Magdalena lunged forward and pulled Francine into a wet hug, then stepped back, smiling behind her pixie cut. When she wasn’t throwing cocktails or right hooks, the woman could be pretty endearing.
“I couldn’t wait to say these things, even in this storm. Thank you for listening,” Magdalena said. “Also I will say I love your earrings. I did not know you are Jewish.”
“I’m not,” Francine said. “You know what these are?”
“Mezuzahs, yes?”
“How did you know that?” Bruno asked.
“Because I am a Jew,” Magdalena said, as if it were obvious. “See?” She reached inside her shirt and pulled out her necklace. It held the same star pendant Francine had noticed the first night, right before Magdalena had thrown the drink in her face. It was a Star of David.
“Roland saw you throw the drink on me,” Francine thought out loud.
“I am still sorry for that,” Magdalena said.
Francine turned to Bruno. “He thought I left Laura Jean’s barbeque because of her too. He drank too much that night. That was the night Brownie got killed.”
“Mockingly kosher,” Bruno said, slowly. “At the bottom of Magdalena’s driveway. ‘Get Off Our Block.’”
“It wasn’t an unfinished police star he carved into Brownie.” Francine pointed to Magdalena’s necklace. “It was an unfinished Star of David.”
“Gerber is Lischka,” Bruno said, almost sounding surprised.
“Gerber is Lischka,” Francine agreed.
“Gerber is who?” Magdalena asked.
But Francine didn’t have time to explain. “Bruno, he came here.”
“What? When?”
“This morning. He said if I put you off the case, he would stay uninvolved.”
“Uninvolved how?”
“I don’t know.” Francine turned to Magdalena. “Where’s Hollis?”
“He has gone back to the police station. To help people sheltering from the storm.”
Francine stepped into the kitchen and dialed 9-1-1. Bruno followed her.
“When I focused on the goat killing for too long, Roland got nervous,” she said to Bruno, while she waited for someone to pick up. “He tried to make it look like Eric hurt Ajax so we’d think Eric killed Brownie. There’s a problem though. Roland was with Del the night Ajax was attacked.”
Bruno scratched his chin. “Either they did it together, or Del was an unknowing alibi, and Roland had someone else do it for him.”
Then Francine remembered the beers she’d seen on Lischka’s porch. Del didn’t drink. So who was Roland’s visitor?
“Police,” Lori’s voice crinkled over the phone.
Christ, just what she needed.
“Lori, it’s Francine. I need to talk to Chief Durham.”
“Francine, how you feeling, sweetie?”
“I need to talk to the Chief now.”
“Chief Durham is currently occupied. If you fill me in, I can determine whether—”
“Roland Gerber is a Nazi and had someone stab his own dog, is that urgent enough?”
There was a long pause.
“What makes you say that?”
“I don’t have time to explain everything right now.”
“Francine. A nasty rumor like that could—”
“Give me the Chief, you bitch!” Francine shouted.
Another pause. “You sound a little hysterical. It’s possible you’re having another episode. We’re very busy here with the storm. Please don’t call again.”
The line went dead. Lori had hung up on her.
The woman wasn’t spooked by a speeding pickup truck, fine, but why would she try to downplay a real emergency? Then Francine realized why—at the same time she realized who Gerber’s conspirator was.
Dennis Asperski smiled at her through the screen door. “Hello, neighbor.”
Francine ran from the kitchen, pushing Bruno and Magdalena toward the front door until it opened and a man stepped in, wearing a blue blazer and carrying a rifle.
His name was Oskar Lischka.
Chapter 45
My thoughts these days turn more and more to death and the hereafter.
[ x ] TRUE [ ] FALSE
Bruno, Francine, and Magdalena sat on the couch down in the family room. Other than the occasional fork of lightning that briefly whited out the room, the only light came from the camping lantern in Francine’s lap.
In the opposite corner, Oskar Lischka sat contemplatively in the rocking chair, the rifle laid across his lap.
She’d looked in his closet, under his mattress, in every nook and cranny of his house. How had she missed the rifle?
Dennis paced relentlessly around the carpet, his manic energy a sharp contrast to Lischka’s mousetrap calm. Francine didn’t need the dynamic to be spelled out for her. Dennis’s hunched posture and mousy demeanor told of a life lived under the thumb of everyone he met. This was a frustrated man who’d felt ignored, left behind, and irrelevant. Somehow he’d learned of Lischka’s past, maybe during some other summer barbeque when Lischka drank too much. Suddenly Dennis was treated with a philosophy, a mode of thought that explained why. Why his life didn’t satisfy. Why others had what he did not. Why a certain group of people were responsible. Dennis got an explanation for his failure, and Lischka got an outlet for his hate.
“You put up the flag,” Francine said to Dennis.
Dennis’s eyes, one still ringed in a purple bruise, lit up. “That’s right.” He sneered and pointed at Magdalena. “This Jew walking around my yard, touching my things. All I had to do was slip away. No one ever notices where I go or what I do. But you noticed the flag, didn’t you, Jew? Got a little scared, I bet.”
“Hold your tongue.” Lischka said it softly, but Dennis immediately backed down. “That flag was the most foolish thing you’ve ever done. I should’ve blacked both your eyes.”
“Instead, you had him try to kill Ajax,” Francine said icily.
Lischka’s lamplit eyes flashed to her. “Ajax would have been a costly sacrifice. I never wanted him to suffer. There’s nothing I won’t do to survive. You know this about me.”
“I know nothing about you. Because everything you told me was a lie. You’re the most vile person I’ve ever met.”
“Your disapproval I will learn to live with. However, I think this should be the least of your concerns. I waited all day to hear from you, Francine. When I could wait no longer, I returned. What do I find? You conspiring against me, with him and her.”
“What are you going to do with us?” Bruno asked.
Lischka nodded, as if that was indeed the question. “Nothing you haven’t brought upon yourselves.”
A flash of lightning briefly lit the room.
Dennis scurried over to the rocking chair. “Please, Oskar. Let me hurt them. I’ve been patient. I want to demonstrate my power.”
“You couldn’t even kill a dog. Only the superior can kill the inferior.” Lischka’s gaze roamed across Bruno, then Francine, then Magdalena. “You are superior to the Jew, at least.”
Francine’s stomach turned at hearing the horrific words coming from someone she had once treasured. But she also noticed how much Lischka’s disapproval had wounded Dennis, and it gave her an idea. She’d never get to the rifle while it was still in Lischka’s lap. But if she could get Dennis even more worked up than he already was, maybe he’d pick up the gun on his own, and come close enough for her to grab it. It was a risk, but the look in Lischka’s eyes told her he had no intention of letting anyone on the couch leave the room alive.
Dennis was staring at Magdalena, who still hadn’t said a word.
“Oskar told me the truth. He told me why my life was shit. Why I never get what I deserve.” Dennis’s voice quivered as it rose. “It’s because of people like you. Oskar told me how life used to be. The great days. When a man could be someone—”
“You could be someone today if you weren’t so pathetic,” Francine said.
R
ain battered the windows.
“W-what did you say?” Dennis stammered in disbelief.
“Your Nazi mentor is just as disgusting and evil as all the others of his time. But you don’t live in a destitute country. You don’t have a silky speech giver tricking angry masses into hating people you can blame all your problems on.”
Dennis’ face reddened with each word.
“Shut up,” he mumbled. “Oskar killed for you. Killed that goat to defend your honor. His honor was his loyalty, and you don’t even appreciate it.”
“He’s an old murderer who got drunk and forgot to disguise his ugliness. But he got the job done, didn’t he, Dennis? Brownie is dead, but Ajax is still alive. That was your job, wasn’t it?”
Dennis was shivering with rage.
“We all see your inadequacy, Dennis,” Francine went on. “And we know inadequacy breeds hostility. So why don’t you prove what we already know? Why don’t you show us just how inadequate you really are?”
Dennis sprang into action, ripping the rifle out of Lischka’s hands and swinging the barrel toward the couch. Francine and Bruno reached for it at the same instant.
Maybe they would’ve gotten to it in time, maybe not. It didn’t matter—because Magdalena moved faster than anyone.
Her shriek filled the room as she swung the lantern into the side of Dennis’s face. The glass exploded, the light died, and the room was plunged into total darkness.
Francine, the only one who knew the room, pulled Bruno and Magdalena toward the stairs.
“Someone has to get to the barn,” she said as they scrambled awkwardly up the steps.
They were almost to the front door when Francine’s bare feet slipped on the rain-slicked tile, and she fell.
A sequence of lightning revealed her surroundings. Bruno had slipped, too, nearer the front door. Magdalena was feeling her way into the kitchen. Down in the family room, Lischka stepped over Dennis’s crumpled form. He had reclaimed his rifle, ready to hunt. She was the prey he wanted. Maybe she could give Bruno and Magdalena just enough time to escape.
Darkness returned.
“Come and get me!” Francine shouted, slapping the banister as she ran upstairs. “Come and get me, Lischka!”
Dashing into the master bedroom, she tried to wrench open the window, but the heavy moisture in the air had swollen the wood.
A creak sounded on the landing at the top of the stairs.
Francine pulled as hard as she could, and with an angry groan, the window slid upward.
Climbing out onto the slippery shingles, it was all she could do to stagger wildly across the roof, waiting to be shot in the back at any moment. When she was close enough to the weather vane she leapt forward, shingles tearing at her hands as she landed. Momentum took her legs over the edge of the roof, but she grabbed the frog sheet just in time, the knot around the weather vane shivering as her weight registered.
A burst of lightning showed her Oskar Lischka, standing in the bedroom window. As he raised the rifle, the knot finally failed and Francine fell, hearing the whistle of a bullet pass just above her head.
Chapter 46
At times I feel like picking a fistfight with someone.
[ x ] TRUE [ ] FALSE
Francine landed hard in the bushes. Broken branches clawed at her as she rolled out onto the soggy lawn, fully soaking her sweatshirt and jeans.
She looked up at the roof, wondering if Lischka had come out after her. But there was no way he’d be able to navigate the rain-slicked shingles. Was he running down the stairs to chase after her? Or was he still at the window, waiting for her to walk into his rifle sights?
Keeping as close to the house as she could, Francine jumped over fallen tree branches and deepening puddles, hoping to run into Bruno or Magdalena out in the driveway. But there was no sign of either of them. Hopefully they were both well on their way to the barn.
Then she saw a light next door. Candlelight, playing along the flanks of a Roman Red convertible. The best cure Francine knew for a Nazi with a rifle was a Marine with his.
She sprinted through the blinding rain and into the garage. Del wasn’t there. Francine brushed wet strands of hair from her face and opened the door to the house. “Del? Del?”
She heard a strange, snoring sound coming from the other side of the Corvette. Rounding the front bumper, she found him: sprawled out on the floor, a black and blue welt swelling the side of his head.
“Oh, Jesus.” She carefully leaned him up against the wall into a more natural position. His breathing normalized. “Del, can you hear me?”
He eyelids fluttered. “Francine? I don’t…Gerber hit me,” he slurred. “Bastard just came in and hit me with a rock.”
Francine saw the rock, lying next to a fractured padlock on the ground. The hooks above the workbench were empty. She hadn’t missed a rifle in Lischka’s house, he’d just taken Del’s.
“Listen to me, Del. Gerber isn’t who you think. He’s a Nazi that’s been hiding here since the war. Bruno and I found out and he took your rifle to try and keep us quiet.”
“What? Are you serious?”
“I have to get to the barn and warn everyone. Can we take your car?”
Del pulled sloppily at the keys on his belt. “You take it. I’ll be okay here.”
“Are you sure?”
He pressed the keys into her hand. “Bring the cavalry. And some aspirin.”
She cupped his cheek. “I will.”
She jumped into the driver’s seat of the Corvette, hoping Del’s ten million hours of maintenance hadn’t been in vain.
The engine roared to life, magnified in the close confines of the garage. Francine hadn’t driven a stick shift since high school, but hopefully it was like riding a bicycle. A three-hundred horsepower bicycle.
Headlights. Clutch. Gas.
The car lunged in reverse down the driveway. Francine was almost to the street when she saw the pickup coming and jammed on the brakes with both feet.
The passing truck killed one of the Corvette’s taillights as the vehicles glanced one another, spinning the Corvette in a full circle. Francine watched the pale blue truck continue on its way, barely slowing down as it headed for the other side of the block. The side the Banderwalts lived on.
A forgotten crisis pushed its way to the front of Francine’s mind. Mr. Banderwalt had come back, just like he said he would. Probably blind drunk from some rained-out barbeque, looking for trouble. Or payback. And this time, Chief Durham wasn’t there to stop him.
Francine gunned the Corvette’s engine, shifting from first to second to third. The powerful back wheels fishtailed as she took the first corner, but she managed to stay on the road. She swung onto the other side of the block, desperately hoping Eric had taken his sister and mother to the storm shelter. But above the relentless howl of the wind and the pickup truck idling in the gravel driveway, she could hear screams coming from inside the house.
She slowed to a stop, rain pooling on the seat next to her as she thought. Del was injured and bleeding, Bruno and Magdalena might be almost to the barn, and Lischka was God only knew where. One thing alone was certain: Violence had come to the Banderwalt house, and no one else was coming to help.
Francine hooked the Corvette into the driveway, blocking in the pickup. Gravel dug painfully into her feet as she ran up the driveway. The shed doors had been wrenched open, nearly off their hinges, so that the pickup’s headlights reflected off an empty rear wall. The pile of animal skeletons had been flung out onto the flooding lawn. Mr. Banderwalt was looking for Diana, but judging by the roars of anger from inside, he hadn’t found her yet.
Then came the meaty sound of someone being hit. Mrs. Banderwalt wailed. Eric shouted. Another meaty hit.
A lead-up of thunder, like an entire glacier cracking in half, ended in a boom Francine felt deep in her guts. Someone was going to die here. The instincts that had so maddeningly abandoned her were back, and this was the message they brought.
✶ ✶ ✶ ✶
Francine found the Banderwalts’ living room in shambles, tables cracked in half, lamps shattered against the wall. Sounds of destruction came from the bedrooms as they, too, were trashed in Mr. Banderwalt’s search.
Eric lay in one corner, half of his face wet with blood, holding a protective arm across his mother, who had been thrown out of her wheelchair. The teenager had obviously been putting up a fight, but he didn’t look like he could do it much longer.
Mr. Banderwalt marched back into the room, squinting in the truck’s headlights. He looked even larger than he had the last time Francine had seen him—the veiny arms beneath his desert camouflage t-shirt bulging like he’d grabbed onto something electrified. His eyes, pink with inebriation, blurrily focused on Francine.
“You. You’re the bitch that called the cops on me.”
“Yeah. And I did it again. Chief Durham’s on his—”
Mr. Banderwalt lurched forward and grabbed Francine by the hair. She punched the animal skull into his face, breaking it on the closest cheek. Mr. Banderwalt grunted in pain, and Francine smelled alcohol. She felt her hair twist as he swung her hard into the wall, and she collapsed next to Eric and his mother.
“Where’s my Diana?” Mr. Banderwalt roared.
Francine tasted blood. In her wavering vision, she saw Eric pull something lime green from his pocket. The boy got to his feet and lunged, his pocket knife slicing a long red line down Mr. Banderwalt’s veiny forearm.
But the giant barely noticed. He twisted Eric’s wrist until he dropped the knife, then wrapped a huge, bloody forearm around his neck, lifting until the boy’s sneakers dangled above the carpet. “I’ve had enough. Tell me where she is, or I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him right now.”
His glistening red forearm viced tighter around Eric’s neck. He gurgled.
“The window well!” Mrs. Banderwalt wailed. “Out front.”
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