’s Murder Squad, including The Yard, The Black Country, The Devil's Workshop, The Harvest Man, and Lost and Gone Forever, as well as the critically acclaimed graphic novels Proof and Rasputin. Grecian lives in Kansas with his wife and son.
What’s next on
your reading list?
Discover your next
great read!
* * *
Get personalized book picks and up-to-date news about this author.
Sign up now.