Out of Time

by Pauline Baird Jones

  “Our problems began after he arrived, Pierre. But we will make sure.” He stood up, wiping his hands on this clothing with obvious distaste. “Secure him. We will deal with him later.” He turned to Mel. “We owe you our thanks, mademoiselle.”

  What Mel found odd, he didn’t look all that thrilled or that grateful. In fact, he looked chagrined. Had he already known? Or was something else troubling him?

  “We’re allies, sir,” Mel answered him in French. “Did you already know? Did I complicate things for you?”

  He hesitated again, then shrugged, the movement totally Gaelic. “He is the only one of us who spoke acceptable German. It is a complication.”

  Mel couldn’t really see how, since the reason he spoke it was because he was a freaking traitor. So she’d compromised a plan, but wouldn’t it have already been compromised? She realized he was looking at her assessingly. It took her tired brain a moment to realize why. Her first reaction was to shake her head. She had only one mission to accomplish, but an odd frission twisted down her spine. For some reason that she didn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t know for right now, she had to help them.

  “As I said, I speak German,” she said, meeting his gaze without flinching. These men would have no problem using a woman, not after so many years of occupation and hardship.

  He gave a half nod and said, “Perhaps we will talk later.”

  Now that the mini trust-crisis appeared to be past, Mel swayed as exhaustion and hunger took over from adrenaline.

  “When you are rested. We apologize for your rough treatment.” He hesitated and then shrugged again. “It is safer for you to stay here for tonight, but we will endeavor to make you more comfortable. I expect you are also hungry?”

  “Yes…” Mel drew the word out, hesitated, but then shrugged. “It would really make me comfortable if I could use your…facilities. I never learned to point and shoot. It’s a girl thing.”

  He looked at her for a long moment, trying to process her comments, and then he smiled at her, his dark eyes sparking with amusement. “Of course. It is not far from the house.”

  An outhouse. It figured.

  * * * * *

  Thorhaus studied Kass through lowered lids. It amused him to stay silent while his aide waited, red suffusing his face. Kass looked what he was, the worst that Germany had to offer. His features were as coarse as his soul—if he had one. He was a thug with too much power. In this battle of wills, Thorhaus knew he must lose. The thugs were winning all the battles these days, but still he fought—in secret, doing what he could. Always he had to balance what he could do against the safety of his family. Germany would lose this war and when they did, it was his hope that his son would live on to rebuild Germany in a better, finer way.

  Kass shifted irritably. “What do you want me to do, Herr Oberst?”

  With an effort Thorhaus focused his thoughts on their conversation. He arched his brows and made his voice cold. Bullies only responded to perceived strength.

  “We wait.”

  “Wait? But mein Herr—”

  “Try to use your wits, Kass.” Thorhaus stood up. “Have you never hunted game?” But of course he hadn’t. He was born of the city, jumped up out of the slums of Berlin. “Our prey has gone to ground. We beat the bushes, they stay there. But we appear to have lost interest, we let them think they have fooled us, and they will emerge. We catch them and anyone who has helped them.” He strode over to the window and pulled the shade back. “Where do you think they can go? They are deep in enemy territory.”

  “The underground…”

  …is defanged, Thorhaus could have told him, but the information wasn’t general knowledge, and Kass was the type to brag. Ullstein might not like or trust Thorhaus, but the Gestapo man didn’t like or trust anyone. So, he’d briefed Thorhaus on the infiltrator, though not his identity. Thorhaus had already informed Ullstein about the missing fliers and he’d agreed to contact his man.

  “…will not be able to save them,” Thorhaus said firmly, turning back to his desk and the pile of paperwork waiting him. He sat down and picked up his pen, but Kass didn’t move. “Was there something else?”

  “Yes, Herr Oberst. There has been an accident, a farm laborer named,” Kass consulted his notebook, “Rene Bouchard has died. He is not local. Arrived in the area a few months ago to work on his cousin’s farm. His cousin, one Francois Bouchard, has requested the body be released for burial.”

  Thorhaus frowned, feeling uneasy for no good reason. “An accident?”

  “He appears to have been driving his wagon while drunk and overturned it. Broken neck. He was out after curfew. Might have been underground. I could interrogate his cousin?” Kass perked up.

  “If either is suspected of underground involvement, Herr Ullstein will deal with them. I will speak with him before we release the body. Inform the cousin. I’d like to speak with one of the fliers we captured yesterday. Have someone see to it, and make sure they don’t pick up additional injury on their way from the holding cells to my office.”

  “They are the enemy, mien Herr,” Kass said sulkily.

  “They are soldiers, doing their duty. We fight, we don’t…” he tried to think of an example the man would understand and knew he couldn’t. “We treat them how we hope to be treated in like circumstances,” he said finally, and he knew, futilely.

  “I will never be a prisoner,” Kass said, his ugly eyes narrowing.

  Of course he wouldn’t. He was nowhere near the enemy. Thorhaus rose again.

  “But you will obey my orders, Herr Leutnant.” He held his pig eyed gaze for a long, cold moment, not blinking until Kass looked away.

  “Yes, sir.” He turned sharply and marched out, closing the door quietly, but with emphasis, nonetheless.

  If Kass weren’t already his enemy, this would have assured it, Thorhaus thought wearily. He rubbed his eyes, then picked up his pen again, but a light knock at the door had him lying it down again. Surely Kass couldn’t be delivering the prisoners already.

  “Enter.”

  It was his clerk.

  “Herr Ullstein to see you, sir.”

  Thorhaus felt the familiar clutch in his gut. Every time the man came around, Thorhaus wondered if this would be the end.

  “Send him in.”

  Thorhaus rose, waiting for Ullstein to come in. He’d come alone and shut the door behind him. So this wasn’t his time, Thorhaus thought, both relieved and not. In some ways, it would be a relief to get it over. For him, a soldier, it would be a short walk and a firing squad. There’d be no trial for a soldier. Too risky.

  “Herr Oberst.” Ullstein gave him the short, sharp new salute. Thorhaus echoed it, his distaste well buried.

  “Please, sit down.”

  All his movements were brisk and jerky. He was a small man, with a ferret face and cruel eyes. He sat, but sharply, as if everything had a point, on the edge of the chair.

  “I understand you have the body of Rene Bouchard?”

  “That’s correct. I was holding it until we spoke. Kass wonders if he was involved with the underground. He was out after curfew when the accident occurred.”

  “Are you certain it was an accident?”

  “There doesn’t seem to be any doubt of it,” Thorhaus said slowly. “I have not, personally examined the body.” Ullstein’s eyes shifted from side to side. Bouchard was his infiltrator, Thorhaus realized. Was he going to share that info, he wondered and then knew he wouldn’t. Ullstein would consider it a weakness. “I can turn it over to you if you suspect foul play.”

  “An overturned wagon could cover up much,” Ullstein said, frowning. It was clear to Thorhaus he didn’t know what to do.

  “Then he was underground,” Thorhaus played along. “Is there a chance your infiltrator killed him to protect himself?”

  Ullstein’s gaze flicked his direction, then down again. “It is possible.”Ullstein stood up. “Under the circumstances, it will be difficult to contact him for a time, but I c
an give you a couple of leads of where your missing fliers might be hiding.” He handed Thorhaus a piece of paper with a couple of names and addresses on it. “If you do catch them, I’d like to interrogate them about any underground contacts.”

  “Of course.” Poor buggers. Whether they had help or not, they were in for it now. He had to comply or he would be shot for sure. When Ullstein was gone, he sat down. Again he was interrupted.

  “The first prisoner, sir.”

  The man who entered looked somewhat worse for wear, Thorhaus noted, though his wounds had been treated, as per his standing orders.

  “Your name,” Thorhaus asked.

  “You speak English?” The soldier stiffened again, saluting briskly, though it must have cost him something in pain and closed his lips firmly together.

  Thorhaus sighed. Why did they have to make it so difficult?

  * * * * *

  December 21, 1942

  If Mel ever got a chance to write about how she spent her 2005 Christmas vacation—in 1942’s Occupied France—it wouldn’t be long article. In fact, she could sum it up in three words: it was dark. If she’d known her only view of daytime France was going to be while dangling from a parachute, she’s have looked around more. She couldn’t even describe the outhouse, other than by scent. Gross. Maybe she could call her adventures “How I Smelled My Christmas Vacation.”

  It worked on at least two levels. She sniffed her arm pit cautiously. Oh yeah, she was definitely getting ripe. She hadn’t gone this long without a bath since she was little and tried to fake Gran out by pretending she’d bathed.

  Despite the change in relations with their hosts, the cellar remained their accommodations. They did try to make it less noisome, but their own normal living conditions couldn’t be that great. The three of them got blankets, some warm soup that was mostly water, and access to the outhouse after dark, and that was about it. The upside, they were so tired, they slept the whole day. Mel woke, stiff and sore, when the farmer’s wife opened the door, bearing more bland soup, water to wash with, a piece of rough lye soap, and a small lantern that bit painfully into Mel’s pupils. She felt like a mole as she squinted and grimaced in the general direction of their hostess.

  The water was icy cold when Mel plunged her hands into it and splashed it on her still muddy face. She was surprised to see traces of blood mixed with the mud, until she remembered the explosion aboard The Time Machine.

  “Oh yes, that’s waking me up,” she managed to gasp out. The lye soap was harsh and burned into her scratches and cuts without mercy. They all had to use the same water, so Mel was grateful to get first shot at it, even if she was taking the cold edge off it for the next in line.

  While Jack took his turn at the bowl, Mel faced her breakfast. France’s reputation in the cuisine arena was taking a hit, too, she decided, after sipping at her bowl of what was called soup—for want of a better description. They probably had a carrot they swirled in it to give it flavor and then removed to use again. At least it was warm and fooled her stomach into thinking it had been fed…for a few moments.

  “It’s wonderful, thank you,” Mel said, in French, smiling at the woman, and thinking of the abundance of the life she hoped to return to soon. There’d be no relief for this woman for three more years—and still she shared with them—and at great risk to her life and her family, if she had any. It was one thing to read tales of the French Underground, but something else to look into the face of someone risking their life for you.

  “Thank you,” Mel said again. She covered the woman’s worn and gnarled hand with her cold and red one. She could almost feel the rough skin as the feeling returned slowly. “Merci.”

  She hoped the woman understood what she wasn’t saying. A tired smile broke the morose surface of her weather beaten face, and her eyes showed curiosity about Mel and her presence in France. Then morose returned and she left, moving as stiffly as Mel felt. At least she left the modest lantern for them, though it only sent its glow out a few inches. When they were alone, Larsen shared his feelings about the food.

  “I don’t know how they can call this soup, it’s just warmed water.” He didn’t push his bowl away, Mel noted, nor did he avail himself of a wash.

  “They share what they have,” Jack pointed out, “and have the less for it. Not to mention risking their lives for us. If you think you can do better out there, by all means, leave.”

  Larsen didn’t answer. He finished his soup, then crawled back into his blankets, turning his back to them. In a few seconds, he started to snore, the sound soft but still somehow annoying.

  Mel finished drinking her breakfast, but was reluctant to continue to dull her senses with any more sleep. If Rockman were here, he’d so be yelling at her. On the upside, since he wasn’t here, she could start slowly. She began with some easy stretches, but they weren’t easy, not with a million plus bruises in a million plus places.

  She felt Jack watching her, then to her surprise, he joined her, trying to mimic her movements.

  “That’s not as easy as it looks,” he said. “But I am getting warmer.”

  Mel was, too. As her muscles warmed, the easy stretches got easier, so she took it to the next level. At least she could still touch her toes and it did feel good to feel warm again. Her clothes were constricting. She shrugged her jacket off and that helped. Who knew she’d miss gnarly sweats? There was nothing quite like suffering and danger to focus your thoughts on what was important.

  She longed to talk to Jack more than she wanted more food. She could still feel the flux-ness of time around her, if there were such a word. Or a state. And mixed with that was the conflicting pull between her family and her feelings for Jack. It helped not at all to know she could never have him in her life. She didn’t belong here, and he was old and dying where she did belong. And still the heart wanted what it wanted. It was a greedy heart, too, because it wanted her family. It wanted it all. And right now, she didn’t know if she was going to get any of it. She remembered how it had been but had no clue how it would be or what she’d changed.

  And if that weren’t enough to confuse her thinking, there was Mouy.

  What did the resistance fighter hope she could do for his group? And could they get it done before her date with the vortex on Christmas Day? Assuming, of course, that she still had that date. She rubbed the still painful spot on her tush. At least that hadn’t changed.

  Jack was panting from the effort, but he managed to ask, “Do you know if they are going to help us get to the coast?”

  “They didn’t say anything about that,” Mel said. In the other time lines, they’d lingered in the area until Christmas because it wasn’t safe to move around. “I expect the hunt will be hot for us for a few days anyway. And the Germans may be looking for their snitch.” Another new twist to the timeline, thanks to Mel’s acting before thinking. But what else could she have done? He was a threat to them, not just to the Underground. “We might be better off sitting tight for now.”

  Luckily said snitch was French and not German. If he’d been the real deal, that would have meant reprisals. If they were smart, the underground would arrange an accident that would annoy the Gestapo and might even make them suspicious, but without certain knowledge of foul play, even they’d have a hard time finding someone to punish for it.

  “I wonder how compromised their cell is?” Jack asked grimly. “If they know about this place we could be sitting ducks—“

  As if his words had given impetus to action, the cellar door opened. It was the woman again. Behind her was Mouy.

  “You have to leave. Now. ” His voice was flat, but Mel heard the urgency buried in that flatness. “Bring your blankets. You’ll need them.”

  Jack must have felt it, too. He shook Larsen awake as Mel grabbed her discarded gear. She looked around, to make sure they hadn’t left anything incriminating, then followed Mouy to the doorway. He hissed them to silence and extinguished the light.

  A thin line of moonlight
appeared in the deep darkness, slowly growing into a door-like shape. Mel felt like a bowstring stretched to the limit as she strained to hear anything—or feel any danger—in the peaceful quiet of the night. Mel had the odd sensation that they were all linked together in the intensity of the moment. The air, now flowing around them from the opening, was cold and smoky and a wonderfully fresh relief from the stuffy basement and their own stench.

  Mel closed her eyes, trying to pierce the night, not just with ears and smell, but with her gut. That was one lesson shared by all the men in her various adventures: listen to your gut. While the reading wasn’t clear, she did feel like they needed to get moving.

  Mouy agreed. He stepped out, not into the moonlight but into the shadow of the eaves, and began edging along the side of the building. Mel noticed their hostess went the other direction, possibly toward the house. Mel felt a chill as the old woman faded into the shadows and from their lives. There was no romance in this grim fight for life and for liberty. As she stumbled toward the tree line with the others, her feet sticking in the mud, she heard the distant sound of heavy trucks approaching.

  All three of them froze, Jack half turned back toward the farm house.

  “No,” Mouy ordered softly. “You cannot help her. And if you get caught here…”

  He didn’t have to finish it. They all moved forward, more quickly now as the sound of the trucks drowned out their movements. Mel made the protection of the trees as the first headlights cut into the dark yard of the farm house. It gave Mel the only glimpse she’d have of where they’d been. She saw the line of a classic farmhouse, a glimpse of an oaken door, then ducked down as the lights tracked in their direction. The roar of engines now combined with the harsh sound of voices, sent them scrabbling through the scrub and undergrowth in a desperate dash away from the danger. There was the sound of a sharp cry cut off abruptly. Then a shot. As Mel stumbled forward, her face was too cold to feel the tears running down her face, but they blurred her vision. She felt Jack grab her arm to steady her more than once.

  Mel heard a harsh order for silence and echoed it for them. Mel was sure the Germans must hear their wildly beating hearts or feel their fear. She’d stopped awkwardly and felt herself sway, knew she was going to fall, when Jack grabbed and gripped her arm. She looked his direction and saw a flash of white smile break the terrifying darkness.